Scalpdancers (17 page)

Afterward White Buffalo had walked among them and told the warriors of how he would bring them to the fertile meadows of the Elkhorn and lead them to victory over the Scalpdancers. The Shining Bear people listened to the shaman whose eyes held thunder and whose temper flashed fierce as forked lightning. And like lightning, he promised to strike down his enemies and theirs. Game was scarce in the high country that year and the hunting grounds of the Scalpdancers held a promise of a richer and easier life.

It was a promise the Shoshoni accepted and White Buffalo became one with them … or perhaps they became one with him. White Buffalo had ventured once more into the hunting grounds of the Blackfeet for the purpose of discovering whether a back trail into the valley still existed. Eleven years was a long time and the deer trail that zigzagged like a jagged scar up the steep north face of Crazy Wolf Ridge could well have been obliterated by rock slide or erosion. White Buffalo considered with pleasure how being wounded had worked right into his plans. Lost Eyes had provided the perfect key to entering the Elkhorn valley. Once again the shaman's spirit power had aided him.

Now he quit thinking and concentrated on the climb that took him out of the aspens and scattered junipers into the lodgepole pines, those tall, majestic trees so vital to the survival of the village. Here an emerald peace descended on the ridge and would have filled his heart had he only allowed it. But White Buffalo's mind was on the future he intended to shape and the revenge he intended to have. He had no time for tranquil groves lit by slatted sunlight and carpeted with pine nettles.

White Buffalo quickened his pace. He tapped his crutch against the stallion's flank and the horse responded. In a few minutes it brought its rider out of the tall timber and out onto a rocky escarpment where massive granite boulders split by rain and ice and the heat of the sun formed a natural line of fortifications and a veritable maze of narrow passages and corridors. Yet in the center of the battlement was a table of rock approximately ten feet in diameter.

The shaman warrior dismounted and hobbled to the table rock, whose rain-worn surface rose a good three feet above where he stood. As White Buffalo stepped up onto the outcrop, pain shot through his wounded leg as the muscles protested such abuse. He willed it to pass and it did. He limped to the edge of the table rock and looked down to what at first glance appeared to be a sheer drop of some three hundred feet. On closer inspection though, he managed to discern a switchback of narrow ledges scrawled across the cliff face, barely wide enough for a man to stand upon.

Wide enough, the shaman reckoned. A magnificent ponderosa pine rose out of the dry rocky landscape about ten feet from the face of the cliff. The pine's long branches shaded much of the narrow switchback. The top of the cone-laden tree came to within a hundred feet of the table rock. As White Buffalo peered over the edge of the cliff, he dislodged a fist-sized chunk of granite that glanced off the side of the cliff and plummeted below. The noise of its passing rang in the clear thin air. A gray owl exploded from concealment among the ponderosa's branches and traced erratic spirals in the air above as it glided off in search of quieter surroundings.

The owl was the harbinger of death. A premonition made White Buffalo turn and instinctively grab for the knife at his waist. To his surprise he saw Lost Eyes, watching him from a granite boulder bordering the table on which the shaman stood. White Buffalo did not appreciate being spied on, but he subdued his own temper.

Lost Eyes left the reins of his gray mare hanging loose and scrambled down to the table rock. White Buffalo towered over him. But the shaman limped when he walked, and that vulnerability at least made him human. Yet when White Buffalo fixed his dark eyes on the youthful intruder, an aura of incredible power seemed to flow out of the shaman with almost palpable force. Lost Eyes had to retreat a few paces until his backside brushed against the boulder he'd been standing on.

“Why did you follow me?” White Buffalo asked in a deep, resonant voice.

“I don't know,” Lost Eyes said. It was the truth, he realized. What indeed had drawn him to the shaman?

White Buffalo searched the line of trees and the trail he'd followed up the steep slope. Satisfied that Lost Eyes had come alone, the older warrior visibly relaxed. He drew close to Lost Eyes and touched the younger man's forehead with the tips of his fingers.

“I too was ‘Lost Eyes,'” White Buffalo said. “The Above Ones did not speak to me. I received no vision quest. In the sweat lodge I fell asleep. The All-Father was blind to me.” The shaman turned and held his hand aloft, indicating a northerly direction.

“I found the White Buffalo there in the country of Cold Maker, where the snow never melts and the land lives in Ever Shadow.” White Buffalo's gaze grew distant with the memory; he was seeing a far-off country where he'd found the rare white buffalo trapped by a landslide. He could have freed the animal.

“But I killed it,” the shaman said. “I used every arrow and even then I had to finish
Iniskim
with my war lance. I ate its heart. I drank the beast's hot blood. I slept in its skin. And that night I found my vision. I claimed the animal's sacred power as my own.”

White Buffalo's features grew taut and firelight born of the shaman's own inner source flashed in his brooding gaze. He tossed his head back as if laughing, but he made no sound, and Lost Eyes' blood ran cold to see it. Then White Buffalo touched him on the shoulder.

“You and I are shadows of the same spirit,” he said. “Perhaps I will let you sleep in my skin and share the vision. And you will no longer be Lost Eyes.”

White Buffalo motioned for him to follow and started toward his horse. Lost Eyes looked back just for a moment. He wondered what the shaman had been doing in this lonely place. The young warrior had also spied the owl as it circled skyward past the edge of the cliff. The sight had unnerved him.

White Buffalo, as if reading his. companion's thoughts, said, “I heard the owl call your name.”

But the two of them had been present as the harbinger of death swooped away, its cry shattering the pine-scented peace of Crazy Wolf Ridge.

“Or yours,” Lost Eyes snapped.

White Buffalo swung up on the blaze he'd left near the table rock. “Perhaps one day we will know the truth,” the shaman said, his features stretched in that blood-chilling silent laugh.

The ice in Lost Eyes' veins lingered long after White Buffalo had ridden away.

Lost Eyes moved like a shadow along the ridge south of the pass. After leaving White Buffalo he had spent the remainder of the morning dismantling the game traps and snares he had placed among the game trails that crisscrossed the forest-blanketed slopes from the granite battlements to the thickets of aspen and willow that almost completely obscured Elkhorn Creek. Only now and then through breaks in the trees or when the wind sighed could he glimpse the reflection of sunlight through the intertwined branches.

He had kept to the hillside and stayed well back in the woods until at last the voices reverberating through the pass lured him from his snares. He found a suitable outcrop of granite bordered by ponderosas and he scaled the backside of stone and cautiously peered above the speckled-gray surface.

Sparrow and the other young women were scattered along the grassy floor amid the flowers and the sweet green grass. Clouds scudding overhead cast patches of darkness upon the land.

He saw her, held her in the quiet of his heart. She was as warm as lost love, as ephemeral as twilight, and like twilight he must lose her to the night country. At the end of day, as the sun is going, a man clings to sunlight, especially when an eternity of night is all that lies ahead. A man slakes his thirst on amber warmth, clutches the lost golden rays to his chest because ever after the memory will have to do. It will have to be enough.

“No,” said Lost Eyes. “I cannot leave her.” His hand knotted into a fist and burrowed into his chest, as if by such a gesture he could grasp the pain and tear it from him.

And yet what recourse was left to him? What kind of life was this for a woman: to follow a man without a home, a man whom the
Maiyun
had forgotten. The wind did not speak to him. No spirit animal entered his sleep and called him by name. Sunset and morning were mute; they hid their secrets well.

All the arguments melted away when he heard her laugh, when he heard her sad song borne on the stillness. Again he whispered, pressing his forehead to the cold and impervious granite, “I cannot leave her.”

At noon I sing of winter hawks and white-faced owls and the secrets I have heard upon the wind. I have heard such secrets. And I could sing the songs of the children. But who will listen? I will sing as the berries ripen. But who will listen?

Sparrow shielded her eyes and paused in her work to watch the sun scale the big sky. It hung directly overhead. The flowers, hours ago, had folded their fragile blossoms in upon themselves. Among this fragrant litter the young women filled their baskets and deerskin pouches and draped the heavy bags over the backs of the packhorses. Sparrow's mind was far from her labors. Her thoughts were of Lost Eyes. And she spoke to him in her heart.

She was halfway through her third pouch when she paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead and cheeks. She glanced toward the distant hills. The hair rose on the back of her neck and she scrutinized the tree line. She had the distinct impression they were all being watched. It was hardly a comforting sensation, for the Blackfeet had many enemies—their hunting grounds were coveted by many tribes. She saw nothing and returned her attention to the task at hand but not before Blind Weed had spotted her and misjudged her actions.

“Do not look for him. He is as blind to you as he is to the Above Ones,” the woman chided. “He can only see the sacred killer he brought to his lodge.”

“Do not try to foretell the actions of a good man,” Sparrow retorted. “You have not had the practice.”

“But she has had plenty of practice with the other kind,” Blue Cap added, enjoying Blind Weed's discomfort.

The young women around her laughed. Not Blind Weed though, she only scowled.

“Good man, ha! ‘No Man' is a truer name for Lost Eyes.” Blind Weed hoisted a sack of tubers upon her shoulder and made her way to her horse, where she swung her load across the skittish animal's back. The gelding shied and fought its tether line and pulled free, but Blind Weed caught the animal's reins and struck the gelding across the muzzle. The animal shied.

“Poor Blind Weed. She cannot even keep a gelding close. No wonder she has such terrible fortune with stallions,” chided a round—cheeked girl of sixteen.

Blind Weed whirled around to address her tormentor but came face to face with a half a dozen cheerful, teasing girls, none of whom would take credit for the remark. Her expression hardened and she turned her back on them, lifted her smock, and showed them her naked buttocks in a gesture of contempt.

A handful of girls, taking Blind Weed's side in the matter, showered Blue Cap and the others with a volley of roots. They returned the attack in kind, retaliating with roots and handfuls of mud. Blue Cap scooped up a handful of mud and splattered Blind Weed's derriere. The older girl straightened up, screeched, and tried to wipe away the mud, but she only managed to smear it down her thighs.

Sparrow, who had tried to remain apart from the melee, laughed at the sight, just as Blind Weed glanced in her direction. The larger woman charged her. Sparrow was caught off guard and tried to back out of harm's way. She had been working near the mud where the creek played out and seeped into the soil. Her foot slipped and she slid, flailed at the air, then toppled over on her backside into the muck. Blind Weed lunged at the smaller woman. She missed completely and sailed past Sparrow—and belly flopped into the mud.

Sparrow didn't escape the morass. She rose up on her elbows and grimaced as her hands sank wrist-deep in the mud. Water soaked in through her buckskin smock and the leggings she wore beneath. The ends of her hair were matted with grime. She managed to stand. She held her arms out from her body and walked stiff legged toward her mare. The other root gatherers doubled over with laughter at the sight of Sparrow and Blind Weed, who rose out of the mud and loosed another round of abuse at the Above Ones and all those who had made fun of her.

Sparrow was just as disgusted, but there was no gain in blaming the
Maiyun
. At least the creek was close enough that she could wash herself off before returning to the village.

Blind Weed wiped the mud from her eyes and spat a glob of wet sand. She raised her fists above her head. Her whole body seemed to swell as if she were about to explode. But the other women ignored her. They had seen her tantrums before. She had provided enough amusement for the morning. Blue Cap and the rest bid the two muddy antagonists farewell and turned their pack-laden mounts back toward the village. The echo of their passing reverberated through the hills. Blind Weed was unable to think of a suitable invective. She focused her attention on Sparrow and advanced upon the smaller woman.

Sparrow defiantly stood her ground. No matter that Blind Weed was larger and heavier by several pounds. Sparrow steeled herself, refused to show any fear. She was determined to match Blind Weed blow for blow if necessary. It seemed it would come to that when the two women came face to face, poised like two mountain cats. Then quite suddenly, Blind Weed's shoulders sagged and she shrunk in on herself and began to sob. She sank to her knees and cupped her face in her hands as her whole body trembled.

Sparrow's anger melted away, and was immediately replaced by pity. Blind Weed had always been dominant to a fault. She had kept her vulnerability well hidden. Now, all at once, her true self came rushing forth in a torrent of tears.

Sparrow was at first unnerved. She had been prepared for anything but this. She glanced over her shoulder at the mare and considered making good her escape. In that moment Lost Eyes came to mind and she remembered how he had been unable to leave the wounded White Buffalo. She began to understand a little of what he had felt.