Buckskin Brigades

Chapter 3-1

The two trails which had almost met diverged, never again to even closely approach.

Captain Meriwether Lewis, having accomplished the purposes of his expedition, returned to the United States with his voluminous reports. He received acclaim. He was awarded the post of governor over a territory which reached from the Mississippi to the Pacific—an immense land which had been “sold” by a power six thousand miles across land and the Atlantic to another land which immediately accepted “sovereign” rights to “colonize and exploit.”

The actual owners, not important enough to be consulted, were for the moment left alone.

Michael Kirk—Yellow Hair—went back to the Pikuni seat of government, not in triumph, but in sorrow, not to renown, but to a sorry problem which must be met and faced.

Yellow Hair hated that return.

With a few of their mounts rounded up for them, the warriors straggled slowly homeward.

What was left of Running Elk was lashed across a saddle and covered with a robe. Wolf Plume, shrouded in the same manner, with only his stiff hands showing beneath the dangling stirrup, was led back to his people.

They traveled constantly. They had no heart to stop and sleep. Marking their course by the stars across the undulating dark plains, they came, at sunrise, within sight of the town.

The long, regular lines of lodges gleamed whitely in the half-light like so many snowcapped peaks detached and set down upon the plains in orderly fashion. Beside them bubbled the main branch of the Marias River, silky smooth, and about them and behind them reared the shaggy and green-forested crags of the Rockies. The horse herds were grazing quietly. Thin mists of smoke rose up from early fires.

The party stopped in dejected silence, gazing sorrowfully upon the scene. They had pressed forward until now when they found their hearts unwilling.

When they had left, the lodges had poured forth gay crowds to wish them luck. The keeper of the sacred Beaver Roll had gone galloping down the streets shouting out their names and glorifying them.

When they had left, the Sun had been daunted by the dazzling whiteness of their hunting shirts and the blazing color of their plumed war bonnets.

And now, to creep back at dawn, defeated, carrying their dead, shorn of their shields and weapons … it was bitter but it had to be done.

A scout on a knoll had sighted them. Standing upright, the sentry furiously waved a robe.

The signal was picked up on the plain below. Suddenly awakened men sprinted for the horse herds. Others swung up on their buffalo ponies which had been tied beside their lodges.

Eager for news, not stopping to read the altogether too plain message of that swinging robe, people poured forth.

Yellow Hair eased back beside White Fox, well in the rear.

“We should not be here,” said Yellow Hair. “We were not with the party.”

“Not anxious to meet Bright Star?” replied White Fox. “You were eager enough for the kill. It is a sorry warrior who cannot take defeat and victory alike.”

“I don’t mean that. I wasn’t with the party, but Bright Star will think I was. She will be angry with them and I don’t want her to associate Running Elk’s death with me.”

“You are wise,” said White Fox. “Cut down this coulee before they come up. You still have time.”

“No. I’m staying. I just don’t like it, that’s all.”

“One glance is worth a year of explanation,” shrugged White Fox.

Bear Claws, keeper of the sacred Beaver Roll, came up to them first. The smile faded out of his eyes and he searched their faces anxiously. Then, when he glanced at the two burdened horses, he knew that Wolf Plume and Running Elk were dead.

In stony silence, Bear Claws turned his mount and looked down at the vanguard of the crowd.

Yellow Hair squirmed in his saddle and the creak of the tight leather was as loud as a pistol shot.

Bright Star, mounted on a fleet pony, came next. Her head was thrown back and her silky black hair danced behind her in the wind. She drew up and looked at them. She saw the horses covered with the robes and looked again at the group.

For an instant her lovely face showed pain and then she, too, turned her mount to face the others.

When she had looked at him, Yellow Hair had read the anxious questions in her eyes. Where was he when this happened? Why was her father dead while other members of his party lived?

It lasted too long for Yellow Hair. The gay shouts of the coming people died in their throats and then nothing but the whisper of the river could be heard.

In silence they rode down into the village.

In silence they placed Running Elk in his lodge and Wolf Plume with his people.

In silence they sent their mounts into the horse herd.

They were waiting.

Then it came.

The sound of wailing came from Wolf Plume’s lodge as his women gave themselves over to grief. Similar cries came from the lodge of Running Elk.

Bright Star’s voice was not added to the misery. Bright Star stood outside her lodge, her face buried in the mane of Running Elk’s favorite pony.

Yellow Hair wanted to go to her, but that was f*******n him. Instead he sought refuge in White Fox’s big lodge. He peeled out of his hunting shirt, unbuckled his belt and stripped off the hip-tall, gay fringed leggings.

Magpie, a small Tushepaw youth who had been taken into the lodge after a raid the year before and who remained there in comfort but as a sort of servant, was very glad to see Yellow Hair home. But he did not dare say anything about it. Not now. He opened a bundle of clothing and laid out white untrimmed clothes, made of the smoothest elkskin. White clothes for sorrow.

Yellow Hair gathered a robe about his shoulders and, with Magpie trotting after him, headed for the river to wash away the stains of travel.

Yellow Hair bathed in silence and came up on the bank. He combed his sun-colored, shoulder-long hair with his fingers and then rubbed himself dry. He took the clothes from Magpie and dressed.

They returned to the lodge and Yellow Hair caught up his buffalo bow and sent Magpie scurrying to the horse herd for a fresh mount.

White Fox had come into the lodge. He sat against a comfortable, springy willow backrest, stuffing Indian tobacco into his red-bowled pipe.

“Tomorrow things may be better,” said White Fox. “Maybe they won’t be. But they might be. Straighten up.”

Yellow Hair gave him a sidewise glance.

“You’ve had no sleep,” said White Fox. “You need it.”

“Sleep with that ringing in my ears?” snapped Yellow Hair. “For every wail there I have an ache here.” He touched his breast and looked hard at the painted inner lining of the lodge as though he could see through it and outside. “I am a fool, White Fox.”

“Later on you will have many responsibilities. There is no need to borrow them now. You offered to follow and kill that Kitchi-Mokan. Low Horns forbade it and I would not let you. You are not to blame. I will tell them so at the Grand Council when it assembles to discuss this.”

“Talk will do nothing. There has been too much talk. When I should have been speeding on the hot trail of that murderous Kitchi-Mokan, I was talking. And now there is talk of more talk.”

“You are hurt. You will forget it.”

“You did not see the way she looked through me.”

“I should have known it was love. My young brave, if you had already been the son-in-law of Running Elk, you could claim his vengeance as your own. But you are not even of his clan.”

“You didn’t see the way she looked at me.”

“I did see it. Women have short memories, Yellow Hair.”

“Bright Star,” said Yellow Hair with heat, “is not just another woman.”

“Of course not. You love her.”

Magpie thrust his worried face into the entrance and told Yellow Hair his horse was waiting.

“Running away?” said White Fox.

“I’m going out and kill an antelope.”

“Peace offering?”

“Decency.”

“Stop worrying,” pleaded White Fox. “I will tell them at the Grand Council that you were thirty arrow flights away when it happened.”

“More talk,” said Yellow Hair. “I won’t be there. What use have I for excuses? Why should I go and weary my tongue explaining. If you want me I’ll be somewhere within a day’s ride, but don’t try to get me to come to the Grand Council. I won’t!”

Statement to the contrary, he was there, four days later when it was held.

Each day he had killed tender game and each evening he had left it just outside Running Elk’s tent, scratching on the flap to let them know it was there.

He had carefully stayed out of sight, trusting that a little time would let Bright Star think. She would realize that she had no provider in her lodge as her two brothers were even younger than she. She would understand that Yellow Hair was giving her a chance to recover.

But on the night of the Grand Council, Yellow Hair knew that he had been wrong.

The Council was held in the big ceremonial lodge of the Kit-Foxes, of which Low Horns was the leader. The night was chilly and the plains were damp with recent rain. The wind came whispering down out of the northwest, moist and sweet.

The Council had already assembled. The pipe was being offered to the Earth Mother and the Above Ones and had already started on its journey with the Sun’s rotation.

At the eleventh hour, Yellow Hair left White Fox’s lodge to cross over toward the Council.

Bright Star was standing in the dark outside the doorway, a small shaft of firelight catching in her eyes and long lashes as she looked in.

Yellow Hair touched her shoulder. She spun about to face him.

“It is you,” said Bright Star. “Do you wait upon an accident to approach me?”

“If I read less in your face I would have come before.”

“It was fortunate you spared yourself the trouble, Kitchi-Mokan.”

“That is not quite fair.”

“But it is true. My heart tells me that it is true. Oh, I would not think of calling you a coward. Not in so many words. But there is a call of blood to blood and when the leader of the killers went away, you did not follow. Why?”

“I was f*******n to follow.”

She disregarded the edge in his voice and gave way to her feelings. “Yellow Hair doing as he was told? Hyai, do not expect me to believe that. Ah, these fine stories you tell me. Yellow Hair bows to no man. Yellow Hair, as mighty as a big white bear, obeys no orders. His destiny is war and defeat to our enemies. Ah, yes, you have said these things. Time after time I listened to your empty boasting and now, when Running Elk lies dead, when he is mute within the Sand Hills, you come mewling to me about what your orders were.

“Somewhere that traitorous Kitchi-Mokan lives. He must die! But I cannot look to another Kitchi-Mokan for vengeance. Once already you let that other one ride away without any effort to follow. You would again. He is of your blood.…”