Buffalo Medicine (6 page)

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Authors: Don Coldsmith

BOOK: Buffalo Medicine
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During his
previous
captivity, Owl had attempted to adjust to the circumstances. Now his predicament was not to adjust, but to survive. Any slight deviation from the expected brought an instant shouted curse and a stroke of the whip.
This instrument was several paces in length, and it became apparent that it could be used with great accuracy. For some reason which was obscure at first, it was called “
el gato
” in the language of the Hairfaces. It was learned that this phrase meant “the cat,” and the meaning became more apparent. A prisoner subjected to a stroke of the whip would exhibit a series of deep parallel cuts in the skin which resembled the claw marks of a giant cat.
It did not take Owl long to recognize the origin of the odd crisscross scars on the back of the Old Man.
The overseers ordinarily carried the whip coiled in the right hand, looking for all the world like a braided rope or
a great black snake. It was easy to glance at the coils and wonder how many hapless prisoners had contributed the color of their blood to the greasy hue of the device. The butt of the whip, nearly as thick as one's wrist, was held by a thong looped around the forearm of the overseer.
There were several of these men, charged with management of the prisoners. One stood out above all others, however, for his sadism. It was he who had initiated Owl to the bite of
el gato
in the courtyard back in the village of the Mud Lodge people. At any pretext he sent the burning lash searching for tender skin with a vengeance. At times it seemed as though the man was actually disappointed if there were no infractions. The other overseers were content if the prisoners were quiet and cooperative, but this one wielder of the dreaded cat was constantly restless. It was thought that his pleasure in its application was so intense that he occasionally applied an unjustified blow just to pass the time.
He was of scarcely more than medium height, but very broad and muscular in the shoulders. His muscles were overdeveloped from wielding the cat, it was said. Perhaps this was true, for his lower body and legs were disproportionately slender. It was as if the man had been assembled from parts of two differently shaped individuals. His neck was short and thick, allowing his head to rest, it appeared, directly on his heavy shoulders. A fringe of beard straggled around the periphery of his face, framing a perpetual look of evil ill-temper. The small, close-set eyes wandered constantly, looking for the slightest excuse to unleash the cat. In no time at all the prisoners had applied to the man himself the name of his favorite instrument. He was El Gato.
He seemed to take special delight in watching for any infractions on the part of Owl. It became a one-sided game, with all the rules favoring the man with the whip. Owl was unsure why he had been singled out for special attention. He realized, however, it must have been because
of his outburst back in the village. How utterly stupid of him, he now reflected. He had actually expected the Hairfaces to welcome him into the hospitality of their tribe. Yes, it had been a serious mistake to draw attention to himself. Now, it was apparent that the primary objective of every prisoner should be not to catch the attention of the overseer. It was much better to become only one more of the faceless, dull entities, part of the sameness that was the mark of the captives.
There were perhaps as many prisoners as there are days in a moon. Owl was still puzzled as to why the Hairfaces kept this group of captives huddled in subjugation. They eagerly looked forward to one bright spot in the day, the distribution of the poor-quality food. Occasionally the guards would come into the mud-walled enclosure and single out a handful of the captives for some menial task, such as carrying sacks of grain or logs of firewood.
Downtrodden and low in spirit as he was, Owl still had one faculty over which he had very little control. His strict training under the medicine man had so deeply ingrained the habit of observation that he gathered information without consciously doing so. In this way he gained much knowledge of the Hairfaces on the infrequent occasions when he was among those chosen for the work party.
There were several things about his captors which Owl found almost beyond belief. He had already noticed, on the punishing march from the mud-hut village, that they made extensive use of the shiny medicine material. His father had a small knife of this sort, in contrast to the flint blades and spear points made by old Stone Breaker of the People. His father's elk-dog medicine, in fact, the jingling thing that enabled control of the horse, was formed of the shiny stuff. Now, he saw that the material was used by the Hairfaces for many things. All of their elk-dogs wore the medicine objects in their mouths. Several of the men had medicine shirts like that of his father, formed of tiny
links of the substance. Some of their chiefs carried long, shiny knives, as long as one's arm, which again, he thought, must be similarly made.
Aiee,
with so much strong medicine, the Hairfaces must be undefeatable.
He became certain of this a few days later. A ceremony was held at which a demonstration of the powerful medicine of the Hairfaces was carried out. The prisoners were allowed to watch.
A group of men dressed alike, and with the demeanor of warriors brought forth a strange object from one of the lodges. It was pulled on wheels, like those of the carts used to carry firewood and grain. Owl had become used to the wheels, another wondrous evidence of the medicine of the Hairfaces. He had wondered how to attempt to describe these marvels to the People on his return.
Now, the warriors were dragging the heavy object on a two-wheeled cart. It appeared to resemble a section of hollow log about two paces long, except that it was made of the shiny substance that the Hairfaces used for so many of their medicine things.
The men dragged the thing into position and turned it so that the log pointed away from the lodges. With great ceremony a quantity of black sand was poured into the log, followed by what appeared to be a piece of a grain sack. This was pushed down the log with a pole, and a round boulder selected from a nearby pile. This was found to exactly fit the hole in the log. It, too, was pushed in with the pole.
Owl was thoroughly confused. He would have thought the Hairfaces had become completely demented, except that he had become convinced that they did nothing without some reason.
The warriors stepped back. One advanced cautiously and applied a burning torch to a spot on the top of the log. There was a blinding flash and a thunderous roar. White smoke billowed from the log. Before Owl's astonished eyes, a large boulder several hundred paces across the valley
exploded into innumerable small pieces and disappeared. Echoes of the blast reverberated across the hills, then it was quiet except for the delirious giggle of the Old Man. As the dust and smoke settled, the warriors prepared the smoke-log for another burst.
Several times the deafening roar was repeated. Some of the prisoners held hands over their ears, while others cried out in terror.
Owl's astonishment did not prevent him from noticing the really important fact. The smoke-log would make it possible for the Hairfaces to destroy an enemy at a distance of several hundred paces.
And, if their medicine could reach over great distances, how could they be beaten? More to the point, it might be that escape was entirely impossible. How could one escape medicine so powerful?
That night Owl was more depressed than at any time previously. He had begun to think perhaps the Old Man was right.
“From the Hairfaces,” he had said, “there is no escape.”
Several suns after
the smoke-log demonstration Owl discovered, among the prisoners already with the Hairfaces, another man of his own tribe. The man was somewhat older than himself, and had been among the Hairfaces for several winters.
Owl discovered him accidentally. It was meal time, and the guards had brought a kettle of the ever-present stewed corn. The prisoners filed past, and a man ladled a scoop of the substance into each bowl.
“
Aiee
” murmured a voice behind Owl. “Corn soup again.” The man spoke as if to himself, but Owl had been thinking the same thing. And, he realized suddenly, in the same language. This must be a man of the People!
The two walked over against the wall of the compound, and Owl squatted beside the other. They ate in silence for a short while and then Owl initiated a conversation, using the People's tongue.
“It is much different from well-cooked hump ribs,” he observed cautiously.
From his attempts at communication with the crazed Old Man, he had become wary. The Old Man, when approached unexpectedly or too rapidly, would retreat into his own confused world, and babble to the spirits which possessed him, sometimes for hours. Owl had become very cautious about approaching other prisoners too abruptly.
There was a long silence, then the other man finally spoke softly.
“You are of the People?” he asked timidly. Owl nodded eagerly.
“I am Owl, son of Heads Off, of the Elk-dog band.”
“And I am, or was, of the Red Rocks. My name, Long Bow.” He formed the words hesitantly, from long disuse.
“Have there been others of the People here?” Owl pressed.
“Oh, yes, my friend. Most have been killed trying to escape.”
“Have you tried?”
“Of course. It brought me this the last time.” He held his right hand forward, fingers spread. There was no thumb.
The significance sank through to Owl. Without a right thumb one could not handle weapons. Enough to hunt, perhaps, although clumsily, but not with enough proficiency to engage in combat. Or, to escape, Owl realized. One would need every skill to escape from the Hairfaces' strong medicine.
“I can still carry the sacks,” continued Long Bow, smiling in grim humor. Owl was later to realize the significance of the remark.
The two talked a long while. It was pleasant to hear one's own tongue again. Long Bow had been stolen from the Red Rocks band when a young man. The Head Splitters had kept him for one winter, and then traded him to the Mud Lodge people. They had in turn sold him to
the Hairfaces. There had been several of the young People originally, now all dead. He had seen two of them killed in escape attempts, and the others never returned. The Hairfaces always announced to the other prisoners that the fugitives had been killed.
“Just as I would do,” Owl nodded. Perhaps escape was possible, and their captors concealed any such successful attempts.
“No,” Long Bow shook his head, “I think not. The Old Man,” he gestured at the pitiful babbling creature, “has escaped many times. He is always caught by the Mud Lodge people or someone, and brought back.”
Still, Owl thought it possible that there were escapees unaccounted for. His spirits rose a little.
He told Long Bow of his initial encounter with their captors, and his expectation of welcome into their tribe. The other man's mouth dropped open in shocked horror.
“That is why El Gato has a special hate for you,” he mused. “Of course! To them, you are a half-breed.” He glanced around apprehensively. “I think El Gato is probably of mixed blood.” He hesitated again. “You will understand, my friend, if I do not wish to be seen with you too much?” He edged away and sat down some distance from Owl.
Nevertheless, they occasionally found opportunity to talk. Owl brought the other the general news of the People since the time of Long Bow's capture. He already knew of the death of Hump Ribs, chief of the Elk-dog band, in the Great Battle, but it was shortly after that he had been captured. Was old Many Robes, real-chief of all the bands of the People, still alive?
“Oh, yes,” Owl assured him, “he goes on and on. He was old when my father first came to the People.”
Long Bow nodded. “Is there talk of who might be the next real-chief?”
Owl shook his head. “I think the People are happy and
rich enough since the Great Battle, they do not worry about who is real-chief. I had heard nothing, at least until I left.” He explained the circumstances of his departure, now over a year ago, and his quest for the medicine vision.
“
Aiee
, you are a medicine man? It is bad that you should come to this!”
“It is bad, my friend, that
anyone
should come to this,” Owl answered firmly.
Long Bow was able to give much information about the purpose of their captivity. This was, he informed Owl, a seasonal lull in their activity. Cold Maker, though not so powerful here as at home, was unpredictable. The Hairfaces did not like to be in the mountains during winter, so they retreated to this place, bringing the prisoners. Here they waited until the Greening Moon, or—the man hesitated.
“Owl, I have lost count of the moons, they are so different here.” He shook his head. “No matter. They will take us again to the mountains.”
At this point, he used words unfamiliar to Owl, and the young man again lost the line of the conversation. He stopped the speaker again.
“But
why?
What purpose does this have?”
“To carry the rocks,” answered Long Bow, a little irritably. Then he explained, a bit more patiently. “We dig the yellow rocks from a hole in the mountain, and carry the sacks down to the
arristra
.” Another unknown word, Owl reflected. Perhaps he would understand when he saw the place.
“Why do they want the rocks?”
“For the shiny medicine stuff in them!” the exasperated Long Bow burst out.
Suddenly, the truth about the Hairfaces, their presence here, their reasons for holding the prisoners, all began to become clear to Owl. The pieces fit together.
He had noticed that there were two kinds of the shiny
medicine. The more common sort, that which their weapons were made of, was whitish, like the shiny sides of the small fish in the streams. The other, this yellow kind of which Long Bow spoke, seemed more highly regarded by the Hairfaces. They appeared to have almost a reverence for it. Could it be, he marveled, that this yellow stuff which glittered was even stronger medicine than that which made the smoke-log roar?

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