12
THEY ATTACKED THE VILLAGE of Bull Shield at dawn. White Man’s Dog had sung his Wolverine power song and had tied a small pouch containing the white stone around his neck. He rode between his father and Crazy Dog, slightly ahead of them. It was his honor, in Yellow Kidney’s place, to strike the enemy first. The long gallop down the hill seemed to take forever. Behind him he heard the thunder of the horses’ hooves and the cries and yodeling of the warriors. A steady
pop
of rifle fire increased until it seemed that Thunder Chief, Many Drums, rode with them. White Man’s Dog’s throat was dry in the surging wind, and his heart beat strongly in his ears. Then he was on the flat, guiding his horse with his knees, firing his many-shots gun, his wedding present from his father, blindly at the lodges. He saw a man emerge from one of the tipis clad only in leggings. He turned the gray horse slightly and bore down on him and he heard a strange animal cry that filled his heart with fear before he realized that it came from him. His horse had his head lowered in his all-out gallop, and White Man’s Dog could see the laid-back ears just below his line of fire. The man raised his musket but now White Man’s Dog was upon him. He felt his horse swerve between his knees as he fired at the man’s chest. The man toppled back into the entrance of his lodge and lay there with just his feet sticking out. White Man’s Dog looked quickly around and saw the Pikunis weaving between the lodges, screaming and firing their weapons. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Crow warriors scrambling out of their lodges, some shooting at the Pikunis, others running for cover. He urged his horse forward until he was near the middle of the camp. A pack of dogs raced by, cutting him off, and he felt his horse’s front legs come up off the ground. He leaned forward to regain his balance and that’s when he saw a black horse rearing against a lariat tied to the lodgepole of a tipi decorated with blue buffaloes. For an instant he stared at the tipi and the panicked horse. Then he slid off his own horse and trotted between two lodges. He heard someone calling to him, a voice that he didn’t recognize over the din of the guns and crying and shouting. He stepped over the body of a man who had been shot in the face. The arms and legs were still trembling. He fired a shot into the blue buffalo tipi and a man appeared at the entrance. When he stood up, his headdress fell to the ground behind him. There was a wild look in the man’s eyes and White Man’s Dog thought he was going to run back inside. But the man gathered his courage and began his death song. In his right hand he held a short-gun; in his other hand, a feathered shield with red sharp-cornered designs. For an instant the two men looked at each other. Then White Man’s Dog heard the voice again, the one who had called to him earlier. He glanced to his left and saw the blue seizer’s tunic that Fox Eyes wore. He heard a
pop
and felt a warm pain in his side. He stumbled back and fell down. As he fell, he heard Fox Eyes call out the man’s name. In spite of the burning in his side, he lifted his head and watched Fox Eyes ride down on Bull Shield and knew that his chief wanted to count coup, that just shooting Bull Shield from a distance was not enough. In disbelief White Man’s Dog watched the short-gun come up and fire just as Fox Eyes leaned to his right for a shot. And he saw the horse shy and Fox Eyes land in a heap at Bull Shield’s feet. White Man’s Dog moaned and fell back. It seemed to him that he lay there for a long time—he could hear the gunfire and the screams—but when he opened his eyes Bull Shield was still advancing. Without knowing how, he found his gun, lifted it and fired. The greased shooter tore through the warrior’s shield and into his chest. He shot the warrior twice more and then his rifle was empty. Bull Shield stepped back with the first shot, as if in surprise. The second and third shots caught him in the belly and he doubled over, tottered forward with little steps and fell. White Man’s Dog got to his feet—the pain was less severe now—and felt his side. His hand came away bloody. He looked down at the dead man and his head felt strange, as though it were trying not to be there. Then a horse galloped up and skidded to a stop and a rider jumped off. It was Almost-a-wolf. He gathered up Fox Eye’s body and hoisted it up over the saddle, arms and legs dangling on either side of the horse. Almost-a-wolf glanced at White Man’s Dog; then he was on the horse, behind the saddle, and the horse was galloping off. White Man’s Dog looked back for his own horse. It was not there. As he looked about he saw bodies on the ground and men engaged in fighting. Twenty paces from where he stood he saw a look of shock on Lone Medicine Person’s face as a Crow knife was plunged into his stomach. A girl of not more than three winters stood crying, holding her bloody fingers to her mouth. As he watched the girl, he heard a voice behind him; then he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He whirled about and saw that it was his father leaning down from his horse. “Take his hair, son,” he said.
White Man’s Dog dropped to his knees over the fallen Bull Shield. He took the hair in his left hand and made a slice across the top of the forehead. Then he began skinning the scalp back as though he were dressing a deer. At the last cut, the head fell limply forward, the white patch of bone glistening in the dusty sun.
“Get up, get up, you brave!” shouted Rides-at-the-door. “Take this fine horse, this prize Crow horse!” He had cut the black horse loose, and now he handed the lariat to White Man’s Dog. “My fine son, this day you are a brave!”
White Man’s Dog looked at the happy face of his father, and the strange feeling in his head went away. He swung up on the horse and felt the pain in his side sharpen. Then he and his father were galloping toward the north ridge above the camp. Several of the Pikunis were there already, shooting their guns in the air, their horses skittering nervously beneath them. On both sides of them other warriors were racing for the ridge. Behind them they heard the
pop! pop! pop!
of the Crow guns. White Man’s Dog looked down at the sticky scalp in his fingers. Then he leaned over the side of the black horse and vomited.
The next day, well away from the Crow camps, they stopped to rest at the edge of Big Lake, a shallow body of water in open country. There was no danger that the Crows could organize swiftly enough to follow such a large war party this far. The men were weary with the battle and the ride, and many of them stripped and swam in the warm, weedy water. Some ate their last handfuls of pemmican while others dozed. Then the war chiefs moved among them, rousting them, and soon they were riding slowly to the northwest.
Rides-at-the-door and White Man’s Dog rode behind the bodies of Fox Eyes and Lone Medicine Person. They were wrapped in sleeping skins and tied over Crow horses. White Man’s Dog looked behind him and counted six other bodies in sleeping robes. Thirteen men were missing and seven more were hurt badly enough that they had to lie on makeshift travois. White Man’s Dog searched for Running Fisher. He rode by himself off to the side, and his eyes were distant.
White Man’s Dog stretched and the pain came, but it was only a dull throb. The shooter had opened the skin and nicked a rib. He had thanked Wolverine for giving him a war wound and he thanked him for not making it too serious.
After they had traveled, a short way, Crazy Dog rode back among the men. Four of them got off their horses and built a fire. Soon the flames rippled away to the south, pushed by the strong north wind. Some of the warriors rode off and returned with greasewood from a nearby ridge. The greasewood caught fire and began to crackle, and the riders dragged it along the ground behind them. Soon the grassy plains to the south were ablaze, the heavy smoke blowing ahead of the flames.
“Now we make the Crows to cry twice. Their blackhorns will leave them and become someone else’s meat,” said Crazy Dog. With that he laughed and the Pikunis turned their horses north, to their own buffalo ranges.
At twilight the men stopped beside a small creek flanked by dead big-leaf trees. They built platforms in seven of them and prepared the bodies for burial. It was a simple preparation—the dead men had few weapons with them, and their horses remained in the Crow camp. Crow Foot sprinkled tobacco over the sleeping skins and commended their spirits to the Shadowland. Then the bodies were laid on the platforms and a Crow horse was shot in the ear for each of them to ride in that other world.
For Fox Eyes they found a ledge beneath a tan rock high up on the side of a bluff. Two men carried his body up the steep incline, their shoulders and backs gleaming with sweat. Three others brought his knife, his pipe and his war bag. The war chiefs followed with sacrifices of tobacco and greased shooters. Below, the men sang and wept as the body of their leader was placed beneath the ledge. Fox Eyes was the only true war leader many of them knew, and now he was gone to the Sand Hills, killed by the enemies.
White Man’s Dog stood and watched the burial and thought of the afternoon a few days before when Sun Chief hid his face. And he thought of Fox Eyes riding down on Bull Shield instead of taking the simple shot that would have killed the Crow. White Man’s Dog couldn’t shake the feeling that Fox Eyes knew he was going to die, perhaps even wanted to. Only great chiefs died when Sun hid his face.