Cut Hand Read online

  The dance the night before he was to leave seemed especially savage. War dances and scalp dances stirred the blood of everyone there, including this white man. Cut and the others I had come to love and respect reverted to a wilder, fiercer time as the fever rose in them. I watched in fascinated fear.

  Cut, Bear Paw, Buffalo Shoulder, and four others left with the rising of Wi, the sun. Little Eagle and Otter accompanied them to tend the mounts and serve as messengers. A sennight later, the group returned with twenty-six horses taken from the Pipe Stem main herd. Cut counted coup on one warrior and killed another.

  Such successful raids were bound to generate reprisals. Despite my reluctance, I was talked into returning to the Mead while Cut remained at the village in his capacity as a Porcupine. He argued, with reason, one of us should be at the meadow because a deserted homestead was a great temptation to passing parties bent on mischief. Although merely youngsters, Little Eagle and Otter were designated to accompany me as messengers. In truth, they were probably safer with me in case of raids.

  Arriving at the Mead, we wasted no time getting inside the house although nothing seemed amiss. During the night, a bout of excited barking warned us of strangers in the area, but nothing happened. Early the next morning as Anp, the cold red light that leaves no shadow, led in Anpetu, the daylight, the dogs commenced again. As I stepped to the porch and called the animals back, three armed warriors stood in full view on the path across the meadow. I watched until they turned and went into the forest. An hour later, a lead ball shattered against a stone three feet to my left when I stuck my head out the door.

  As I ducked back inside, Little Eagle poked a weapon through the paper light of the nearest window. His shot cut leaves from the tree where the assailant was standing. Our dogs took cover without being told. Moments later, Otter warned that two attackers had taken shelter behind the barn. Fortunately my animals were still with the band’s herd.

  We traded maybe fifteen shots. Little Eagle hit one of them, but the wounded warrior limped away under his own locomotion. The dogs were quiet that night, so we managed some sleep. I sent the mongrels scouting the next morning, and when they returned in an agitated state, I came to the conclusion the enemy merely sought to keep us penned up inside the Mead.

  Worried, I left the two boys to protect the house and made my exit through the secret tunnel, gaining the forest on the far side of the north hill undetected. Laden with three long guns, I set off at a trot. Half a mile from the village, I heard a battle raging. Unexpectedly encountering a line of warriors firing into the village from a fall of rocks, I sheltered behind a tree at their rear. Most of the Pipe Stem warriors were afoot, alerting me this was an unusual raid. These warriors normally took more pride in individual exploits of daring than in sustained siege. There was greater honor in one warrior facing another in man-to-man combat on horseback than firing from cover.

  The attackers were in force and had obviously made a run through the village, as there were two burned lodges and a third toppled and collapsed. Once their surprise was spent, the Pipe Stem were expelled. The Yanubes’ horses, strongly guarded in a huge corral at the far end of the village, appeared safe, but the raider’s mounts were hidden somewhere.

  Overcoming the temptation to rush, I crept from tree to tree until I found the enemy’s horses strung on picket lines in a small meadow guarded by three warriors. Working in as close as possible, I picked off the most distant of the three. One of them whirled toward his fallen companion, assuming the attack came from that direction. I winged him with the second long gun, but the third brave was not fooled. He got off a ball, which whipped past my cheek. My last rifle brought him down. A fourth man surprised me but squandered his shot before attacking with a hatchet. My rifle stock rendered him senseless.

  Cutting their restraints, I stampeded the ponies down on their masters. I then settled behind a tree and plunked away. The raiders, finding themselves besieged from two sides, scurried to find new cover. My bag was modest. I was more interested in chasing them off than in killing them. When they withdrew, I went into the village to see if I could be of help while the Porcupines set out in pursuit.

  An hour later the tired party returned. Cut dismounted and embraced me in full view of everyone. He stepped aside, allowing Bear Paw and a couple of others to do the same. I was no longer the stranger who lived among them as Cut Hand’s win-tay mate. I was accepted.

  The defense of the camp was not without cost. Two young men and a seasoned round-belly were laid away in the rocks. One of the fallen was Broad Fist, Butterfly’s new husband.

  Something about the Pipe Stem raid bothered me, so I cornered Cut as he moved through the camp checking on his people.

  “Where were the scouts?” I demanded a bit more stridently than intended. His Porcupines were responsible for security and ordinarily knew when a stranger came within a league of the village.

  His murderous look told me this was not the first time this question had been put. Nonetheless, he brooked my interference.

  “It was Buffalo Shoulder.” He sighed. “He and three others were scouting our boundaries.”

  “Let me guess. He got drunk.”

  “He and one of the other guards were in a gully with a jug when the Pipe Stem passed through.”

  “He ought to be horsewhipped!” I thought of Butterfly’s young husband lying wrapped in blankets.

  “There will be trouble over this,” my mate acknowledged.

  Although the tiospaye remained in a high state of alert, that effectively ended the raiding season for the year. A few additional clashes took place when individuals met accidentally, but there were no further outright raids. I knew warfare was considered manly and exciting, but I frankly preferred the calm of peaceful times. Was that one of my womanly fribbles?

  Cut stayed in the village with the Porcupines until it was clear the danger had passed. Occasionally Little Eagle or Otter or both would stay with me, providing company in Cut’s absence. They were so bright and likeable and curious and full of energy that I began teaching them English.

  When Cut returned a few days later, he greeted me with all the enthusiasm of a bridegroom. We made love first, and then we fucked.

  By the following morning, the thing he was holding within poured out like flux from a lanced pustule.

  “There was a council meeting.” He sat at our table pushing biscuits around his plate.

  I halted in the process of forking a griddle cake. “And the result?”

  But it required more of the telling than that. He needed to purge his mind. “Some wanted Buffalo Shoulder banished.”

  My blood froze. To be thrown out of the tiospaye was the most severe form of punishment these people meted out, except for individual acts of retribution. “That seems harsh.” I felt my way gingerly.

  “Yes, but three of the People died because a drink was more important than his responsibilities.”

  “Did they demand the same of the other guard?”

  “No. He is but a youth who fell to Buffalo Shoulder’s drink. His father will see to his punishment.” He paused. “Lodge Pole led those who wanted Buffalo Shoulder sent away.”

  “And you? What did you want done?”

  “We dismissed him from the Porcupines. That will hit him hard enough, I think. He’s not a bad man if he stays away from liquor.”

  “Who spoke for him?”

  Cut ducked his head and pushed his plate away. “I did. And Lodge Pole will make much of that. For the moment, Buffalo Shoulder is to be left alone. They’ll shun him, but they didn’t demand he leave the camp.”

  “He may, anyway,” I ventured.

  “Yes,” Cut acknowledged sadly. “That is true.” He looked up at me. “I hope I did right, Billy! But he’s a friend.”

  “That is so, Cut Hand, a childhood friend. But you have a responsibility to look at things as a leader, not a friend.” I hesitated as my mouth went dry. “You will be called upon to make more difficult decisions
than this one. Perhaps you can begin to appreciate the burden your father bears. You can be guided by only one thing, my love, and that thing is not friendship or personal loyalty. It is deciding what is best for the tiospaye.” When I finished speaking, my words reverberated in my ears like a prophecy.

  Cut sat quietly, looking suddenly diminished. “I know,” he whispered.

  The newly widowed Butterfly, deeply saddened by the loss of her husband, began spending time at the Mead. To tempt her out of her grum estate, I cajoled her into learning to read and write. Otter was eager to join in, and we sort of pressured Little Eagle, who had by now lost his taste for it. Soon there would be four of Yellow Puma’s people conversant in the English language.

  THE TIDE of American settlers moving over the plains increased. The Oceti Sakowin, or Seven Council Fires—called the Sioux Nation by whites—was finding it increasingly difficult to avoid emigrants, and while their cousins, the People of the Yanube, were more remote, the Europeans came even here occasionally. The first were traders who showed some sense, standing off across the river until Yellow Puma sent them to Cut and me.

  Without revealing that several gathered on our front veranda could understand every word they said, I greeted the two men, who looked to be drovers recently converted to the trade. Nathan Hatcher and his partner, Bill Rickles, showed no disrespect to the dozen or so Indians who hovered around curiously. The larger of the two, Hatcher, made his greetings and allowed as to how they didn’t know there was a white man within fifty miles until they learned about me from the Sioux.

  “These look like good people. Ya keep ’em handled?” he asked, meaning did I keep them supplied with trade goods.

  “Do what I can.” Indicating the two homemade chairs on the veranda, I invited them to sit and asked after news from the outside.

  “Let’s see. You come out here when?”

  “I left the Allegheny River Valley in the fall of ’31. Got to this country in April of ’32, as best I can calculate.”

  “Ya made good time.”

  “River-boated most of the way to Independence.”

  “Well, Old Hickory got reelected since then,” Hatcher said. “And old Charley Carroll died.” The name did not ring a bell until he added, “They say he was the last one still alive ta sign the declaration.” He meant, of course, the Declaration of Independence. I gave no indication that to a Tory’s way of thinking, this was one of the most dastardly scraps of writing ever committed to parchment.

  “Black Hawk got hisself whupped,” Rickles volunteered. “Illinois militia ’bout wiped him out in a big battle on the Bad Axe River. Them Injuns is finished.”

  Most of the rest of their news concerned troubles down in Tejas, that being their home country. The American settlers were bound on breaking away from Mexico and setting up an independent republic. The Mexican President, General Santa Anna, was just as determined to stop them. There were bloody times ahead. That, I surmised, was why they got out.

  The two men did not seem like bad sorts, but I was relieved when they traveled on after some hard bargaining. My spare team of hog-maned wagon horses trailed behind their Conestoga as they moved off to the west while new treasures crowded our storage room—a supply of powder, lead sheets for casting shot, and a few items the Yanube women would need. Despite my claim to be no handler, the Mead was beginning to look suspiciously like a trading post. One of the items they left behind was a dressing glass I intended to hang above the rude table holding our toilet items. I had long coveted such a mirror.

  A black-frocked preacher showed up next. Lacking the good sense to await an invitation, he blundered through the fast-moving Yanube, missing the walk by a hundred yards and almost foundering his mount. He thundered at the band gathered in the hocoka that night, unconcerned that most of his congregation did not understand a word he said. I hid out with the women at the back of the crowd and tried to explain he was not angry—which I perceived was not fully the truth—but caught up in the excitement of a spiritual experience.

  The good reverend overindulged in the local fermented drink, made an indecent proposal to one of the Yanube matrons, and was escorted across the plains the next morning preaching incoherently to his horse. I never expected to see the man again. Someone, be he red or white, would jack-roll him for his coat or his shoes or his jaded pony before the year was out.

  THE NEXT visitors were of another stripe entirely. Cut Hand was in the village, and I was alone except for Otter when the guard dog in the south put up such a clamor, I stuck my head out the door to see what was going on. Three strange warriors calmly stood just beyond where the dog seemed willing to go. One gave the sign for peace. I barked a command to the dog and held up one finger.

  Obediently one of the men handed his weapons to a companion and approached the house. I stepped inside and told Otter to stay out of sight. If there was trouble, he was to use the secret tunnel and summon Cut Hand. I walked back to the door without my rifle.

  The warrior was tall and handsome and obviously someone of standing within his tiospaye. He moved with a regal bearing despite his obvious youth. I judged him to be my peer and suspected that I was in the presence of one of the dreaded Pipe Stem. In addition to a modest loincloth and low moccasins, he wore a small blanket thrown over one shoulder. Despite my deep commitment to Cut Hand, I felt a flare of interest.

  “Greetings,” he intoned formally. “I am Carcajou, son of Great Bull, Headman of the Pipe Stem Draw People. You are the one called Teacher?” His dialect was similar to the Yanube’s. These two bands must be related, yet they fought one another bitterly.

  “I am,” I responded gravely. I recognized Carcajou was French for wolverine, a cunning and ferocious beast of the north woods.

  “I will tell you what I want,” he said abruptly, sinking cross-legged to the grass. Apparently he felt he owed me no courtesy, as it often took hours of polite small talk before these people would come to the point of a visit. His words, however, were respectful.

  “This blanket is a small thing woven by my mother. It serves no purpose except as decoration, but she asks that you accept it.”

  “Gladly.” I sat opposite him and accepted the red cloth, which was finely worked and richly dyed. “You must permit me to select some trifle for her,” I responded, recognizing the blanket as an Indian gift, one for which something of equal value was expected, a sort of diplomatic exchange of presents.

  “Our shaman has been injured. A pot of boiling water overturned on his hip, scalding him. He is old, so his repair will be lengthy and painful.”

  “How can I help?” I asked.

  “We wish to spare him what pain we can. Do you have some of the drink-that-kills-pain among your stores?”

  “I have a small amount of laudanum, sufficient to give him ease for a little while, nothing more. Since he is your healer, do you have someone capable of assisting him?” I poked my nose where it was not invited.

  He seemed to take offense. “We take care of our own.”

  “Forgive me, I merely wished to know if my attendance was required.”

  He unbent a little. “Thank you. There is another who can attend the burn. Your lau… da… num will be enough.”

  “Will you come inside while I get it for you?”

  The man cast a curious eye over the building before declining. I came back with a flask of the liquid and a fine metal bowl that would accept the rigors of household travel. He rose.

  “There is something else,” I said, holding up a small packet. “This is called populeon. It is an ointment of the black poplar that succors burns and scalds. Ask your healer to apply some to the wounds.” He accepted these and handed over a derringer hidden in his loincloth. “This is too great a payment for what I have given,” I protested. “Perhaps a bag of lead balls and a little powder will even the bargain.”

  Carcajou hesitated and then nodded. When I returned with the items, he spoke. “You do not act like a win-tay.”

  Caught shor
t, I puzzled over my answer. “Perhaps a white win-tay is different from a red win-tay,” I finally answered.

  “That must be it, though they call you the Red Win-tay. You are a person I can respect, I think. Thank you for listening to my needs.”

  “Thank you for coming in peace.”

  They were no sooner gone than Little Eagle slunk out of the trees. “You betrayed us to the Pipe Stem! I should have slain them, like you should have.”

  I looked down my nose at him. “I do not slay people who come in peace. Nor do I think Yellow Puma would have done so.”

  “You gave them shot and powder! I saw you. They’ll use it to kill our women and children.”

  “I gave them a small amount in payment of this handgun. Certainly not enough to slay women or… you children,” I added in a deliberate stricture.

  Doubtless Little Eagle would have taken offense, but his attention was claimed by the pistol. He examined it like the fifteen-year-old he was, not the adult he was pretending to be.

  I called Otter outside and gave him instructions. “Ride to the village and tell Yellow Puma what you heard and saw.”

  Little Eagle almost broke and ran for his pony hidden in the trees so he could be first with the news, but dignity reestablished itself, and he remained with me, requiring I relate all that was said. With an inward smile, I told him most of it. As he matured, he was acquiring an arrogance that sometimes sat well and sometimes rendered him obnoxious—like most who reached that difficult age.