Buckskin Brigades

Chapter 1-2

“Then we all ran away and tried to get our horses as quickly as possible. Running Elk and I went up the river, but this leader, he of the forked tongue, ran after us, shouting. At last I thought I understood what this Kitchi-Mokan was saying and I shouted to Running Elk, ‘He tells us to stop!’

“We stopped and too late we realized that he only wanted to have us as standing targets. I yelled a warning to Running Elk and dived behind a rock, but before Running Elk could move, this Kitchi-Mokan, although his order was obeyed, shot Running Elk.

“They stole four of our horses, took all our baggage as we had known they would do, and left us here with our dead.

“I have finished.”

White Fox lifted the robe and looked sorrowfully at Wolf Plume, whose smooth bronze chest was jagged with its knife wound.

Yellow Hair knelt beside Running Elk and tried to take the old man’s hand. Instinctively, Running Elk drew away.

“Your brothers, the whites, have done this,” said Running Elk, voice jerky with pain.

“My brothers,” gaped Yellow Hair. “You are delirious. White Fox, get some water.”

White Fox did not move and the boy realized with a jolt that the others were looking at him with hard eyes. He swept the circle about him with his glance and then came uncertainly to his feet, fingers unconsciously searching out the knife in his belt.

The silence continued for a long while and then, at last, Yellow Hair cracked.

“Stop it! What’s the matter with you? Is there something wrong that I have done? Have I spoken out of turn?”

Swiftly he searched their impassive faces for the answer to his question and failed to find it. Low Horns, Hundred-Horses, Double-Coup, Singing Bear and Lost-in-Mountains all wore the same expression. He had seen it before when they had gathered to pass judgment in the Grand Council. Their big, weather-stained faces were unreadable and their brown eyes were narrow. The wind moved the white fringes of their hunting shirts. Otherwise they might have been clay medicine figures.

They were not actually threatening him. It was more deadly than that. They were just looking at him, appraising him, taking in his tall, straight body, his white, sensitive face, the alarm in his usually reckless blue eyes.

Yellow Hair glanced down at his white skin leggings, his shirt and his belt as though there might be something wrong with them, but they were all in perfect order.

The echoes of the shot from Captain Meriwether Lewis’s rifle had not died between these high bluffs. Soundless, but roaring, it was increasing and would continue to increase for years, decades, even centuries.

And the first one slapped by the echo stood gripping the handle of his skinning knife, facing the elders of the tribe.

Yellow Hair took hold of himself. In bold, even sarcastic tones, he said, “Because you have been surprised and beaten, you are looking upon the youngest here as a likely target for wrath. You are old warriors, mighty and honored, and your war bonnets stop the wind with their plumes and coups. But your heads grow as stiff as your joints. Why are we standing here like women? Why do we let this lying Kitchi-Mokan escape unharmed after he has slain one of us and wounded another? It is because you are afraid. You tell me you have no horses and cannot follow. You tell me they have taken your weapons. You say they are great warriors so that your own cowardice will not loom so large. Why did you not kill them if you suspected their treachery?”

“Peace,” cautioned White Fox.

“Peace! You’ll have no peace now. When you return to our lodges, do you think Wolf Plume’s sisters will give you peace? Ah, but you are too old. Your bravery is beyond question. They will not give you women’s clothes to wear. Not you. Low Horns, head of the Kit-Foxes—hyai, I would hate to be you!”

“Silence, whelp!” snapped Low Horns.

“Ah, to be sure. Silence! But do not look to me to carry your blame. The story you could tell would be simple. You bring me out on my first war party and I bring you bad luck. Oh yes, I could take the blame, but I won’t. I am going to follow up that party of Kitchi-Mokans and challenge this Fork-Tongue to personal combat. You—all of you—stay here and wail like the old women you are.”

“Stop!” ordered White Fox. “Warriors, you forget that he is young. Do not punish him. He does not know what he is saying.”

“I know what I am saying,” said Yellow Hair. “Oh yes, I am young. You can stand there and stare at me if you wish.… Stop it!”

Low Horns recovered himself a little. He nervously glanced up at the butte to see if his scout had signaled any news about the Kitchi-Mokans. When he looked back, he said, “So long have I seen this youth in our lodges that I had become used to the whiteness of his face, the light color of his hair.”

“Low Horns,” said White Fox, quietly, “your memory has turned bad. Have you forgotten Many-Guns, Yellow Hair’s father? It is many winters since he first came to us with this boy and only a few less winters when he died. Have you forgotten that Many-Guns was a Kitchi-Mokan? I see that you have.

“Remember, Low Horns, when you were younger, this Many-Guns helped us against our enemies, the Snakes. Remember how his fine shooting turned back a Snake charge and saved us all?

“Remember, Low Horns, how this Many-Guns grew to be a great warrior with us? How he led a large party far, far south into the territory of the Almost-Whites across the deserts? Look, Low Horns, the rifle this boy carries is that one last carried by Many-Guns. Look at his face, Low Horns, and you will see the face of his father.

“It is true that this boy is not of our blood. It is true that he is often impatient and reckless and mischievous. But he is no less a Pikuni.”

Low Horns looked uncomfortable. He searched the faces of his four warriors as though trying to shift the blame upon them.

“Yellow Hair,” said Low Horns in a throaty voice, “I did not mean anything by this. If I have injured you, I am sorry. But it came as a shock to me that you were white, and I think it came as a shock to all of us. So long have you been in our lodges we had forgotten, and also, I am ashamed, we forgot the debt we owe your father. We cannot permit you to follow this white Fork-Tongue because he would certainly set his men upon you and have you killed as they killed Wolf Plume. Forget this, Yellow Hair, as though it had not happened. Hyai,” he added, feeling better, “do you think we are as cruel and cunning as these Kitchi-Mokans? Quickly, build us a new fire with your pistol lock. Running Elk must have broth and medicine.”

Yellow Hair’s spirits did not immediately rise. He lit the fire and nursed the small blaze until it was large enough to take care of itself. After that he wandered down the river to a quiet eddy and bent over to wash the single black stripe of joy from his head.

But before he stirred the quiet water he saw his reflection looking back at him and he knelt to examine it.

In the past he had fitfully wondered about the color of his scalp and the lightness of his skin, but he had never actually given it any intensive thought. He had been only a few winters old when his father had died and he remembered very little about it except the depressed sadness of the village at the time. He connected the shiver, which he always experienced when he saw a fully covered sleeper, with the death of his father, but that was all.

And now as he knelt beside the river, studying his blue eyes, it came to him as a shock that he was not really a Pikuni at all. True, he was a member of the All Friends Society and aspired to the Society of the Horns, but even that did not make him a Pikuni.

His lip curled a little and the reflection sneered back:

“Kitchi-Mokan!”

He spat and the image was shattered by the ripples of the startled pool.