Sidewinder (13 page)

“Hold up, Julio,” Brad said, and rode to the flank of the cows.

“You, white man,” the Arapaho brave said, “where you go?”

“I bring these cattle to Wading Crow.”

Then Brad and Julio saw a number of other warriors, all armed with short bows and wearing quivers on their backs. They all had their arrows nocked to their bow-strings.

The two realized that they were completely surrounded.

“I think they will shoot, Brad,” Julio said.

“Just stay calm. Wading Crow must have told them we were coming.”

“One is aiming at me.”

“Don’t go for your rifle or draw your pistol, Julio. Just wait.”

“I am doing the piss in my pants,” Julio said.

“I’m about to piss mine, too,” Brad said.

The leader came closer. He looked belligerent, and Brad was reminded of animals that swelled their bodies to look larger when threatened, like the porcupine or the prairie chicken.

“White man,” the man yelled. “What name?”

“My name?”

“You name.”

“Brad . . .” He started to say. Then he made the Indian sign for the snake. “Sidewinder,” he said.

“You come. Bring cow.”

The man turned and Brad nodded to Julio.

“We’ll follow him,” he said.

The other braves fell in on both sides of them, as if they were escorts, and they followed the leader out onto the rocky plain and along a path that led to a saddleback behind the butte. They climbed onto the saddleback and then onto the butte itself.

Brad looked down and was surprised at the commanding view he had of the valley and the far bluffs. Anyone atop that butte could see enemies coming for miles.

Then they saw it, in the center of the butte, teepees in a circle, women and children gathered outside the ring, men standing stolid and still watching the small clutch of cattle and the two white men riding behind them, with armed braves on both flanks. None made a sound.

“I do not see Wading Crow,” Julio said, a terrified quaver in his voice. “Maybe this is not his village.”

“If it’s not, Julio, we’re in a heap of trouble. Your hair on tight?”

“Do not joke me, Brad. I am now scared pissless.”

“That’s a good way to be, I think. Better than pissing your pants.”

“I do not like this.”

“Do you know any Arapaho words?” Brad asked.

“You know I do not.”

“Me, neither, but what little sign I know doesn’t include Wading Crow’s. I might hop around like a bird and lift my feet like I’m wading a creek. But if that doesn’t work . . .”

“Then what?” Julio asked.

“Ever see a man grow gray hair inside of ten seconds? That will be me.”

“You do not calm my fears, Brad.”

“Well, nobody’s shot us yet.”

The leader stopped and turned around. He held up his hand again.

“What now?” Brad asked.

The man didn’t answer. Then Brad heard a horse whicker and what sounded like the moo of a cow, the bleat of a sheep. Beyond the teepees, he saw movement. Small boys rode toward them on Indian ponies, and they all carried ropes. He saw something that looked like a corral made of stacked, crisscrossed timber with small animals inside.

The boys on horseback rode up to the herd and stopped. They began to make loops in their ropes.

“They are going to take the cows,” Julio said.

“Well, they can have them. I wonder where in hell Wading Crow is.”

“He is not here.”

The leader strode back to Brad’s horse and grabbed the side strap of his bridle. He gestured for Brad to dismount. At the same time, one of the braves caught hold of Julio’s bridle and pulled on his boot. “Down, down,” he said in English. Julio dismounted a moment after Brad’s boots touched the ground.

“Me called Green Turtle,” the leader said to Brad. “Wading Crow brother.”

“Did you hear that, Julio? This is Wading Crow’s brother.”

The men around Julio began to laugh and pointed to his crotch. They made obscene gestures and flapped their loincloths, exposing themselves.

Julio hung his head in shame and did not answer.

For him, the world had turned hostile. He was surrounded by armed savages who carried bows and arrows, and big knives on their beaded belts. They were making fun of him.

He just wanted to sink into the ground and disappear.

Green Turtle started to lead Ginger away, toward the village.

“Sidewinder follow,” he said.

As they left, the boys threw their loops and had all the cattle captured, each one separately.

Brad wanted to ask where Wading Crow was, but before he could speak, one of the braves who had escorted them up to the top of the butte ran up to him and struck Brad with his bow.

Then he let out a bloodcurdling yell, and the others charged up to him and pummeled his back and legs with their bows, all screeching in high-pitched voices.

Brad went to his knees.

And before he knew it, his right hand was streaking for the butt of his pistol.

His eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw turned granite. Rage enveloped him.

He was ready to kill.

Brad pulled his Colt free of its holster, cocking the hammer back with his thumb so quick all the Indians saw was a blur. He leveled the barrel at the head of the nearest man, the last Arapaho to strike him with his bow. Then he stood up and pulled the set of rattles up, shook them in the hapless Arapaho’s face. The braves all drew back as if struck by an invisible current of electricity. The whirring sound of the rattles filled them all with fear.

Then, to Julio’s and Brad’s surprise, all of the braves began to shout and jump up and down, smiles on their faces.

Brad held his finger curled just short of the trigger. He drew a shallow breath, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Then the Arapahos all turned toward the village.

Walking toward Brad was a lone figure. Wading Crow strode up, the crowd parting to let him through. He looked at Brad, and Brad held his gaze.

Brad shook the rattles again.

Indians nearby sucked in their breaths.

Then, silence, as the rattles stood still.

“Welcome, Sidewinder, to my village,” Wading Crow said. “You have much big medicine with my people.”

Brad lowered his pistol and eased the hammer to half cock.

“A hell of a welcome, Wading Crow.”

“They fear you, my people, and they honor you by striking you with their bows. They want some of your medicine.”

“They can have all they want without beating me to a pulp.”

“Come, let us sit and smoke.”

Brad looked over at Julio. He was frozen in place, his face a lurid, bloodless mask, his lips clamped together.

“Come on, Julio. We’re going to parley with Wading Crow.”

Julio uttered an expletive in Spanish. Some of the color returned to his cheeks.

Brad slid his pistol back in its holster.

“You draw the pistol quick,” Wading Crow said. “And you have shoot in your eyes.”

“I didn’t want to shoot that man.”

“But, you were ready.”

“I was ready,” Brad said, and wondered if he really would have pulled the trigger. If any of the braves had moved or threatened him, he knew he would have dropped at least one or two of them. When a man was faced with danger, he defended himself or he lost the fight. Sometimes a bluff was as good as a straight flush.

As the Arapaho led their horses away and the boys pulled the cattle toward the corral in back of the village, Brad walked with Wading Crow and some of the other braves into the village. There, he saw women and children, all standing as silent as statues. Some of the women bowed to him, and he nodded his head in return. The children, open-mouthed, just stared at him in awe.

Brad was surprised to see the women striking the teepees at the other end of the village. They were stripping the poles of hides and stacking the poles. Others folded the deer and elk hides. They were systematic and efficient.

“You are breaking camp,” Brad said to Wading Crow.

“By the time the sun goes to sleep, the village will be gone.”

“Where are you going?”

“To a secret place. We stay here only three days until you come. Then we go.”

“No Snake Dance?”

“Snake Dance secret, too. Much fasting. Much ceremony.”

Brad was relieved.

Wading Crow ushered them into the nearest teepee. Inside, he saw Gray Owl sitting cross-legged on a woven blanket. Before him he had three bowls and a large sack. He was pouring what was in the sack into the three clay bowls.

“Do not speak with Gray Owl,” Wading Crow said.

“What’s he doing?” Brad asked as he sat down. Julio sat next to him, his gazed fixed on Gray Owl, who was nearly naked and wore a brightly colored headband.

“He bless the cornmeal. Make it holy for Snake Dance.”

“Must be quite a ceremony.”

Wading Crow looked puzzled. He did not know what the word “ceremony” meant, Brad thought.

“Much to do,” Brad explained.

“Gray Owl, Snake Priest. Much big medicine.”

Wading Crow took a long pipe from what looked like a small quiver but was really only a beaded leather case to hold the pipe. He offered tobacco to the four directions, filled the pipe, and lit it. He smoked, spewed bluish plumes of smoke to the four directions, then handed the pipe to Brad. Brad puffed it, blew out the smoke, then handed it to Julio, who did the same thing before handing the pipe back to Wading Crow.

Two of the braves came in carrying Julio’s and Brad’s rifles. They presented them to the two white men, then backed out of the teepee. Brad could hear the lodge poles falling, being stacked, and the rustle of hides as they were stripped and folded.

“I thank you for the cattle,” Wading Crow said. “Much meat for people.”

“I must return to my home,” Brad said.

Wading Crow set the pipe down on the firering stones and reached in back of him. He brought forth a set of brass scales and set them on the ground in front of him.

“Dust or nuggets?” Wading Crow asked.

“Dust.”

“Blow away in wind.”

“No, I’ll keep it safe.”

Wading Crow beamed. He reached behind the sash around his waist and pulled out a heavy pouch.

“Have pouch?”

Brad shook his head.

Wading Crow reached behind him again and brought out a small leather pouch with a leather drawstring. He handed it to Brad.

“You keep,” Wading Crow said.

Brad took the sack, set it down. He and Julio watched as Wading Crow started eking out gold dust from the sack in his hand. He put a counterweight on one of the scales.

“Four ounces,” Wading Crow said.

When the scales balanced from the first pouring, Wading Crow held out a hand for Brad’s empty sack. He lifted the small cup of gold dust and poured it into the empty sack. He performed this same procedure until he had measured out twenty ounces of gold dust. Then he pulled the drawstring tight and handed the bulging sack to Brad.

“Thank you, Wading Crow,” he said.

“Good,” Wading Crow said. “You eat?”

Brad shook his head. He could hear the teepee next to Wading Crow’s going down. The rustle of sewn hides, the crash of poles to the earth, the footpads of the women and children.

Gray Owl finished blessing the meal, dusted his hands together, then poured the meal back into the sack.

“Sidewinder,” he said. “It is good my eyes have seen you this day.”

“It’s good to see you, Gray Owl. You caught enough snakes?”

“Thirty snake,” Gray Owl said. “They sleep. Soon, they dance.”

Brad was glad he wasn’t going to be around for that particular ritual.

He used his hands to sign as he spoke to Wading Crow. “Soon, the sun will set, Wading Crow. Julio and I will go. We must ride fast to our home and our women.”

“Yes,” Gray Owl said, which surprised Brad, since he had spoken to Wading Crow.

He turned to look at the Hopi.

There was an odd expression on Gray Owl’s face and smoky light in his eyes. He looked up through the smoke hole of the teepee and closed his eyes for a moment, then leveled his gaze at Brad.

“You go quick,” he said.

Brad looked at Wading Crow.

“Is Gray Owl telling Sidewinder something?” he said.

“Gray Owl wise man. Snake Priest. Him know many things. Him see far. Him see over mountains.”

“Does he see my home?”

Gray Owl’s eyes rolled back in their sockets. He seemed to go into a kind of trance as he closed his eyes, and rocked back and forth in silence.

“What is it, Gray Owl?” Brad asked. “What do you see?”

Gray Owl said nothing. He just kept rocking back and forth.

Brad felt a tug on his arm. He turned to look at Julio.