Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 4

  His keen eyes flashed; Running Hawk scented an opportunity to gain the fourth feather of his vision. And he would count the final coup with his Thunder Bow, for to close with an enemy and strike a non-lethal blow was the highest act of courage. But beyond the deed, to gain his glory and sing his song before the lodge of his beloved, he needed witnesses. His companions could kill the enemy following the coup.

  To attend him on this quest Running Hawk chose two trusted warriors. One was Dog That Smiles, who wore the pelt of Okom, the coyote, upon his head even in summer; and ironically named, for he was sober as a bear. But his younger sister, Broken Wing Bird, had laughing eyes that sang to Running Hawk’s heart as his flute played nightly to hers—his instrument carved of juniper, notes voiced through the head of the crane, the most courageous of birds, songs as varied as the numberless birds and melodies of spring. It was she who’d stood opposite him in the past evening’s Scalp Dance, who’d tucked her skirt and shown her comely thighs, laughing as she danced before his thrusting spear in imitation of a buffalo running; but also as a sign of her desire to be his mate. Running Hawk had already presented her family with many fine horses, proving his generosity and courage as well as his intent; now he longed to carry her to the mating lodge in the spring and cover her flesh like fire that swept the hills of winter grasses. But finally courtship required gaining the brother’s favor, for it was he who brokered the marriage and custom honored his wishes. And Dog That Smiles was a shrewd trader, knew his sister’s worth; there must be no chance for him to doubt Running Hawk’s.

  Wears The Wind was his other choice. A highly supple warrior, the fastest runner and best rider in the band; Wears The Wind, named for the prairie’s nightly song, sought knowledge of its spirit and strength, for the wind determined all movement—of the buffalo, the birds, and of the seasons. Following a recent summer storm in which his lodge was struck by lightning, Wears The Wind had emerged from the circle of charred poles and smoldering hides dazed but alive; he staggered to the center of the camp and stood in the rain through the rest of the night. Next morning he swore fidelity to the Thunder Arrow vision and from then on would follow the Contrary’s burdensome path until an equally powerful sign or death in battle released him from his vow.

  A Contrary sought the opposite to every customary word or action. Naturally, he answered “No!” to Running Hawk’s request then immediately set about preparing for the journey, meanwhile claiming that his throat was so wet from the long day’s hunt that he would first dust his mouth. Which he did, adding to the Contrary’s long list of privation and discomfort; though the practice mercifully did not extend to his horse, for it was watered along with the others from the skin bags tied across their saddles. After checking his weapons, Wears The Wind stood staring in the opposite direction, naked except for a breechcloth, while his two companions pulled on elk-hide leggings and shirts against the blade-sharp grasses and the chill night air.

  Running Hawk as leader of the party would carry the pipe. Which they shared now as they sat facing the sunset, smoking in turn to the sky, the earth, and the four quarters, Nivstanivo, extending the stem east, south, west, then north, calling on the Great Spirit, Heammawihio, to favor their quest. They awaited the cover of darkness to avoid being seen and to gain the aid of their animal familiars: the owl, the coyote, and the prowling cougar; and advice from Maiyuns, the benevolent spirits, always most accessible at night. The wind died down then shifted, blowing from the northwest. A favorable sign. They mounted up and rode a circuitous route east to ascend to the higher ground and circle back on their unsuspecting prey.

  Riding at a brisk gallop over the darkened plain, Dog That Smiles shouted with uncharacteristic glee, as if a transitory shade had promised he’d never die: “Ho! My brothers, it is good. My hand hungers for the knife. An enemy waits who will see the sun no more!”

  While across the way Wears The Wind echoed with a comment that struck Running Hawk as curious even for a Contrary: “Beware my friends! Ho! We will give the enemy life and leave his eyes open to the sky!”

  In truth, these were unsettling words, even to the speaker. But such seemed to be the Contrary’s unstated mission: to call all form and design into question. Duly sobered, they rode on in silence. Soon leaving the valley, they followed an antelope trail angling up the slope. Wears The Wind was armed with the traditional bow and quiver of arrows slung across his bare chest and shoulders. Dog That Smiles gripped a carbine and kept the Veho revolver—which was given him, as expected, upon declaring admiration for it that day—tucked safely in the hair-rope tied at his waist. Aside from the pipe, Running Hawk carried only the Thunder Bow, held lance end up in the hollow of his left arm.

  Awoke In Winter had made the sacred weapon and refused any payment, for he meant to honor his sister’s son. He’d never regretted granting Yellow Calf her wish to wed Antlers Held High, the one warrior whose courage and bearing were equal to her unquestioned virtue and beauty. Cheyenne women were renowned for their chastity and Yellow Calf’s shone above all. She’d gained entrance to the Quilter’s Society at an early age and was now its guiding hand. Since her husband’s death, their son had provided for the lodge. And Awoke In Winter’s love and pride for his nephew ran as deep as any father’s. He’d carefully chosen the finest length of seasoned bois d’arc; through the winter he painstakingly shaped the Thunder Bow, carving delicate designs inlaid with slivers of bone. For the lance head he affixed a prong from an elk antler to betoken the father’s spirit; a palm’s length down the shaft he tied feathers of the hawk and owl, for swiftness and silence; and below that a raven feather and the ear of a coyote, for mystic sight and alertness. Running Hawk had himself added a claw each from the badger and the bear, for doggedness and courage in battle. Whoever possessed a Thunder Bow was thought to be impervious to lightning; arrows and bullets, too, were rendered harmless. Counting coup on an enemy made its power complete; thereupon its sheath was painted red. When not in use the Thunder Bow was secured in a tree or hung with the Sacred Shield over the entrance to the lodge—if it touched the ground, its power died.

  At the rise beyond where they’d overtaken and killed the Veho, Running Hawk stayed his companions and proceeded afoot. He crept to the summit and knelt, cradling the Thunder Bow on his knee. The moon, fattened somewhat after passing through the belly of the earth, shone from the southeast, casting its pale light upon the scene. In the basin of the hill lay two mounds similar in shape and size. On the nearest he caught a shadowed movement: vultures feeding on the dead horse. The other was a mound of stones marking the Veho’s grave. Vultures; nothing more.

  He stood, raising the Thunder Bow while whistling the night bird song to call his companions forth. As they led their ponies down the slope the vultures withdrew from the carcass, fanning the rank air with their wings. The warriors proceeded upwind to the grave. A strange people, these Vehos, to hold their dead away from the sky and further weight them down with stones; and the curious sign always staked nearby: sticks lashed crosswise, one to the horizon and one to the zenith—which could only confuse the soul should it ever break free, keep it from finding the Hanging Road and leave the restless spirit dancing angry about its grave. But there was no such marker.

  They studied the prints over the immediate ground and through the radius to the far ridge and found evidence of only one Veho and one horse. The trail came from the west then headed northeast. The last trail made at sunset. All boded well.

  Still, there was something disquieting about the missing marker; lacking sticks, it was as often made of stones. And where was the restless spirit? It was not like a Veho to leave the soul at peace. And though it seemed impossible, in Running Hawk’s mind the suspicion grew alongside a grudging respect…that they were trailing the Veho who rode like a Comanche. Had the buffalo not only taken but transformed his flesh, made him a brother spirit…left to wander the earth, heading ever into the wind?

  Ah, but what spirit leaves a trail through the night’s d
amp grass.

  A few miles north the silhouette of man and horse stood outlined against the star-laden sky, their breath made visible in the vaporous cool air. Caspion found the buffalo-wallow camp with the cart and supplies intact. After three sharp whistles he heard the mule bray in the near distance. He dismounted and unsaddled Two-Jacks. By the time he’d watered and rubbed down the horse, the mule hobbled in unusually prompt considering its contrary nature, none the worse for wear, though thirsty and somewhat disgruntled from the long abandonment, often at widdershins with its master.

  “Hey Ol’ Stump. Thought I’d forgotten you, eh?” Caspion laughed while checking him over, grateful no misfortune had befallen the animal, then fetched him several hatfuls of water. All in all a happy reunion with an old adversary.

  “Maybe you’ll appreciate my company more from here on.”

  Stump glanced up warily then took the lump of sugar from Caspion’s hand, as if recalling a recent exchange when he’d refused to budge in his traces. “Stump! You stubborn damn beast. Rooted to the spot you stand, though I twist your tail and twitch your nose, it takes sugar to lever you forth. Well Ol’ Sweet Lips, here’s a lump. Damn Rebel Mule, there’ll be no sugar left for coffee. And worse yet should we meet up with savages who want our scalps, I’ll have naught to barter but your ugly long ears. Hear me?” And he always seemed to answer with that sharp look in his eye: Go on, have your say. Mine’s a different nature, I’m a mule, of a stubborn complexity surpassing all other creatures. Hell will freeze over before you fathom the depths and motives of my soul. In the meantime, hand me my sugar….

  Eager for choice meat after chewing on dry pemmican for two days, Caspion unbundled the robe and prepared a fire. Using gunpowder for tinder, he struck a lucifer and warmed his hands briefly on the blue flames of the bois de vache before adding more chips. As a precaution, this being Indian Country and wise to blanket the glow, he drove four iron stakes and tied the robe flesh side down about two feet above the fire. This would also help dry the hide and facilitate fleshing the skin to its proper thickness. While roasting the meat, he set his eyes on the robe, its vibrant fur reflecting the flames, the moon and stars as the wind played at the fringes. He soon relished the tender black tongue and cut of hump, their sizzling juices fresh from the flames, savored on his lips. Finished, he poured some thick sweet coffee, cupped his hands and sipped; felt the chill wind pierce his back as the meat and drink warmed his belly.

  Indifferent to man and fire, the mule and horse grazed just north of the wallow. Presently, Caspion walked over to the wagon and fetched a red wool blanket to drape his shoulders. From a canvas bag he gently removed a dark mahogany guitar with mother-of-pearl inlay along the neck and around the sound hole. He caressed its length then returned to the fire, struck a chord and tried a tune. Mule and horse raised their heads, pricking their ears to the music, their dilated eyes flashing red as they edged closer to man and fire. His hands craved the guitar, its sleek neck and fine body, as his fingers longed for the strings, hungering for music and its blood-warm intoxication, no small comfort in the vast lonely night. He sat hatless, blanket draped, cross-legged before the muffled flames, cradling the guitar on his lap, drifting through melodies as his fingers willed…the harmonic tones easing the ache along the saber scar.

  The guitar had been another gift from Luther, received for Christmas when he was eight years old. Luther had taken him to the harvest festival that autumn. There for the first time he’d experienced the enchantment of music and stood for hours watching the musicians play while Luther and the older boys danced with pretty girls. Luther found him later holding the guitar with amazed reverence as the player taught him how to make a chord and strum, and seeing its tone somehow soften the young one’s sharp blue eyes, its form and vibrancy held close, so welcome to one who’d never known a mother’s love, Luther determined then to secretly purchase the instrument. From that Christmas on, Caspion played nightly, off alone, softly to himself, to avoid their father’s disapproval. But for Luther’s presence and constant intercession on his behalf, he would never have been allowed the pleasure of music—its soothing rhythms murmured through his flesh like a whispered lullaby.

  A few years later, however, in adolescence, the sensuous curve, satin touch, and vibrant tone of the instrument awakened urges of a quite diverse nature as his shy indifference towards girls suddenly changed to puzzled wonderment—quickened by their beauty and panicked by a constant need. The softer melodies lapsed as his fingers rushed, grasping at rapid rhythms, seeking the unknown melody of frenzied pleasure. He’d dance about and laugh, swirling the instrument, picking fiddle leads, tearing at the strings in restless rut. Shortly thereafter he experienced his first conquest; and willful, whetted by lust, he raced for home, ruining his father’s mare.

  But when he ran away to war, the guitar stayed behind. And while he owned several others through those years, they were either lost or simply cast aside, for a soldier’s haversack is often ruthlessly lightened. Luther kept the instrument safe for his return and presented it to him his first evening home. Caspion caressed the darkened grain so lovingly polished in his absence, examined all the surface, each nick and stain, smiling in gratitude. Then he tuned the strings and played a strangely expressive music, mournful and haunting, dark notes plucked from his long ordeal in a style absorbed while listening around the campfires of Negro regiments and to Johnny Rebs wailing across the night during the many lulls common to the war.

  And alone by the fire beneath glittering sky, he played essentially the same song. But it wasn’t the war he thought of, nor of women, his brother, or his good friend so recently buried—it was the robe. For it seemed to suddenly breathe between the fire below and the chill wind passing above, heaving as if it willed to take its old form and live again. The white grace of the robe rippled forth, one moment with a slow wave, then a greater, shaking the tethered stakes, threatening to sever and take flight. In the next moment an apparition from just beyond transfixed him as he caught his breath, unblinking, the white burning into his blue eyes, conjuring from the darkness south the faint image of three warriors riding in rhythm to the rise and fall of the robe—the visible fog of their breath adding to the ethereal effect.

  Caspion struck a chord and abruptly stood.

  They were not phantoms. On the lead horse rode the warrior who’d raised Tillman’s scalp on his lance.

  They’d followed the trail easily at first, then with difficulty over the sparse buffalo grass further north. The trail all but lost, Running Hawk raised his head to the sweet scent of meat and coffee carried on the wind. Still, they might have missed the camp with its low profile and blanketed fire but for the plaintive song that beckoned. Nothing at all like the festive music overheard from Vehos camped along the Great Trail Heading West—this was a spirit song to which the flutist’s keen senses felt drawn. At last discerning the subtle glow outlining the singer’s camp, they halted a moment, listening. No one spoke. Running Hawk answered his companions questioning glance with a quick nod, set his heels and rode towards the singer with his Thunder Bow held ready.

  At the perimeter Storm Cloud reared, skittishing before the sudden ground glow reflecting from the white robe, tossing his head as his rider reined him in and urged him forth. Though Running Hawk felt his heart jump, he kept a firm hand and a watchful eye. Wears The Wind and Dog That Smiles held back, awaiting his lead. The Veho stood motionless, unarmed, holding the Music Bow at his side.

  Caspion gripped the guitar in his left hand, his fingers set to the last chord strummed. He’d foolishly left his rifle beyond reach, and recognizing Tillman’s Navy Colt in the hand of the far warrior, he feared his time had come. Yet a calm demeanor and simple hospitality had on occasion saved a hunter his scalp. Caspion slowly motioned with his right hand towards the fire, meaning to offer them coffee.

  But Running Hawk saw the intense blue flames of the Veho’s eyes—eyes of a Spirit Hunter—and the hand moving from the red blanket towa
rds the Sacred White of his vision. He focused there, overwhelmed by the blue, the red, and the white, and the elemental colors came alive and spoke a meaning he could not decipher. Blind to the horse and mule in the black night beyond, to his companions who waited impatiently behind, ignoring all but the vision he’d swore to attain—Running Hawk saw only that there was too much power in this circle.

  “Ah Haih!”—his piercing cry broke the silence and his frozen will as he struck the Veho with the Thunder Bow. Then he spun his horse and yelled: “Go Brothers! Ride!” For he feared the Spirit Hunter would trap them in the wallow.

  At his hot urging they fled, disappearing like barking coyotes into the night.

  Stunned by the whip of the bow, Caspion stood vibrant as a string plucked and tuned…and something entered him like water to dying roots, till the blue depths of his eyes overflowed and he sank to his knees before the robe, then to the ground in deeper gratitude, clutching the Mother’s bosom like a child begging forgiveness…and knew not why or of whom.

  Running Hawk rode with the celerity of an arrow shot from a bow, weightless upon release, convinced that he’d counted coup on a Spirit Hunter, having entered the circle and escaped. All knew that many were lost while seeking their vision by straying too far into the other world and falling prey to its hunter. For what was this Veho if not a Spirit Hunter? Only the pure in heart were granted a vision; and the rarest gift was to kill a white. But what flesh could both survive a stampede and kill a white? And why a Veho? An unfathomable mystery. He must speak with Awoke In Winter.

  Riding at his side, Wears The Wind felt an equal exaltation, released from his Thunder Arrow vow by his uncanny prediction—for the riddle of his words proved true to the event. And the burden of the Contrary fell from his bare shoulders like the cold wind rushing past.

  But Dog That Smiles rode with the ponderous weight of lost opportunity accompanying each stride. He didn’t hold by the hocus-pocus of visionaries and old men, had a practical bent that fed the flesh—surely it was a waste, if not a shame, to leave an enemy, a good horse, and a valuable robe behind. Compared to such wealth the revolver at his waist meant nothing. And what of his own glory? Again, nothing. But tonight he must follow as Running Hawk led. This much he respected—this once. Though he would not forget.