The bull charged, and Wanderer froze on his pony. He watched, fascinated, as death thundered toward him. Luckily, his horse had better sense. Wanderer's father, Pohebits Kwasu, Iron Shirt, had loaned him his prize buffalo pony, and the horse was brilliant. He dodged and circled the plunging animal while the buffalo pivoted on his front feet. Hitting the ground with his rear legs and using them to push off in a new direction, he could turn his two thousand pounds as if on a swivel.
For two of the longest minutes in Wanderer's life the pony ducked and dodged, jockeying for the right position on the bull's left side. He had to get Wanderer a bow's length away for the shot to be most effective. The second arrow entered behind the rib, drove all the way through the heart and into the ground on the other side. The buffalo crashed to his knees and paused there, as though paying homage to his slayer, before rolling over dead.
Wanderer had been too elated to retrieve his first, misfired arrow. He had burned with shame when his sister and her friends presented it to him, taunting him in front of the whole band at the celebration afterward. He had learned two things that day. He vowed never to leave a misfired arrow in his prey, no matter what risks he had to take to get it back. And he knew he would always have the best horse possible under him.
His daydreaming was interrupted by a movement at the edge of his vision, and he tensed, the movement translating into a signal to Night.
Pahayuca's hand rose and fell with a quick chopping motion. Every man leaned forward, and the ponies leaped ahead. The line of naked riders swept over the ridge and circled on the other side, trapping the herd in the magic surround. As the ring of riders tightened, cinching the buffalo ever more closely, the cows and calves milled bawling in the center. The bulls raced around them, using their bodies as a barrier. They ran with their tongues out and their heads down, the air puffing in and out of their mouths.
Wanderer didn't even have to use his knees to guide Night as they rode in among the stampeding bulls. Running full speed through the thick cloud of dust, Night dodged old prairie dog holes that would have snapped his leg like a twig and thrown his rider and friend under the driving hooves around them. He knew to swerve as soon as an animal was shot, to avoid being gored if it turned on them. And he had the speed to run their quarry down quickly. The meat of an overheated buffalo spoiled fast.
Wanderer and Night were like one animal, like the centaur the Indians had believed the mounted Spaniards to be hundreds of years before. But Wanderer rode better than any Spaniard. He and Night raced through the melee, dodging horns and hoofs and the arrows of other hunters. There was no time for fear or thought or plans. They acted reflexively, unconsciously, weaving in and out in the dust and the stench and the noise.
The herd scattered as individuals found openings and headed across the hills. They seemed clumsy and bumbling at first, until they found their stride. Then they raced off with astonishing speed, veering first to the right, then to the left. They made a zigzag trail to keep their heads turned to one side or the other, one eye looking forward and the other back. Pahayuca said a buffalo herd could eat breakfast in Texas, dinner in the country of the Ute, and supper with the Wichita.
The ground was littered with fallen buffalo, arrows sticking from their sides as uniformly as if they had been measured with calipers. Finally only the yellow and red calves were left, deserted or orphaned. They bleated and lunged in all directions. While the boys, yelling and whooping, rode in to finish them off, Pahayuca signaled to the waiting women and girls, who ran down the slope, racing to count coup on the bodies.
Star Name straddled the calf as it lay on its back, its legs in the air. With a deft stroke, she opened the belly. She made another cut and dug around inside the calf's first stomach. She scooped out a handful of curdled milk that looked like farmer's cheese, picked out a few chunks, popped them into her mouth, and offered the rest to Naduah. Naduah shook her head feebly and almost lost what little breakfast she had eaten.
It was the first hunt of this size she had been on, and the dining arrangements were difficult to adjust to. It wasn't the butchering that bothered her. She had seen plenty of that, although she didn't like it. It was that the People ate everything. And with relish. With the plains for a table and a warm hide as a platter, they feasted.
Some of the animals were still kicking, their nerves still sending impulses to their brains after their hearts had stopped beating. One cow lay panting with life and moaning while the hide was flayed off her. Blood still flowed, and the dust hadn't even settled from the crashing fall of the last bull. The raw livers, sprinkled with green bile from the broken gall bladders, were delicacies reserved for the hunters. Sunrise shared a small piece of his with Naduah, and she was surprised at how good it was. She began to help herself to the entrails. They were all she was going to get, after all, and she found she was craving them. She was unaware of the trace elements and minerals the organs provided. She only knew they appealed to her.
Takes Down bit into a hunk of the soft, yellowish tallow from the bull's loins, letting it melt in her mouth. Her eyes were half closed and she chewed with the same blissful expression Rabbit Ears had when eating a particularly tender thistle.
The dogs were racing to and fro in packs, snapping and barking and howling in a frenzy. Now and then they leaped together, trying to catch a choice piece of offal tossed over someone's shoulder. Tail between his legs, the winner of the toss streaked across the plain, the losers baying at his heels.
The hearts were cut out and set aside, to honor the buffalo and to encourage them to multiply. And as soon as the soft entrails and other organs had been eaten, the men, women, and children set quickly to work, finishing the butchering. Meat that wasn't cut into strips and hung on the drying racks by the following morning would spoil, even in the cool weather. And there was a lot of meat. It took four or five women, working along with their men, to process the animals killed by each hunter.
Takes Down and Black Bird butchered the cows Sunrise had killed for his family. Laying the animal on its side. Takes Down ripped it down the belly and took off the top half of the hide, cutting away the meat from the bones. Then she and Black Bird tied ropes to the feet and turned the carcass over with their ponies to repeat the process on the other side.
Naduah and Star Name and Owl loaded packhorses and rode back and forth together all day between the kill site and the drying racks at the hunt camp. By afternoon Naduah's arms and legs ached with the strain of carrying heavy loads of meat and standing on tiptoe to hang the strips. She was covered with grease and blood that was drying and itching.
While the women worked, Sunrise and Wanderer heaved the heavier bulls onto their bellies with their legs spread. They slashed the hide across the chest and neck, then folded it back so they could cut out the forequarters. They sliced down the center of the back, being careful to leave the sinews intact along the spine. The hindquarters were disjointed, leaving the rump with the back. Next the flank was cut up toward the stomach and removed in one piece with the brisket. The thin slab was rolled, put into a piece of hide, and loaded onto a packhorse.
Sunrise cut up through the stomach to remove the guts, separating the ribs and the sternum. Slicing between the middle ribs, he took their free ends in both hands and pulled sharply upward and outward, breaking rib steaks from the spine. When he had finished, all that was left was the bare spine with the head left on. He cracked the skull and scooped the brains out into a stomach liner. The brains would be saved for tanning.
While Black Bird carefully removed the sinews from the spinal column. Takes Down prepared them before they had a chance to dry and stiffen with their own natural glue. She cleaned the moist tendons by scraping them with a piece of bone, then softened them more until fibers could be stripped off. The process looked easy. It wasn't. The longest sinew was the three-foot tendon along the backbone. The one lying under the shoulder blade of a buffalo cow was only a foot long, but especially thick. Many of them twisted together made a
tough bowstring.
As the carcasses shrank, vanishing under the hands of the People, Naduah realized how much their lives depended on the buffalo. Each part had a function. The bladders were saved for medicine pouches. The bones would turn up as shovels, splints, saddle trees, scrapers, ornaments, awls, and even dice for the gambling games. The scrotums were cut off to be turned into rattles for dancing. The stomach paunch liners would replace worn-out water containers, and the hooves and feet were saved for glue and more rattles. The horns would make cups and spoons and ladles, and fireproof, waterproof holders for powder and coals when the camp was moved.
The hair would be used to stuff pillows and saddle pads and shields. It would be twisted into ropes and halters and used for headdresses. The tails were handy fly swatters and quirts and decorations. Even the stomach contents were emptied and sorted for future use. The small pellets of partially digested grass were saved for Medicine Woman to use in treating frostbite and skin diseases. Star Name held up a big hairball, very valuable medicine that Medicine Woman would be pleased to have.
The hides were saved, but they weren't prime yet. Later, toward the end of November or the beginning of December, there would be another hunt to get them when they were thickest. The hides of the four-year-old cows were at their best for lodge covers then. Robe hunters looked for small buffalo with trim, compact bodies. Their hair was as silky as fur, and it made the best bedding.
As the sun hovered over the horizon, it looked as though it too had been dipped in the blood that drenched Naduah and her family. The wind blew colder, and Naduah shivered in her sweat-soaked dress. In a long, tired line the hunters and their families followed the buffalo herd's wide, sunken road back toward the river and the hunting camp. The scouts who had left a few days earlier to pick a spot had done well. The low hide lean-tos were set among an open stand of willows and cottonwoods near a clear stream. On the other side of the stream a bluff protected them from the north wind. The small shelters could hardly be seen behind the hundreds of scaffolds hung with meat. One had to pick one's way through a maze of them.
"Naduah," Star Name shouted between cupped hands, "we're going to the river to bathe. Come with us."
"You're crazy. It's too cold."
"It's not cold," Owl assured her. Not to Owl, maybe. Melted snow probably wouldn't be cold to Owl. She had skin like an old buffalo. But Naduah couldn't resist the unspoken dare.
"I'm coming."
She and Star Name stood at the edge of the stream and splashed water over themselves, shivering and chattering with the cold, a blue tinge under the goose bumps that covered them. Only Owl seemed oblivious to the weather. She had waded in and sat now with only her head showing.
"Cowards," she called. "It's not bad when you get used to it;"
"This'll do, Owl."
"Don't complain to me when no one asks you to dance tonight because you smell like a buffalo," Owl shouted. She stood up and walked toward them. They bundled up in their robes and headed toward camp, still talking.
"Pahayuca promised the buffalo tongue ceremony when we get back to the main village," Star Name said.
"And the women are in an uproar about it," added Owl. "I can't wait to see who's chosen to serve the meal."
"I suppose they all want to be chosen," said Naduah. Owl laughed with delight.
"Not exactly. Before she can serve the tongue any man who's lain with her has to shout 'No!' She has to be a virgin, you see."
"A very rare animal," said Star Name wickedly.
"And of course the woman gets teased, no matter what."
"Remember when Red Foot did it last year and Buffalo Piss said she slept with all the dogs in the village?"
"Yes. Then Sunrise said she'd slept with everything with a pizzle."
"Sunrise said that?" Naduah couldn't believe it.
"Yes, he did," said Star Name. "I heard him."
"That's the trouble. Everyone hears it. If no one speaks up, the women all applaud and go 'li-li-li-li.' " Owl demonstrated, vibrating her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
"I can't do that."
"Yes, you can, Naduah. It goes like this." Owl skipped around in front of Naduah and tilted her head so the girl would have a clear view of her tongue and palate. "Practice."
And the three of them practiced loudly all the way back to their shelters.
CHAPTER 21
Biting her lip, Naduah watched the horses walk toward the line of bluffs to the north. Turning, she stuffed the reins of the painted pony Wanderer had just given her into Star Name's hand.
"Take him. Now we each have one." She choked on the last word, then whirled and ran off among the lodges. She darted through the boys' wheel game. The wheel target and the small arrows flew in all directions, but she never slowed down. Ignoring the threats that followed her, she raced on toward her own lodge. She jumped over the threshold into the dim warmth and threw herself, sobbing, across her low bed.
Medicine Woman came in as quietly as a shadow and waited until the storm subsided. Then she sat next to Naduah, gathering her into her slender, fragile arms.
"He'll be back, little one. Don't cry."
"Not for two or three years. Maybe more. He said so. That's forever." Naduah gulped and hiccupped and blew her nose on a leaf that Medicine Woman handed her. "Why did he have to leave? I thought he was my friend. He was helping me train Wind."
"Do you know what Nocona means, Grandaughter?"
"Wanderer."
"Names are very personal. Each should be different, like snow-flakes, because each person is different. Your name tells others about you, like Keeps Warm With Us. It tells how you act, and what you've done in your life. Nocona is a wanderer. He's special. He belongs to no one and he belongs to everyone. We have to share him."
"I don't want to share him. I have to share him right here in the Wasp band."
"Sometimes there are things in life you have no choice about. Wanderer is one of them. He's special, and he has many responsibilities already for one so young. He must go back to his own band and to the Staked Plains for a while."
"Why is he special?"
"Some just are. All our men strive to be great warriors. All of them are brave. But the coyote can never be a wolf, nor the hawk an eagle. Wanderer is a wolf among coyotes and an eagle among hawks. He won't forget you, little one. And you have to be worthy of his friendship."
"I'll try." Naduah snuffled back a large, wet sob.
"Smile for me." Medicine Woman tilted her granddaughter's chin up and smiled down at her. "That's good. We'll be camping with Old Owl's band soon. We'll spend the winter with them. You'll see your brother." Naduah's smile widened.
"When?"
"Soon."
John Parker, Bear Cub, sat huddled under his buffalo robe in front of his grandfather's lodge, watching Old Owl work on a new bow for him. He was growing so fast that after six months with the People, Cub's bow was too short. It was late afternoon, and the autumn light was failing. The two of them were sitting outside the lodge to take advantage of what rays the sun could send through the thick, swollen gray clouds. Old Owl's eyes had once been like a hawk's, but they were failing him now.
Old Owl had measured the length of the bow that morning before Cub had left on his daily excursion. He had made the boy stand still while he laid the Osage orange sapling along his leg and marked it at his waist. He had been shaping it all day, patiently whittling it into the desired taper. Now Cub was back, and as he worked, Old Owl talked. It was a monologue that went on whenever he and Cub were alone. And often when they weren't. Cub listened carefully.
"Always look for winter wood, Cub. It doesn't split when it dries. Orangewood is best, like this here. But it comes from far to the north, and it's not as easy to get. A young ash that's been killed by a prairie fire makes a fine bow. But elm, cedar, willow, dogwood, mulberry, they'll all do. Trim the bark off the staves when you collect them, and rub them with fat. Tie them in bundles and hang them at the top of the
lodge, over the fire. The smoke seasons them. And kills the insects in them."
"How many sticks in each bundle?"
"Oh, ten or twelve. Shape it like this, carving outward from the center, the grip. Then smooth it and polish it with sandstone when you finish." He rubbed more fat onto the stave and held one end of the tapered wood over the fire until it was very hot. He grunted as he braced the end under his moccasin and forced it into a curve. He went on talking as he held it there.
"When this cools the curve will be permanent. The hard part is getting the two sides to curve exactly the same. Sometimes you have to reheat it and start over. The important thing is to be patient, and not stop until it's exactly the way you want it. Never settle for less than the best, unless you're desperate and in a hurry. Your life depends on your weapons. And more important, your family's lives depend on them.
"Be sure the grip is thick enough or the bow will kick when you shoot it. And the cord will burn your wrist." Cub held up his wrist to show his grandfather the wide leather band he had made in case that happened. Old Owl reached out and turned Cub's wrist to see the band from all sides. "Good. But if you burnish the edges with a hot rock, they won't rub you. Where was I?"
"You were talking about making the grip thick enough."
"Yes. And the ends of the bow. They should be the width of your little finger. Hold one out here so I can measure." Cub obliged, then reached under his robe and pulled out a small bag from among those dangling at his waist. He poured some round, dark pellets into the palm of his hand.