Buckskin Brigades

To Yellow Hair, farther down the stream, about six miles away, it was not the 27th of July, 1806, and the country about him was not part of the Louisiana Purchase. The date, to Yellow Hair, was merely a late midday in the Thunder Moon and the wide, vibrant country about him was indisputably the southern portion of the Pikuni country, owned, policed and governed by the Three Tribes. As usual, he was impatient. Tushepaws had dared raid a Pikuni camp and the interlopers were to be intercepted by the war party which Yellow Hair and White Fox were supposed to join, but which, unknown to either of them, was being entertained through the courtesy of interlopers worse than the Tushepaws—the United States of America. Restlessly, Yellow Hair stamped up and down the river bank, scanning the green and red bluffs, pausing occasionally to snap a word or two at the imperturbable White Fox who crouched immovably beside a small, smokeless fire, slowly broiling strips of tender buffalo meat. “Why don’t they come?” demanded Yellow Hair. “They know where we are.” “They will probably come in due time,” said White Fox without moving his gray head. “Of course you can never be certain, but they said they would come and we must wait.” “You told me that yesterday. Find something new to tell me today. Stop ogling that meat and take a glance at this sky. Disgusting! Motionless. Not even a cloud moving. Not a leaf! Not a puff of dust to be seen. And look at those herds. Look at those herds! They act as though they had never seen a hunter.” “Patience,” said White Fox, annoyed but little. “Patience!” barked Yellow Hair. “What use have I for patience? Those Tushepaws came and killed our people. They have no eyes and cannot read our boundaries. They have no ears and cannot hear our laws. They have their own hunting ground and yet they come rolling into ours like so many ill-mannered bears and murder us.” “Save it for the Tushepaws,” said White Fox, calmly turning the willows on which the strips were impaled. “I’ll save it for the Tushepaws,” roared Yellow Hair with ferocity. “If we let this invasion pass without an attempt at punishment, they’ll come again and expect us to welcome them as brothers. Hyai, the Pikunis will be the laughing target of the Plains. And that Low Horns! What does he know about raiding? He and those seven old fools have probably stopped to hunt rabbits. That’s the game for them. Rabbits. Big, fierce rabbits with long teeth.” “Maybe sweating would cure it,” said White Fox, mildly, seeming to address the meat instead of Yellow Hair. “What?” “Love,” murmured White Fox thoughtfully. “What about love? I was talking about the Tushepaws and I’ve certainly no love for those wolverines.” White Fox had the ghost of a grin floating about his slightly cynical lips. But he kept the joke to himself and slowly turned the buffalo strips, carefully tucking up the sleeves of his hunting shirt. Yellow Hair paced down the bank like a panther, turned and came up to the fire again, raking the bluffs with optical broadsides. “Hyai, what I’ll do to those Tushepaws,” said Yellow Hair. “Others of us will be there,” commented White Fox. “At least, we might be there.” Yellow Hair snatched up the elkskin case which contained his rifle, untied the thongs, withdrew the lengthy weapon and carefully looked to the priming. Satisfied, he restored it, and then with a decisive jerk, lifted his saddle by one stirrup and tossed it over his shoulder. “You can wait all day if you like,” said Yellow Hair. “You can wait tomorrow and the next day. When it gets to be Falling Leaf Moon, I’ll come back and ask you if they’ve come.” White Fox turned the strips again and glanced sideways at Yellow Hair. The youth evidently meant what he said. And White Fox knew what lay behind this anxiety to be gone. A girl with shapely face, stormy eyes and soft hands, a girl who could ride like a warrior, was the cause. Bright Star, daughter of Running Elk, had quite ruined Yellow Hair’s reason. If he were ever to find favor in Running Elk’s estimation, he would have to roll up a good war record and acquire many horses. “Little fellow,” said White Fox deliberately. “You look very brave in your white buckskin. But will the Tushepaws think so?” Yellow Hair’s voice cracked like lightning. “Are you trying to insult me? You think I’m a coward? Well, then! Alone I—” “Alone you stay with me,” said White Fox, quietly. “You have forgotten that you were allowed to come only to carry my Thunder Medicine Pipe, my robes and my shield. If you were a real warrior, now, and if you had a grand coup or two in your pretty beaver cap, you could go. But—” Angrily, Yellow Hair slammed his saddle to the ground. Walking like a mountain cat he came back to the fire and loomed over White Fox. As Yellow Hair was very tall, judged even by Pikuni standards, and he was in the best of condition, it was easy to see that he could have eaten up White Fox in two gulps. White Fox casually turned the meat, his old weathered hands very steady. Suddenly Yellow Hair’s blue eyes softened. His big mouth spread in a good-humored grin and he slapped White Fox so hard upon the back that he almost knocked him into the fire. Laughing, Yellow Hair sat on his heels and deftly raked a strip of meat off the willow grate. “Love,” said Yellow Hair, “might do a lot for a man’s bravery, but it never did much for his reason. I think about Bright Star and then I think how Running Elk demands that I show what kind of man I am and … well …” “Another piece of meat?” said White Fox. “It’s roasted through now.” “Ah, but what I’ll do to those Tushepaws,” said Yellow Hair. “Hyai, how I’ll wade through them! They will think a prairie fire has hit them. And I’ll take their horses—” “Some others of us will also be there,” said White Fox, mildly. Yellow Hair laughed in high good humor and took another strip. “The way I feel today, I could whip the whole Tushepaw nation all by myself— Look, White Fox. Smoke!” They leaped up and went higher on the bluff. Far to the west across the dun-colored hills and the green prairies, a column of darkness stuck like an eagle plume out of the river bottom. It was abruptly cut off and then again released. “Two smokes,” said White Fox. “There’s trouble.” “Perhaps they’ve met them already,” said Yellow Hair, very worried at being left out of it. They brought in their horses and saddled. They jammed their possessions into their war sacks and mounted. Peeling his rifle as he went, White Fox led the swift way toward the smoke plume. Frightened antelope fled at their approach. A herd of chunky brown buffalo stampeded. Small prairie dogs popped out of their holes to inquire in impudent whistles what the matter was. Yellow Hair flayed his gray war pony into greater effort and very soon they drew near to the high bluff of the Marias River. But instead of a fight they were confronted with a group of dejected Pikunis who stood listlessly before a tall lodge. Propped up by a folded robe, Running Elk tried to lie still in his agony. Covered by another robe was the slowly stiffening body of Wolf Plume. In amazement Yellow Hair bounced off his horse, looking everywhere for a sign of enemy dead. He would have spoken had not White Fox silenced him with a commanding sign. The war party which had left the Pikuni village so jubilantly had undergone a horrible change. Divested of their war bonnets, their shields and their horses, they were bewildered at the disaster that had overtaken them from such an unexpected quarter. Their keen, intelligent faces were still stamped with disbelief that this thing had happened. Low Horns, a powerful member of the Kit-Fox Society, was now senior warrior of the group. “It is useless to pursue them,” said Low Horns. “We have no weapons.” “I still have mine,” said Yellow Hair. “White Fox and I—” They signed him again to silence. “They are very powerful people,” said Low Horns, shaking his head. He straightened to his tall height and turned to face White Fox. “Today but one,” said Low Horns, “we were coming down the river to meet you and search out the Tushepaw party. We saw a white man walking down along the bank and we stopped to watch. “A moment later we understood that we were in a trap. While this white man by the river had distracted us, other white men tried to come up on us from the rear. When we understood that they did not mean to go away, we thought to make a fight and die at least honorably in spite of their many guns. “But the leader,” continued Low Horns, making a sign with two spread fingers before his mouth, “attempted to take us another way. He was the same liar, the same Kitchi-Mokan, who appeared with so many of his people two years ago among the Mandans. “All night long he talked to us, as we have heard he talked to the Mandans. He talked of how we must not go to war with anyone, just like he told the Mandans. You will remember that when the Mandans believed this Kitchi-Mokan spoke true, they forgot their sentinels and, in spite of what this Kitchi-Mokan had promised them about the Sioux, were attacked and made to suffer great losses at Sioux hands. “Then we knew who he was and that he spoke false as he did toward the rising Sun two winters past. He told us again and again that we should all be friends, and to be polite, we let him talk away most of our sleep. “But he had already said that he had another party of whites soon to join him and he made certain that we would be ready for their killing when the other party arrived. Thus, he posted sentinels to make sure that we did not try to leave and showed that he had other plans for us than friendship, as he did not have the politeness to trust us as we had trusted him. “In the night, Running Elk and I became very worried, knowing that we might be killed. As we had only two rifles and little ammunition, and as our horses were too far away along the river, we could not fight in case of attack, and yet, if we fled, we would be shot down as soon as the sentinel gave warning. “Then, the only thing for us to do, we did. To keep from being shot, we must take their guns. This we tried, never thinking that death would be the penalty. “Wolf Plume snatched a rifle and raced away with it just at dawn. But the sentinel quickly overtook him and although Wolf Plume made no effort to shoot him, which he could easily have done, the sentinel plunged a knife into Wolf Plume’s heart.