Scalpdancers (15 page)

“Now I understand.” White Buffalo leaned against the backrest and stared up at the smoke coruscating through the vent at the top of the lodge. “Now I know why you heard when I called.”

Lost Eyes stared at the man as if he were mad.
I heard nothing. What does he mean?

White Buffalo winced as he repositioned himself, then sighed contentedly. He had a belly full of food, he was warm, his wounds were dressed, and for the time being he was safe. It was good. “Fool Deer will straighten-arrows. But he will not loose them at me,” he muttered. White Buffalo closed his eyes.

Moon Shadow, sewing a moccasin for Lost Eyes, paused in her labor. She had the feeling that even with his eyes closed, the shaman warrior watched their every move.

“Crow Striker is first in battle,” the wounded man continued, “but around the council fire he must follow another's lead. Kills The Bear fears my power. It is the only thing he fears, but it is enough. It is the same way with the others. Go to the council. Tell them I have sent you. Tell them I have spoken and it is this—I will leave before the moon grows full. By then my wounds will have healed.”

“I have no place at council,” Lost Eyes protested.

“You do now. Go and bring my words to them.”

Lost Eyes rose and started for the door flap. He couldn't be in any worse trouble, so why not appear at council? Still he paused, wanting to understand one thing. “White Buffalo, you did not call to me.”

“I am here, aren't I?” said the shaman.

Lost Eyes had only gone a few yards from his lodge when a pair of foot-long arrows thwacked into the dirt at his feet. He skipped back a pace and glanced around as two boys no taller than his waist trotted forward out of the gathering dusk. The boys wore breechclouts and doeskin vests and carried buffalo horn bows. Dabs of black war paint were a poor disguise, for Lost Eyes recognized the little ones as they hurried forward to gather their arrows. The two would-be warriors were the grandchildren of Crow Striker. The smaller of the two was called Turtle. He was a squat, thickset prankster of eight winters whose shaggy hair hung to his shoulders. His brother, Raven Takes Him, was a year older and an inch taller. He wore his hair in a topknot and braids like his Dog Soldier father.

“I told you it wasn't him,” Turtle complained, angry that he had wasted his only arrow.

Raven Takes Him, who never liked to admit he was wrong, especially to a younger brother, merely shrugged. “I knew it to be so,” he said, nodding wisely. “My arrow slipped loose.”

“Your words fly as crooked as your arrows,” Turtle chided.

Both boys stopped short as Lost Eyes snatched up the arrows at his feet and raised his hand aloft as if to hurl them at the brothers.

“Well, I will send them straight,” he snapped. “Do you ride against me?”

“No
tsehe
,” Raven Takes Him blurted out, momentarily cowed. Turtle shrank back behind his older brother, who struggled to regain his poise. As Raven Takes Him was the elder, more was expected of him. He timidly approached Lost Eyes. “We did not see in the shadows that it was you,” the boy explained.

“No. You are much too small,” Turtle added, peering past his older brother. “You could not possibly be him.”

“Who is it you wait for?” Lost Eyes asked, suspecting the answer. He tossed the arrows at the brothers' feet.

“White Buffalo,” they said in unison.

“We will fight him.” Raven Takes Him threw back his shoulders and tried to make himself appear taller while Turtle dutifully gathered the arrows and returned them to his otter skin quiver. Bravado was one thing and losing two good arrows quite another. Let Raven strut, now Turtle had
two
arrows. “Our grandfather is Crow Striker. Our father is High Eagle. We too will be great warriors,” Raven Takes Him bragged. Indeed, he came of good lineage and was quick to say as much.

“We shall kill White Buffalo and hang his scalp from our father's lodge pole,” Turtle added matter-of-factly. He scratched his head. His round face wore a puzzled frown. “But how shall we know him?”

“Yes. Tell us, Lost Eyes. He is in your lodge. Tell us how we will know the man,” Raven Takes Him insisted. He noticed Turtle had kept his arrow and promptly retrieved it from his younger sibling's quiver.

Lost Eyes folded his arms across his chest and his expression grew serious. “Ah, you will know him, if you are lucky.” He tapped his lips and pretended to be uncertain whether or not he should confide in the brothers. He squatted down and continued his tale. The two boys gave him their undivided attention. They hunched forward as if to receive a secret for their ears only.

“He is a shape changer,” Lost Eyes said in a dread-filled voice. “Before my eyes I saw him become a hawk flying circles around my travois and when his enemies tried to snare him, the hawk became a mountain panther with claws like knives and teeth sharper than any arrow. He was great and powerful, and when he roared the earth shook, and his eyes were like coals plucked from the fire.”

Lost Eyes reached out and plucked imaginary coals from the thin air, and the boys jumped back. “And then White Buffalo changed yet again and became a wolf standing over the bodies of the dead. He howled the names of those he had killed and my horse ran from him, for the wolf bared his fangs and there was blood on his lips; the blood of the four Crow braves he had killed dripped from his fur and his breath blew hot and withered the grass while he roared for someone to fight him, another enemy for White Buffalo to kill and devour. And, in truth, I think I heard him call two names.” Lost Eyes pondered his words, pausing to allow the scenario to sink into the minds of the suddenly wide-eyed, pale youths. “Yes. I heard him call the name Turtle. And another—yes, Raven!”

The brothers, speechless, hung on every syllable. Bow and arrow slipped from Turtle's grasp, his fingers grown limp at the prospect of confronting such a demon. Raven Takes Him gulped and his Adam's apple bobbed like a berry on a branch. He listened, mouth agape, while visions of blood-eyed monsters danced across his imagination.

“Tuurrrrtle!” Lost Eyes' voice rose in pitch and volume. “He howled for
you
!” Lost Eyes concluded his tale of terror with a wolflike growl and half lunged for the boys.

Turtle jumped and managed to turn himself around in midair and land at a dead run. Raven Takes Him uttered a strangled cry and stumbled backward, tripped over his bow, scrambled to his feet, and bolted away. He passed his brother on the fly. Lost Eyes laughed and watched the boys until they were nothing but blurs in the deepening night, beating a hasty retreat for the safety of their mother's arms. Another voice joined in the laughter and Wolf Lance stepped out from behind a tanning rack. Wolf Lance was the larger, though he had none of Lost Eyes' natural quickness. He was a quiet man, not given to boasting. Of late, he had taken to wearing a wolf pelt cowl that covered his shoulders and when pulled forward concealed the upper part of his face.

“Well done, my friend,” Wolf Lance said. “But from the stories I have heard this shaman is truly a bloodthirsty man.”

Lost Eyes grunted and shook his head. He was grateful for the company of a friend. “White Buffalo is a Blackfoot.”

“You should not have brought him here. No good can come of this, for the village, for you …”

“I could not leave him for a Crow war party to kill,” Lost Eyes protested. Wolf Lance was like a brother to him. But he refused to accept the bigger man's arguments. “I would have done the same for any of our people. I would have done the same for you. Is it not our way?”

“I have not killed a white buffalo and stolen its spirit,” Wolf Lance argued.

Wolf Lance had received his visions almost a year earlier, which had not yet strained their friendship. Lost Eyes respected his friend's opinion, but he believed him wrong. Well, not entirely. It had been both right and foolish. But Lost Eyes was driven to see it through, and to defend himself before the council.

The drums had ceased. Lost Eyes listened to the quiet. The council had begun. “Let it be so, that I spoke for White Buffalo. And let it be so, that I spoke for myself,” said Lost Eyes, his deep-brown eyes hard as the chiseled planes of his face.

“Wait here. I will bring you word,” Wolf Lance pleaded. “I will speak for you.”

“No.” His firm resolve left little room for argument.

Wolf Lance stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. He fell into step with Lost Eyes. “That is not permitted. The chiefs will not hear you,” Wolf Lance protested.

Lost Eyes answered with a mixture of wisdom and sadness in his voice, “Have they ever?”

The council of elders dominated the center of the village. The tribal chiefs had arranged themselves in a circle around a blazing fire. In a greater circle behind the chiefs a gathering of warriors watched and waited, taking keen interest in the proceedings. The drums had been still for the better part of an hour as each of the elders spoke what was in his heart. Many of the women of the village kept a silent vigil outside the perimeter of firelight. Although they had no formal voice in the decisions, their men knew how they felt. The children, of course, were tucked away in their beds away from the important event.

Crow Striker, in his buffalo horn headdress and beaded buckskins, strode to the center of the circle. He lifted a ceremonial pipe, tilting the stem skyward, and faced the four directions in turn, offering the pipe to the elements and the spirits of each direction. The bowl of the pipe had been carved of pink pipestone from the Black Hills in the Dakotas. The stem was two feet of carved ash. Symbols of thunder and rain and the morning star decorated its length.

Crow Striker inhaled the aromatic mixture of cherry bark and wild herbs and exhaled a billowing blue cloud of smoke. He studied the faces of the chiefs and the fifty or so braves behind them. Then he began.

“Kills The Bear has spoken of banishment. I agree; White Buffalo can only bring misfortune to our village. We must be rid of him. But we dare not take arms against him unless all else fails.” Crow Striker wiped a hand across his mouth. His throat felt dry. He didn't have enough moisture to even spit. His gravelly voice grated on the ear. Many had to strain to understand him. But they made the effort, for there was none braver than Crow Striker and his opinions were respected.

Crow Striker glanced around. He caught the eye of Tall Bull and Black Fox, who were only waiting for one of the chiefs to call for White Buffalo's death. Black Fox and Tall Bull were young and hotheaded. They had never faced a man like the shaman. To battle with White Buffalo was to wage war with dark and evil spirits. If any of the other chiefs had spoken for death, Crow Striker would have joined them. But no one wished to take the lead. The village had driven White Buffalo out before, they would do so again, peaceably if possible. It was the easiest and best path to follow.

“I stand with Kills The Bear and Fool Deer,” Crow Striker pronounced. He crossed the circle and took his place with the chiefs he had just called by name. Black Fox scowled at the news. Dog Chases The Hawk, a snowy-haired old sage, clambered to his feet. The old man's countenance was a war map of wrinkles, each line etched by sun and wind, by bitter cold and brutal heat, by joy and pain. He held forth an eagle feather and in a surprisingly clear and forceful voice spoke to the council.

“Who else will speak?”

Lost Eyes made his move from the rear of the crowd. Broken Hand recognized him and might have tried to block him, but Lost Eyes was too quick, and before any of the Blackfeet knew what was happening, the man without a vision had entered the council circle and stood before the chiefs and the warriors of the village.

Black Fox and Tall Bull and a handful of other braves advanced into the circle. An air of menace radiated from them as they drew war clubs and knives or picked up rocks from the ground, hefted their weight, and readied themselves to stone Lost Eyes if necessary. They would have if Dog Chases The Hawk had not placed himself in harm's way. He had known Eagle Runs Him, Lost Eyes' father; the two had ridden forth on many a raid and had stood together, back to back, and fought off a Shoshoni pursuit, allowing the rest of their companions to escape. Dog Chases The Hawk had been too close a friend to see that same friend's son clubbed from the council.

“Lost Eyes, why have you broken the circle? You have had no vision. Your words must be those of a boy in this matter and not for the ears of men.” Dog Chases The Hawk faced down the would-be assailants. He pointed the eagle feather toward them; his hands trembled from age, but his gaze was iron. Black Fox and his companions lowered their eyes and retreated to the perimeter of the clear ground.

Lost Eyes breathed a sigh of relief and, realizing his fists were clenched, willed himself to relax his stance. “Honored One, I do not carry my own words but those of White Buffalo.”

A ripple of excitement swept among the braves. Even the tribal chiefs seemed affected by the news. Their expressions changed. They had been prepared to have the young intruder escorted from the council. But this news bore listening to.

Kills The Bear, a broad-beamed, lumbering man with thick black eyebrows and a bull neck, stood in his place. “I will hear these words,” he stated. His eyes ranged across the assembly and he saw that others shared his opinion. Kills The Bear looked around him and then sat and folded his arms across his chest.

“Let him speak,” Wolf Lance called out from behind the chiefs.

“Let it be so,” Broken Hand added. Despite his natural animosity toward the one he still blamed for the death of his friend, now two months past, Broken Hand was curious enough to break with tradition. Not so Fool Deer. As far as Fool Deer was concerned, the youth standing before them could only bring misfortune to the Scalpdancers. Fool Deer found great evil in the fact that one whom the All-Father had forgotten should have brought White Buffalo back to the village. And now this same brave defended the shaman. Fool Deer rose from his blanket and entered the circle and waited until he had the attention of the elders.