Beauty for Ashes (9 page)

Stripe nodded his head yes. Red Roan hurled a chip fast across the flat ground. Stripe nailed it with a perfect shot. He strode forward in a silky way to get his arrow and Spotted Rabbit's, no swagger but lots of feline arrogance.

Stripe hurled the arrow of Sam's captured by Beaver into the ground point first. “First round finished, your side loses one arrow,” he said. “Come on, fellows, we have to get their arrows quicker than that.”

Red Roan said, “Get us started again, white man.”

“My name is Sam.”

But he got into position to shoot. This time his arrow sailed a little sideways, but it knocked the chip down. When Red Roan flipped him the arrow, Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

Altogether in the second round, no one lost any arrows, and no one gained any.

The third round, though, was a disaster. The first five players missed, and Stripe hit, winning all five arrows. “Lucky for you we're on the same side,” he said to his teammates. “Go to it, white man.”

“My name's Sam,” said Sam.

“What is a ‘sam' in your language?” said Flat Dog.

Red Roan looked at Sam curiously.

Sam saw his chance. “He was a hero. His name means ‘chosen of….' Sam had to hesitate. His mother had said “chosen of God.” In the Crow way of seeing things, the Creator was Old Man Coyote; but the supreme deity seemed to be Sun. Sam let it go. “Chosen of Sun.”

“What did Sam do?” Spotted Rabbit was really interested.

“Sun revealed to him who should be chief of the Israelites, a man named Saul, so Sam anointed Saul as chief. Later, even though Sam was dead, he came back and charged Saul with failing to follow holy law.”

“After he was dead?”

Sam nodded yes.

Spotted Rabbit's eyes grew very round. Little Bull looked impressed, too.

Sam said, “My culture has traditional and fanciful hero stories, just like yours does.”

“Very good,” said Stripe, and then he deliberately added, “May we win some more of your arrows now? White man?”

Later, when the last arrow was painfully extracted, Stripe said casually, “Thanks for the game, No Arrows.”

Sam understood how complete his humiliation was when, in front of Meadowlark's tipi that night, Red Roan left with the words, “Good night, No Arrows.”

Sam took his place next to Meadowlark and started to tell her about the game.

“Everyone has heard your new name,” she said stiffly.

That night she cut their conversation very short.

 

T
HE NEXT TWO
weeks Sam simmered. A number of Crows—far too many—called him by the name No Arrows. All he could do was ignore them. He spent all his physical energy on training the medicine hat, and all his emotional energy yearning for the moment Bell Rock would give him a new name. Nothing less would end the humiliation.

Every night he stood outside Meadowlark's lodge while she and Red Roan courted. When the chief's son walked away, Sam turned his back and refused to notice him. It was a piddling gesture, but all he could do. Once he heard Red Roan chuckle as he walked away.

Meadowlark seemed to cut their evening talks shorter and shorter.

Sam waited as a burning, spewing fuse waits.

Every day, all day, he trained the mare. He taught her to accept the improvised rope bridle easily, hand-feeding her sweet cottonwood bark each time she cooperated. And slowly he taught her to neck rein.

This was the crucial step. Feel the left rein on your neck, turn right. Feel the right rein on your neck, turn left. Part of it was also leg pressure. He moved his right leg forward and let her feel the pressure when she turned left, the opposite when she turned right. Eventually, she would respond to the pressure of the knees alone, leaving both of his hands free. Then she would be a buffalo horse.

He got to know her. He learned the feel of her back. He got to know when she was about to shy, or crow-hop, or do anything unexpected. He learned when she was tense and when relaxed. He got to where he knew her moods through her flesh.

One afternoon when Sam was cooling the mare down, Blue Horse asked, “Why are you in such a hurry with this horse?”

“I'm going to hunt my buffalo from her.”

“You could use your other mare,” said Bell Rock.

Sam said stiffly, “I'm going to hunt buffalo on this mare. I'm going to get a cow and give the meat and the hide to old people who need them.” He looked hard at Bell Rock. This was the task the medicine man had assigned him.

“Then you'll earn a new name,” Bell Rock said.

After she was neck-reining reasonably well, Sam tried her at different gaits. A cluck and a heel boosted her up to a trot, another cluck and heel to a lope, and yet another to a gallop. Sam found the rocking balance for her lope, and the forward balance for the gallop.

She learned to respond quickly to the feel of the bridle bringing her head back, slowing down, stopping.

After two weeks Sam showed Gideon. The mare responded quickly to all instructions from Sam's hands and legs. “She's a nice saddle horse,” said Gideon.

“Not finished out,” said Sam.

“A long way from a buffalo horse,” said Bell Rock.

Sam knew that.

“Let's see what speed she has,” said Blue Horse.

Sam, Blue Horse, and Flat Dog rode upstream to a nice, big flat. There they raced the three mounts all out. Flat Dog edged out Blue Horse, and Sam was a horse length behind.

“Let me ride her,” said Flat Dog. He showed the funny, half-smile his face always wore.

Sam hesitated. No rider but him had ever been on her back. Then he swung down and held the reins while Flat Dog mounted.

The three raced back the other way along the flat. The medicine hat won by a horse's length.

“You need a little better balance when she's running all out,” said Flat Dog.

“It will come,” said Blue Horse.

Sam reminded himself that they had ridden even as children, and he'd essentially started a year and a half ago.

That evening the scouts brought in a report. A small herd of buffalo was ten miles down the valley.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
the Wind River valley was a swamp of fog, the cottonwoods along the river hazy, dark lines, the peaks on both sides lost in the gray swirl.

Sam woke up irritable. First he'd sat up listening to four medicine men sing for the success of the hunt. Then he had to watch while they chose Red Roan as the leader of the hunt. One man of medicine had seen the herd in a dream and told the scouts where to look. That medicine man picked Red Roan as the leader—he'd been successful in the past.

After the singing, Sam lay sleepless in the lodge, or had wild, chaotic dreams when he did drift off. But he forced himself—got the medicine hat saddled, pulled her picket pin, and led her to where the hunters and their women were assembling. After the men killed, the women would butcher.

When he appeared, some hunters suppressed mocking smiles. Others threw worried glances at the medicine hat.

Sam knew a bad horse, one who stumbled in the middle of a rampaging herd, or got gored, could kill his rider, and maybe get riders behind him killed.

Sam reached up and rubbed the mare's black hat and ears—she always liked that. He looked down at Coy and said, “Good pup, good pup.” The little coyote now had sense enough to stay out from under the horses' hooves.

Bell Rock and his wife rode up beside Sam. The medicine man just nodded at him. No words were necessary. Both knew what Sam was taking on was dangerous. And both knew there was no way Sam wouldn't ride her on this hunt.

Blue Medicine Horse and Flat Dog slipped their mounts in next to him. Sam understood that their smiles were meant to be encouraging, and he appreciated that.

Stripe edged up and gave Sam an ironic smile.

Sam had a strong sense of foreboding. A message thumped in his chest like his heartbeat:
This is not a day for good things to happen
.

Gideon, Beckwourth, and Third Wing eased their horses in behind Sam. “Good day to hunt,” Gideon said.

Sam resisted shaking his head no. Maybe a bad day for a lot of things, but he didn't care. No telling when another chance to run buffalo would come. Maybe next week, or maybe not until summer, when he got back from the spring trapping season. He couldn't take a chance on being No Arrows that long. He was about to lose Meadowlark even now. So today he was going to run buffalo, shoot a buffalo, and do what was required to get a new name. If a medicine man told the people he had earned a new name, the Crows would honor it.

He did not let himself know how much he yearned for honor.

A
COUPLE OF
miles away from the herd, the scouts rode up and gave their report. Where the herd was grazing, the river wound along the northeast side of the valley. The buffalo were on the southwest side of the stream, above a high, steep bank. It was a small herd, maybe fifty head.

“Is the bank high enough to run them off of?” said Red Roan.

Three of the four scouts thought so. The fourth agreed, but didn't think the fall was enough to kill all the buffalo. “Some will be killed, some hurt, all of them confused,” he said.

“That's what we'll do,” said Red Roan.

Sam felt a pang. If they herded the buffalo off the cliff, he wouldn't get to run the mare among them today. Or maybe he was relieved.

Red Roan and the scouts drew with sticks in the dirt and came up with a plan. The wind was directly up the canyon, from southeast to northwest. So when anyone flanked the buffalo on the downstream side, they would break the other way.

The hunters had divided themselves into three warrior clubs. Red Roan called out the plan. The four scouts and the Muddy Hands would ride along the river on the southeast side, out of sight in the cottonwoods. They would go a couple of miles beyond the buffalo, spread out on a long flank, and ride hard to the herd. Red Roan made sure Jackrabbit, the Muddy Hand leader, understood what to do.

The Kit Foxes, Red Roan said, would go into the aspens on the southwest side and stay well hidden. Today, since Blue Medicine Horse and Flat Dog were Kit Foxes, the white men were invited to ride with these hunters. The chief's son himself would lead the Foxes, and he almost glared at Sam when he repeated, “Well hidden.” When the buffalo smelled or heard the hard-riding hunters from the south, the Foxes would cut off any who broke toward the west and turn them toward the river. Otherwise they would move all the buffalo lickety-split toward the river. “We'll run them hard, straight at the drop-off,” he said.

The Knobby Sticks, about a dozen hunters led by Bull-All-the-Time, would remain on the upstream side and push the animals toward the river from that direction.

The Foxes and Knobby Sticks would wait for the Muddy Hands to make the buffalo break. Then all hell would break loose.

 

S
AM HAD TO
hold the medicine hat firm. She felt the tension mounting—everybody did—she was ready to run. That was good, he hoped.

The fog had gone up to Sun. The day was crystalline, under a sky that was deeper and higher than any Sam had ever seen in Pennsylvania.
Today,
he told himself,
I'm going to earn a new name
.

Or get bad hurt
. The memory of the leg broken by a ball at the Arikara villages was still painful. Being flat on his back, then on crutches, then hobbling, weeks of being a cripple…

Pictures flitted through his mind—him and the mare flying off the cliff, black shadows leaping into blackness. He tried to ignore the clutter. The mare turning in the air and landing on her back, Sam being speared by the saddle horn underneath her. He could already feel his chest being crushed.

The buffalo were still grazing placidly. The Muddy Hands needed a lot of time, evidently. Jackrabbit would take no chances….

An old bull, one of the biggest, raised his head. He held his muzzle into the wind. As suddenly as a leaf drops off a branch, he galloped upstream.

“Hi-yi-yi-yay! Hi-yi-yi-yay!”
The Knobby Sticks charged the herd from Sam's left.

Suddenly the horses around Sam ran like hell. He jumped the mare to a gallop to catch up. Excited, he slapped her rump with hand. Now the cry was all around him—
“Hi-yi-yi-yay! Hi-yi-yi-yay!”

He was dodging aspen trees at incredible speed. The mare was doing the job herself, without guidance, gliding left, veering right, occasionally jumping a downed tree. All that was a damn good sign for running buffalo.

When they burst out of the grove, the closest buffalo were no more than twenty yards away.
“Hi-yi-yi-yay!”
everyone yelled, or something like that. Red Roan galloped in front, hollering the loudest.

When the big bull broke, all the buffalo did. They ran in all directions at once, like balls scattering on a billiards table. One bull ran straight at Red Roan. Then the monster turned and headed downstream, but had to veer off to avoid the Muddy Hands.
“Hi-yi-yi-yay!”
It was a war cry and a declaration of triumph to come.

Sam yelled
“Hi-yi-yi-yay!”
right in the mare's ears, and suddenly she put on an extra burst of speed and took him to the front. Sam hadn't imagined a horse could run this fast.
“Hi-yi-yi-yay!”
he cried.

Faster, harder, faster, harder!

Riders closed in from the right and the left. The buffalo dashed first in one direction, then another. They milled. They bleated. At last they set their muzzles on the only direction open to them, straight toward the river.
Faster,
thought Sam,
faster. Run them so hard they go right off that cliff! Faster!

A great noise, like a thousand people stomping their feet on a wooden floor. Rumps and shaggy heads rose and fell in rhythm. Horses screamed, buffalo bellowed. Mud clods the size of huge fists flew. A giant one hit the medicine hat in the muzzle—she trumpeted a complaint. Sam kicked her flanks and she ran faster.

Dung squirted out of buffalo bottoms and flicked backward from hooves. A green gob hit Sam in the corner of his right eye. The sting made him shout in pain. He wiped at it with a sleeve and urged the mare to go faster.

He was giddy with the chase.

Screams—incredible guttural screams!

Buffalo were pitching off the cliffs!

Others, he could see, tumbled into a ravine on the right that opened onto the river. Muddy Hands from downstream reined in at the rim and shot arrows into the gully.

All the damn buffalo don't need to go off the cliff,
Sam told himself.
I can shoot one on the run.

He dropped the reins—the mare did better without them—and knee-nudged her toward a cow to his left. They couldn't catch the cow. Sam kicked the mare, and she went faster, but not close enough for a shot.

Sam reminded himself,
It needs to be in the brisket just behind the right shoulder
. He bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Somehow the mare drew almost even with the cow.

Sam sighted as sharp as you can sight bouncing up and down on a galloping horse. He saw the brisket in The Celt's sights.

The cow went over the cliff.

The medicine hat wheeled right, screamed out a whinny, and fell over the cliff sideways.

In midair Sam got his left leg out from under the mare and kicked away.

Whummpf!

Slanted ground cracked his back. He rolled head over heels into a melee. The mare clipped his right ear with a hoof, and his mind spun like a dust devil. Another kick smashed his left hand. Screams—horse screams, human screams, buffalo screams, his own screams—tore his brain.

He got up on one knee. A buffalo bull charged straight at him, horns lowered.

The mare ran at the bull and collided with it hard, shoulder to shoulder.

She went down hard. The bull veered off, shook itself, and slowly turned to face Sam again.

The mare clambered to her feet.

The bull charged.

The mare reared and flashed her hooves in his eyes.

The bull stopped. It glared. Just as it was making up its mind to gore the medicine hat, the air glimmered, and an arrow quivered in its brisket. A second arrow passed straight through the chest and vibrated in the cold ground beyond.

Sam touched his right ear, and his hand came away thick with blood.

The bull stood, fierce, aroused. Its rump lowered for a charge.

Two more arrows whumped into the brisket.

The bull huffed air out, like blowing pain away.

Sam looked up and saw Bell Rock, Blue Horse, and Flat Dog drawing back the bowstrings hard.

He felt the blood split into two streams on the divide of his shoulder and curl down his chest and his back.

Blasts of gunpowder hammered his ears. Gideon and Beckwourth were doing their part on the bull, too.

The mare ran at the bull and bit him on the snout.

The buffalo stood still, like nothing had happened, or he had turned into a tree stump.

Sam scrambled up the steep dirt cliff as high as he could get. He started reloading The Celt, but his left hand would barely hold the rifle. He managed to shake powder into the muzzle—too much powder, he knew, but he had to do something.

A young bull ran at the medicine hat, horns lowered. She skittered away easily, but tripped on a fallen cow. The mare flipped over the cow and sprawled headlong. Sam's heart leapt out of his chest. The young bull stood over the cow like he'd lost interest. The mare scrambled back to her feet.

Sam rammed a ball down the muzzle, eyes fixed on the bull, which was still glaring at him.

The old bull buckled to one knee.

Sam lifted The Celt and held the bull's head in his sights. Then he remembered what Gideon said. ‘You can't kill one straight on in the head. The skull bone is too thick.'

The bull struggled back to four feet and planted them wide. His eyes rolled in horror. Blood gouted out of his mouth and nose.

Sam gushed his breath out. He knew that story—bull on the ground, from all the shots.

He shook his head—he was a little light-headed. He looked around. Everywhere buffalo were dying or struggling to live. They staggered around on three legs. They bleated, each cry as loud as ten stuck pigs. Yearlings ran around lost. One cow waded deeper and deeper into the river, as though looking for a place to drown. Arrows whistled down from the clifftop.

Sam knew he had to stay clear of those arrows. He looked up. Bell Rock Flat Dog, and Blue Medicine Horse, almost shoulder to shoulder, were still whanging arrows into buffalo flesh.

Twenty yards from Sam a cow stood still in the midst of the tumult, solid on three legs, the near foreleg raised neatly, like a little finger stuck out from a cup of coffee. Sam figured the leg was broken.

He leveled The Celt right at the spot behind the shoulder. Ignoring the bolt of pain in his left hand, and pretending not to notice the rivulets of blood on his chest and back, he let fly.

The blast knocked Sam down.

The cow toppled like she'd been clobbered by a steamboat.