Conquering Horse (27 page)

They trotted gently down a low slope, crossed a meadow yellow with sunflowers, stepped down a low bench, walked through a fringe of fluttering little cottonwoods, finally stood on the banks of the River That Sinks. Ahead was the ford.

No Name saw that the river was as his father had said, flowing in some places as after a rain on flat ground, in other places not flowing at all, and all of it sand. The river looked more like a lacework of many streams than one stream.

The four guards on the white horses ahead splashed in. Sounds The Ground, No Name, and Leaf followed. Sometimes the water was knee deep, sometimes hoof deep. The water flowed in a rising gush one moment, in a sinking gush the next. It played out in a dozen sheets, vanished into gold sand, reappeared as a weak spring a dozen yards further down. A thick desert of fine sand seemed to be always blocking its way, yet always the river kept pushing east toward the Great Smoky Water. The river had padded up its bed so that it seemed higher than the meadows to either side.

Sounds The Ground pointed to some lighter mush sand to one side. “My son, it is in such a place that the sand sucks. It will swallow a horse and a man before another can gallop away to get help.”

“I will remember, my father.”

“Should your horse fall into it in the night, remember to lie flat.” Sounds The Ground pointed to an old weathered white cottonwood lying half submerged in the quicksand. “That old friend has slept a dozen winters in the same place because he lies flat. So fall flat, my son, and lie on your back until help comes.”

“I have it painted on my mind, my father.”

Little green willows fringed the edge of one of the larger islands in the middle. The island was covered with a thick mulch of fermenting leaves. At its far end stood a single bull willow, horse-high, its thin feathery arms bent by wind and tortured by
high water. Debris still hung caught in its highest fork, marking the passing of a boiling flood long ago.

They moved quietly, gently, in deference to Leaf. Water and frogs sprayed ahead of the throwing hooves.

Further along they scared up a flock of great white cranes. The cranes were as tall as a man. They were so heavy that they had to jump off the ground before they could become air-borne. They floated away across the silver river, gradually mounting the skies, to rise at last to such a great height they seemed no larger than mosquitoes.

The horsebackers reached the farther bank and climbed it. They climbed the first bench and then the higher slope. Ahead to the south lay another vast sweep of short-grass country. They rode on, bobbing lightly. The only sounds were the pock-pock-pock of hooves and the gingling of rattles and the whistling of tails.

An hour later they reached the top of the first divide. Beyond, sliding slowly away, spread another sweep of land, ending finally in a wide valley. Through the center of the valley ran a fringe of willows.

Sounds The Ground signaled for all to stop. He pointed toward the fringe of willows. “My son, there you see a stream. It is known to us as the River of Blue Mud. It runs thinly and it is not very wide. Pass through the opening you see there in the willows and you will be safe from the sucking sand. Do not stop, but go on. Soon, beyond another lift in the land, you will find a second shallow stream. We call this stream the River of Little Ducks. It is not as wide as the River That Sinks. On the other side of this river you will see a cliff of the color of old pemmican. Cross it there. To the east of the cliff you will see three very high hills. There you will find the drinking place of the great white stallion. He comes there with his mares and colts. He may graze very far away, sometimes far up the river, sometimes far down the river, yet he drinks only at this place. At noon. This I saw.”

“I will remember.”

“Beyond this river live the Kansa. They once were great killers.” A strange look passed over Sounds The Ground’s face, as if what he had to say next distressed him. “They will not come this summer. They have had much sickness. Many have died from the spots. It is a sickness that comes with a fat fly whose bite burns. The fly lays a sweetness like maple sap with its tail and then eats it. It is a very strange fly and it has caused many deaths. I do not like it. It is a pet of men who are born with white paint on their faces and who come from the east.”

“I hear, my father.”

Sounds The Ground sniffed the sky, then looked at the grass underfoot. “It is now the Moon of Fat Horses, the time when the white stallion likes to eat blue-eyed grass in low places. Because he is a great leader he loves the smell of flowers. This is something you may well remember.”

“My ear is open, father.”

“Once he tried to kill me. He will try to kill you. Once he took away my mare. He will try to take away Leaf’s mare. He hates all men.”

“It is fated that I shall catch him. I am ready.”

“May you live to see your vision come true. Loa-ah.”

Then without further word, No Name and Leaf rode on. The warriors on the four white horses ahead slowly separated into pairs, leaving them a clear path to the south. The warriors looked away so that No Name would not have to say the going-away word.

When they had ridden well out of sight, No Name at last looked at Leaf. His eyes were stern. “Woman, much time will go by before I catch the white horse.”

“I will be waiting each day with warm soup.”

“The child may come before I catch him.”

“My mother Full Kettle has told me how it is with a woman at such a time.”

Her quick answers made him smile. “Well, then, my wife, I
see that we are both ready. It is good. Tomorrow we shall see the great wild stallion.”

She smiled back, an impish look in her willow-leaf eyes. “I have already seen him.”

“Ho,” he cried, “and when was this?”

“He was very winning. He likes to catch young maidens who bathe alone in rivers.”

“I see the gods have given me a wife who likes to jest.”

“It is sometimes a good thing to laugh.”

He took the lead. They rode across the barrens, a hard gray-yellow land sparsely covered with buffalo grass. Occasionally they came upon patches of foxgrass, headed out silky silver, waving, bending at the least touch of wind, swaying even to the air currents stirred up by the walking horses. The high country was so dry in places that the prickly pear cactus had coiled in upon itself. Occasionally the horses nosed down to smell the hardpan soil, then jerked up and plodded on. The burning appearance of the prairie hurt the eyes.

It was almost sundown when No Name finally reined in and held up his hand. He leaned forward from the hips, palm over his eyes, peering over the sorrel’s ears. The sorrel’s ears worked, first one fuzzy earhole ahead, then the other. They had ridden just far enough for No Name to see clearly down the slope of a shallow valley ahead. The valley was almost as wide as that of the River That Sinks. But the stream running through it was smaller. He studied the trees and was surprised to see they were very tall, as high as the cottonwoods at home beside Falling Water. The stream ran in slow doubling turns, coming out of a brilliant yellow sunset in the west and disappearing into a blue-green haze in the east. He let his eye run along the ridge of bluffs across the river, at last spotted the cliff of the color of old pemmican, and then the three high hills. Staring hard, he saw no sign of horses.

After sitting patiently for some time behind him, Leaf spoke up. “Do you see him?”

“It is past his drinking time. He drinks at noon.”

“Then why do we wait here, my husband?” She was uncomfortable on the horse and stirred as if longing to step down. “Also, you will soon want supper.”

He continued to look.

“My husband—”

“—patience, woman.”

She sighed, fell silent. Her head tipped forward.

He wanted a safe hiding place not too far from the three bluffs. Again he studied the cliff, especially along the base, to see if he could find the opening of a cave.

A shadow from on high gradually edged over them.

She spoke up again. “It will soon rain, my husband. How much longer must we wait?”

He glanced around. A thunderhead hung high in the northwest. It resembled an eagle standing on tall slim legs, its wings outspread, ready to take off. A spear of lightning zigzagged to earth. A moment later the two thin sheets of rain under the thunderhead thickened. “It will be a quiet rain,” he said. “I do not see any wind clouds.”

She sighed, fell silent.

“Come,” he said at last, “we will try the cliff and hope to find a cave.”

“We will not build a tepee?”

“Woman, we do not have the hide to build one. Also, it is easily seen. We will live in a cave if there is one.”

She began to half-croon, half-wail to herself. “My life is sad. My lover leaves me. The Pawnees take me and bury me in the sand. And now my baby is to be born in a cave.”

“Woman, a man does not wish to hear much said on the same thing.”

“A dark wet cave for my child.”

“I wish a safe place.”

“It is told of the Old Ones that they lived in caves. Must we go back to live as they did?”

He held up his hand for silence. “Shh, my helper is telling me a thing. I am listening.” He cupped his hand over his fat braid. He listened, gravely. Finally he said, “Come, there will be a place.”

They descended into the shallow valley. The grass underfoot thickened. It lay tangled on the ground in some places, brushed the undersides of the bellies in others. The horses bent down to eat, tearing off large mouthfuls as they went along. The scent of the cropped grass was sweet in the nostril.

“The grass is so thick that some has died,” he mused, looking straight down.

“There are snakes,” she said.

“They will not hurt us. They are wakan and our friends.”

“They make two holes in the skin and then the leg swells up like a bowel roasted over a fire. Sometimes the holes bring death.”

“Such a thing is fated.”

They found a stony ford, crossed over pale ocher waters, and rode to the base of the chalk cliff.

While she held the horses, he went on foot and searched the entire length of the cliff. Bank swallows cut across the sky like flying arrows. He poked through all the bushes, found only short cutback ravines. He next climbed to the top of the cliff, going up the slope. The land above spread south in a long level plateau. He walked all along the irregular edge of the cliff, carefully going around each ravine. Still he found no place for them to hide.

He was beginning to wonder if his medicine had lost its power, when he happened to notice a cottonwood lying across the bottom of one of the deepest ravines. Its roots still had a good hold on the falling wall and it was very much alive. It was a fat tree and its shiny, glittering green leaves completely filled the floor of the ravine. Examining the tree more closely, he saw a small stream trickling out from under it. The stream ran shallow across
shale for a ways, then ran deep through a narrow meadow, at last broke through the fringe of cottonwoods along the river.

“Ha-ho! this is the place my helper told me I would find.”

He descended to the base of the cliff, took off his moccasins, and, barefooted, followed the stream to its source under the fallen tree. And there, under the tree, he found a cave. It augered back into the cliff a good dozen yards. It was high enough to be dry and yet was but a couple of steps from running water. Once he and Leaf had enough meat and pemmican stored away, they could live in it for weeks without having to show themselves. Better yet, the fallen tree was thick enough to disperse the smoke of any small fire they might make.

He went back to get her. He showed her how to hide their trail by walking the horses up the stream where it flowed across the shale.

“The water will also carry away our smells so the stallion will not become suspicious.”

Leaf got down heavily from her horse. She stooped and cupped a palm of water. Then she cried out. “It is sweet water, my husband. It is like fresh rain water out of a rock.”

He restrained a smile. “It is as the Old Ones had it. But perhaps now it is not good enough for a woman of this day.”

“Let us make a good smell in our cave by burning cedar leaves. I saw some cedars growing between the hills.”

“Have you meat?”

“There is some dried left.”

“It is good. Care for the horses.” He looked up at the oncoming thunderhead. “There is yet time.”

“Where is my husband going?”

“I go to lie in wait for a deer. Before the rain comes to make my bow useless. There will be deer in such a fat valley.”

She too looked up. “Do not be gone long.”

There was a flash of lightning. A moment later thunder crashed, then rattled slowly down the valley. As he strung his bow, a doe stepped out from behind some gooseberry bushes
under the tall cottonwoods along the river. The doe came forward a few steps, head up, ears erect, bulb-eyes shining in the dusk. Casually No Name reached for an arrow, fitted it, let fly. The arrow speared ahead in a low arch, leveled, caught the doe behind the shoulder. She sprang up, at the same time gave a single mouse-like squeak, then fell dead.

Leaf said quietly, “I see that my husband has become a great hunter. It is good. We will have plenty of meat and many new shirts.”

He carried the deer inside the cave just as the rain began to fall on the cottonwood leaves outside.

The next morning, awakening, he quietly slipped from Leaf’s side and stepped out of the cave. A vague gray light came filtering down through the leaves of the fallen cottonwood. It was still out. The leaves barely turned. Occasionally a star twinkled through.

He took a long drink from the trickling stream, then purged himself with his goose feather. He bathed. Then, slipping into his clothes, he followed the stream out from under he fallen tree and across the meadow. He found the sorrel gelding and the dun mare secure in the brush. He petted them, and blew into their nostrils, and scratched them behind their ears. He led them out to the meadow and reset their stakes.

Alert to all sounds, he followed the trickling stream into the fringe of cottonwoods along the river. A jackrabbit jumped up. For a moment it was so confused it butted into a tree; then, getting its bearings, it crashed away through the underbrush. An owl next awakened. It gave him a great round eye, grumped at him in a melancholy way, then, resettling its feathers, sank back into sleep.