ABACUS (10 page)

“We're being attacked!” yelled AP.

Talking Cloud was first out of the tipi, followed by his family. AP and Kate were

last. They just stood there, terrified, not knowing what to do or where to run.

“They're back!” shouted Talking Cloud. “Let's give them a good welcome.”

Kate and AP exchanged bewildered stares.

“The buffalo hunters have returned!” cried their host. “Be prepared for some brave talk!”

“I am the greatest hunter in the land,” yelled one young brave, waving his bow. “My arrows flew fast and true. I took two buffalo!”

“Only two?” shouted a second. “I got twice that number!”

“I killed more buffalo than either of you!” shouted a third. “My bow hand was flying so fast it was invisible.”

“See this?” yelled another, holding up a rifle. “I shot more buffalo with my fire-stick than all you bow-pullers together!” He was one of the few with a firearm.

The boasts and taunts continued, until the aroma of roasting meat proved too much for them.

“Their bellies are bigger t
han their tongues!” scoffed Talking Cloud. “But first they must cleanse themselves.” Kate thought he meant the usual washing of hands before dinner, but she was wrong.

“Buffalo, like birds in the air or humans on the land, have spirits. Everything has a spirit, even the smallest pebble. And everything is connected by Wakan Tanka, the supreme power of the universe.”

Kate and AP wondered where all this was leading.

“When an animal has been killed, the taker of that life must make peace with its spirit. This clears the record, restoring balance to the universe. By appealing to the spirits of the buffalo they have killed, hunters ensure that others will be willing to die in future.”

The fire pit reminded AP and Kate of the one in medieval England, except it was larger and the spits longer. And these were skewered with big buffalo roasts instead of sizzling pigs. The feast itself bore little resemblance to the Arthurian one. Held outdoors, without tables or chairs, it was more like a picnic than a banquet. Everyone sat on the ground wherever they pleased, with no special places for elders. Although it seemed casual, people dressed up for the occasion, and most of the men wore a single eagle feather in their hair. Without speeches, or wine, there was no raucous cheering, and everyone was content to chat among themselves and focus on the serious business of eating.

“I can't believe people's appetites!” whispered Kate, nodding toward one lady. She was tearing bites from a piece of meat bigger than what the Littletons usually had for Sunday dinner.

“But it was so good,” said AP. “Even you ate a lot!”

Kate nodded, smiling.

The feasting continued late into the night, with people returning to the fire pit time and again to hack off more meat.

“Would it be okay if we went to bed before Talking Cloud?” asked AP, stifling a yawn.

She glanced across at the old man, engrossed in a lively discussion about hunting.

“I think so. Let's go.”

* * *

Kate and AP's adventures in the West had been enjoyable so far—aside from their water shortage, and the stampede scare. But for the man who was stalking them, things had gone disastrously wrong from the start.

Chapter 14: Robert Drew

When Robert Drew opened his eyes and saw the sky, he knew he was still alive. His swollen foot was turning purple, and he barely recognized the sausages that used to be toes. He gulped from his water bottle, stopping himself in case he drank it dry. Without help, death was certain.

Keeping the weight on the good leg, he struggled to his feet.

The grass, blowing in the breeze like an ocean, seemed to go on forever. Then he spotted a lone tree, off in the distance. Although stunted, it would be visible for miles in this terrain.
If he could tie his shirt to a branch, someone might notice and come to investigate. This was his only hope.

Hopping to the tree was exhausting—the pain unbearable—but he made it. After a short rest, he pulled off his shirt, reached as high as possible, and tied it on. Slumping to the ground, he took a short drink—the bottle was half empty.

The rest of the day was spent drifting in and out of sleep. As he lay there, trying to ignore his raging thirst, he heard an unfamiliar jangling. He struggled to his feet, but his good leg buckled and he tumbled to the ground.

“Lucky I saw your shirt,” said his rescuer. “You wouldn't have lasted another day the shape you're in.”

The injured man nodded without taking the bottle from his lips. Like his own water canister, this one was flat and round and made of tin—but it was full.

“Now you can drink all you want, I've plenty more, but it does no good filling your belly like that.”

“You're right,” he replied, lowering the bottle. “I'm so thirsty though.”

“My name's Sam Carter, though the Indians call me One Tooth.” He grinned, leaving no doubt how he got his name. “What's yours?”

“Robert Drew. And I'm so thankful to meet you.” He struggled to shake hands, but Sam stopped him.

“You just stay put—you're too weak to move—and let me see that foot.”

“It looks real nasty,” he said after a brief examination. “What happened?”

“A rattlesnake bit me.”

Sam Carter let out a low whistle. “You should've been more careful where you was walking, boy. Nobody gets bit by a rattler!” He shook his head. “You ain't from these parts, right?”

“No. I'm from out east. Philadelphia.”

“You sure look like a city dweller.”

Robert Drew frowned—he thought he looked the part with his cowboy hat and boots.

Sam shook his head, smiling. “Apart from getting yourself bit,” he began to explain, “your hands are as smooth as a baby's. Your bones have no meat either!”

Robert Drew was painfully thin and without a shirt he was a living skeleton. Every rib showed, and his spine stuck out like a row of knucklebones. Even his face was bony, with its sharply-pointed nose and high cheekbones. He was in his early forties, though his blond hair and sharp features made him look younger.

“You're real lucky, boy!” said Sam after a closer inspection of his foot. “That ol' rattler missed you with one of his fangs so you only got half the poison. Mind you, if you'd done your boots up right he'd have missed you altogether.”

“My foot will be alright then?”

“It'll hurt for a few days, but you'll be back to normal in a week or so.”

Drew was so relieved at this that he managed a smile.

“Just sit tight,” said Sam, making toward his mules. “I've got something that'll help the swelling.”

Sam had six mules, one for riding and the others for hauling. They were piled high with packs of all shapes and sizes containing kettles, pans, mugs, jugs, brushes, choppers and knives.

Like his mules, Sam was short and stocky. He wore a tall battered hat with a long feather, an old army jacket with unmatched pants and worn-out boots. His ruddy face always looked happy.

“I'm a trader,” Sam told his guest over supper before a campfire. “I also mend pots, grind axes, sharpen blades, make brooms and fix things. A jack-of-all-trades!”

“And an excellent cook!”

Sam nodded at the compliment.

“Who do you trade with?”

“Anyone and everyone. Indians, settlers, the Army—they're all good customers.”

“What do you get from the Indians?”

“Mostly buffalo hides. Dried meat and pemmican too—that comes in handy during winter.”

“Are the Indians friendly?”

“Sure. I get along with them fine. I've been trading with the Indians all my life. Be fair with them and they'll treat you right.” He tossed more wood on the fire and started brewing a pot of coffee.

“So, Robert Drew, what brings you to Montana? You're obviously not here to trade with the Sioux!”

“Family business,” he replied, vaguely.

Sam looked puzzled.

“My brother's kids.” He paused, scratching an imaginary itch while he thought about his story. “They—ran away from home. The family's worried sick. I've got to find.”

“How old are they?”

“The boy's about twelve, his sister's a few years older.”

“Where are they from?”

“Well, they were from the east—originally. Born and raised in Philadelphia. But my brother decided to move out west and start farming.”

“How long ago?”

“Three years.”

“And how long have the kids been gone?”

“A few days.”

Sam pulled an old rag from his pocket to lift the hot coffee from the fire.

“Maybe they'll meet up with some homesteaders.” Sam paused to pour the coffee. “More likely Indians will pick them up. You can tag along with me when you're feeling better—I'm visiting all the hunting camps. If anyone's seen or heard of those kids, I'll be the first to know.” Sam smiled. “Indians love to talk.”

Robert Drew's sudden alertness had nothing to do with the strong coffee.

Chapter 15: Counting Coup

Kate awoke to the sound of snoring. She could see blue sky through the top of the tipi and AP was already awake.

“I've been lying here for ages,” he whispered. “I couldn't sleep with all this noise. Let's get dressed and sneak outside.”

The village didn't stir until late morning. Even then—with meat to dry, hides to clean, and all the other chores—nobody was in a hurry to do anything.

“You got up early,” said Talking Cloud, sitting cross-legged outside his tipi. “You don't like sleep?”

“Yes I do!” said Kate, who seldom awoke before 10 on weekends. “I just saw the sun and felt like getting up.”

“The sun's still there.” He glanced up at the sky. “No need to leave bed so early to see it.”

The hunters were riding out for buffalo again that afternoon and Talking Cloud invited Kate and AP to go along. He asked the question in such a way that refusal would have been impolite. So they accepted.

“Good,” said Talking Cloud. “Now we must find you proper clothes. I'll talk with Sings To Her Children.”

“Awesome!” exclaimed AP later, astonished at the transformation in his sister. Kate wore a simple deerskin dress that hung straight down from her neck to below her calves. Fringed with long tassels, it shimmered when she moved. She also wore deerskin leggings, and moccasins. Her hair was parted at the center and braided.

“Gold Butterfly Woman,” thought her brother—the name was perfect.

“Okay, it's your turn,” said Kate, smiling.

Minutes later AP emerged from the tipi wearing a long-sleeved shirt and leggings, both made from deerskin edged with tassels, like Kate's dress. In front he wore what appeared to be a cloth apron, with a second one behind.

“Young Man Who Sits Too Much,” said Kate, “you look good!”

“Well, these leggings feel weird. They're just the leg part, held up by straps attached to my belt.” AP looked uneasy.

“There's no backside?” Kate asked with a smirk.

“Exactly. I'm wearing this diaper thing instead.” He pointed to the apron flaps, back and front.

She began to giggle.

“What's so funny?”

This made her laugh even more.

Talking Cloud had planned to keep up with the hunters, but when he saw Kate and AP trying to mount their horses, he changed his mind.

“You have done little riding,” he observed.

“We've ridden a bit,” Kate admitted, remembering an hour spent one summer holiday.

Finally, they got into their saddles and the trio departed.

The young braves trotted past, each with a second horse in tow.

“Once buffalo are sighted,” Talking Cloud explained, “each hunter will swap the saddled mount that he's riding for his running horse.”

With Talking Cloud's guidance, the novice riders grew more confident. And as they trotted along at their leisurely pace, he pointed out animals they would otherwise have missed. A clump of bushes appeared, some way off. When he asked if they could see the deer feeding there, they thought he was joking. Only after they stopped and stared for a while did they see the large buck with its rack of antlers.

Talking Cloud explained how animal signs could be read. He pointed to a distant flock of black birds that had suddenly swooped down behind a rise. “They're after insects, disturbed by horses' hooves.” To prove his point, the trio headed that way, and sighted a herd of wild ponies over the hill.

He spoke of the old days. “Once, the whole land teemed with game—herds of buffalo, elk, deer, pronghorn,…” Talking Cloud sighed wistfully. “Now the Powder River country is the last place we can find enough game.”

“Us white people,” said AP gloomily. “We messed everything up.”

“Not at first. When I was a boy, things were good between us and the settlers. They traveled freely across our land. We were happy to help them. When they were lost, we guided them. When they were hungry, we fed them. We traded buffalo hides and deerskins for things like knives and pots. All are one in Wakan Tanka's universe.

“The settlers were few at first. Then their numbers grew, like flies in summer. Soon, they were not content just to travel our land—they wanted to own it.” He spread his arms wide.

“How can anyone own the land, or the sky or the air?”

He paused.

“They made us promises—their treaties. ‘Let us have this piece of land,' they would say, ‘you shall have the rest, and live there in peace.' But they always broke their promises and took more land. They built forts, and the soldiers attacked us, just for being here.

“The Wasichus had no use for certain land. They said we should go and live there, on reservations. We would be safe. Instead of following the buffalo across the plains, they wanted us to become farmers, like them. Pah!”

Talking Cloud pointed out a herd of pronghorns which had stopped feeding to watch them go by.

“They bribed us and threatened us, and many bands went to live on the reservations. The Wasichus said Indians could have white-man's things, like coffee and sugar. Food would always be plentiful, they said, but the agents who run the reservations make mistakes and Agency Indians go hungry.

“How many Indians live on reservations?” asked AP.

“Most of them.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Never. I will live my life on the open plains, free like the buffalo.”

“And there are still lots of them,” said Kate.

“Yes. But when the iron horse pushes farther west, all the buffalo will be gone.”

“Why's that?” she asked. “Do the trains frighten them away?”

Talking Cloud shook his head and smiled a sad smile. “White hunters ride the iron horse. They shoot buffalo by the thousands. Some don't even bother taking the hides to send back east—they just kill for pleasure, leaving the carcasses to rot in the sun.” He looked down at the ground. “The Wasichus know that when the buffalo are finished, so are we.”

AP and Kate exchanged dismayed looks.

By late afternoon they had caught up with the hunters, who were busy butchering the kill. Kate didn't want to watch, but AP was interested in the process, so Talking Cloud took him closer while Kate stayed back.

Working in small groups, the hunters began by skinning the carcass with sharp knives. Once the hide was free, they folded it into a bundle, tying it with strips cut from the pelt.

“Good thing Kate isn't watching,” said AP as they slit open a carcass, spilling intestines onto the ground. Then, plunging their hands deep inside the body, the hunters cut off wedges of warm liver to eat.

“Try some,” said Talking Cloud, offering AP a slice, “it's good!”

“No thanks.”

After carving large slabs of meat from the carcass, they tied them onto the sides of a waiting horse.

Talking Cloud explained how little was wasted. “We carve the bones and horns into tools and ornaments. We boil some of the hooves to make glue, and others become ceremonial rattles.” He pointed to one of the hunters who was cutting something large from the pile of intestines—he was covered in green glop. “That's the stomach. We use them to make cooking pots.”

When they returned to the village, Sings To Her Children was busy inside the tipi preparing the meal. A low fire burned in the middle of the floor and something smelled good. Kate asked if she could help.

“That's a first,” thought AP, “she never volunteers at home.”

“You can keep this hot,” said Sings To Her Children. She was squatting beside a large round pot hanging beside the fireplace on a tripod.

“Here,” she said, handing Kate a pair of sticks. “Use these to pick up the stone from the bottom of the pot.”

Kate, looking confused, gave it a try.

Picking up a large stone with a pair of sticks is difficult, especially when it's sitting in a bubbling pot of stew. After several attempts, she succeeded.

“Good,” said Sings To Her Children, “now swap it for one of those in the fire.”

Plopping the wet stone into the fire, Kate picked up a hot one, lowering it into the stew with a loud sizzling.

They ate outside, sitting in the shade of the tipi.

“That was delicious,” said Kate after the meal.

“The best stew ever,” added AP.

Horse riding had given them large appetites, and both had returned for seconds.

“What was in it?” asked Kate.

Sings To Her Children smiled proudly and explained it was one of her special recipes. She then listed the ingredients. “Fresh turnips, dried corn, and a mixture of meats—buffalo, rabbit, turtle, crow, porcupine and dog.”

Kate became quiet but AP, recalling the cheese incident in medieval England, kept talking about it.

They sat outside until late evening, enjoying tales from the past—the Sioux were wonderful storytellers. Surprisingly, Sleeps A Lot stayed awake to the end, entertaining them with stories of the Sioux's favorite pastime: raiding the Crow, their traditional enemy.

“I was the bravest warrior in the band,” he declared, and there was a chorus of agreement. “We had many battles with the Crow and I counted more coup than any other warrior.”

“What's counting coup?” asked AP.

“Hmm,” pondered Sleeps A Lot, wondering where to begin. He was big on battles but small on explanations, so his brother stepped in.

“A man wins respect by his deeds,” Talking Cloud explained. “For a warrior, bravery counts highest. The man with the highest number of brave acts is the greatest warrior.”

Kate and AP nodded.

“The highest award for bravery is to count coup upon an enemy. This is done by touching him.”

“Touching him?” queried AP. “So if Kate, um, Gold Butterfly Woman, was my enemy and I touched her on the shoulder, I'd score a bravery point?”

Talking Cloud shook his head. “No, that would be worthless because you're not fighting. Most coup counting is in battle—you approach your enemy and touch him.” He paused. “But if you rode into his camp, burst into his tipi and touched him, that would count.”

AP looked puzzled. “So, if a warrior touches another warrior during battle, but does nothing else to him, he wins a bravery point?”

“Yes. That is counting coup.”

“What if the warrior kills his enemy instead of just touching him?”

“That is bravery too, though it doesn't score so highly.”

This made no sense to AP—surely the idea of battle was to kill enemies. However, he didn't want to offend his host, so he tried another approach. “The warrior who's touched is lucky because he's unhurt and gets to fight again.”

Talking Cloud and his brother were both horrified at this.

“To have coup counted against you is the greatest shame. Better to die in battle than suffer such disgrace.”

“So the Sioux battle the Crow so they can count coup against them?”

Talking Cloud shrugged—the reason for waging war was unimportant. The Sioux fought the Crow because it was the proper thing to do.

“We take their horses too. Taking a horse from your enemy is honorable. And it is good for a man to have many horses.”

“Me and my brother have lots of horses,” offered Sle
eps A Lot.

“Why do you want so many?” asked AP.

“Why do Wasichus want so much yellow metal?”

“So horses are like gold?”

The old men nodded.

“If a young man wants to marry a man's daughter,” Talking Cloud began again, “he's expected to give a gift. A horse is a good gift.” He smiled. “If she is pretty and many men want to marry her, a warrior may have to give her father many horses!”

Kate and AP went to bed that night knowing more about Sioux culture, yet understanding less.