James Welch is the author of
The Heartsong of Charging Elk, The Death of Jim Loney, The Indian Lawyer,
and in collaboration with documentary filmmaker Paul Stekler,
Killing Custer: The Battle of the Little Bighorn and the Fate of the Plains Indians. Fools Crow
received the
Los Angeles Times
Book Prize, an American Book Award, and the Pacific Northwest Bookseller’s Award. Mr. Welch attended schools in the Blackfeet and Fort Belknap reservations in Montana, and he graduated from the University of Montana, where he studied writing with the late Richard Hugo. Until recently, he served on the Montana State Board of Pardons. He lives in Missoula with his wife, Lois.

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First published in the United States of America by
Viking Penguin Inc. 1986
Published in Penguin Books 1987

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Welch, James, 1940-
Fools crow.
1. Siksika Indians—Fiction. 2. Indians of
North America—Montana—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.
PS3573.E44F’.54 87-6968

eISBN : 978-1-440-67118-0

http://us.penguingroup.com

For Dick and Matt,
For Melissa,
And especially for Ripley,
With love

PART ONE

NOW THAT THE WEATHER had changed, the moon of the falling leaves turned white in the blackening sky and White Man’s Dog was restless. He chewed the stick of dry meat and watched Cold Maker gather his forces. The black clouds moved in the north in circles, their dance a slow deliberate fury. It was almost night, and he looked back down into the flats along the Two Medicine River. The lodges of the Lone Eaters were illuminated by cooking fires within. It was that time of evening when even the dogs rest and the horses graze undisturbed along the grassy banks.

White Man’s Dog raised his eyes to the west and followed the Backbone of the World from south to north until he could pick out Chief Mountain. It stood a little apart from the other mountains, not as tall as some but strong, its square granite face a landmark to all who passed. But it was more than a landmark to the Pikunis, Kainahs and Siksikas, the three tribes of the Blackfeet, for it was on top of Chief Mountain that the blackhorn skull pillows of the great warriors still lay. On those skulls Eagle Head and Iron Breast had dreamed their visions in the long-ago, and the animal helpers had made them strong in spirit and fortunate in war.

Not so lucky was White Man’s Dog. He had little to show for his eighteen winters. His father, Rides-at-the-door, had many horses and three wives. He himself had three horses and no wives. His animals were puny, not a blackhorn runner among them. He owned a musket and no powder and his animal helper was weak. Many times he had prayed to the Above Ones for stronger medicine but he knew that wasn’t the way. It was up to him, perhaps with the help of a many-faces man, to find his own power.

Again he looked to the north. Beneath the boiling clouds, beyond the Medicine Line, lay the country of the whiskey traders. He had not been there but he had heard of their skinned-tree houses, full of all those things a young man would need to make himself rich. There was talk that they possessed the many-shots guns which could bring down five blackhorns with five shots, which could kill an enemy from far off. Such a gun would cost many head-and-tail robes, but White Man’s Dog was determined to have one. Then he could bring about his own luck. He would have plenty of wives, children, horses, meat. He would have his own lodge, and his wives would cook boss ribs and blackhorn tongues while he smoked, told stories, recounted his war honors. The other men would be silent and respectful as he told of the day he had finished off the Parted Hairs and made their women cry. He would boast of the many horses he drove away from the Cutthroats’ camp while they slept like old women.

White Man’s Dog smiled to himself as though he had done these things. He smiled to think of his wives as he went from robe to robe, planting the seeds of his own family. And then he thought of his father’s youngest wife, Kills-close-to-the-lake, and the way she sometimes looked at him. That morning he had helped her stretch a blackhorn robe so she could flesh it, and he felt her eyes on him and he left in haste. He had never touched the body of a woman. His friends teased him and called him dog-lover. His friends often took girls into the bushes, especially if they had plenty of the white man’s water. Under Bull had humped two girls of the Entrails People as they were camped outside Many Houses fort on the Big River. He said they were the best because they whispered to you. He offered White Man’s Dog some of his Liars’ Medicine to make himself attractive but it did no good. Even the bad girls who hung around the forts wanted nothing to do with him. Because he did not own a fine gun and a strong horse they ignored him.

White Man’s Dog watched Seven Persons rise into the night sky above Chief Mountain. Above, the Star-that-stands-still waited for the others to gather around him. White Man’s Dog felt Cold Maker’s breath in his face, but it looked as though he would keep the clouds in Always Winter Land tonight. He was only warning the Pikunis that his season was near. White Man’s Dog turned in the direction of the Lone Eaters’ camp. It was time to go down to his father’s lodge and listen to the stories, the scorn and laughter of the men as they ate roasted meat and smoked while the women listened and teased each other. Perhaps Kills-close-to-the-lake would look at him again. Perhaps she would save him a piece of back fat or hump meat. But even as his heart quickened, the cold thought struck him: She was his father’s wife, his own near-mother! He pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and hurried toward camp. He glanced up and asked Seven Persons and all the Above Ones to take pity on him, to forgive him his bad thoughts, to light his way. But the stars were distant and pitiless and gathered their light within themselves. From somewhere far off he heard the hoot of an ears-far-apart.

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