Murder at Medicine Lodge (25 page)

“Well, it's no damn wonder he said he couldn't live in a regular soldier's tent!” he bayed. “And there he had old Gettis convinced that his living like a regular soldier placed him in jeopardy!”

“Why?”

Captain Mac explained angrily. “It was some drivel about the troops threatening him simply because he was the bugler. All right, it's true that in the army the bugler is something of a pariah because it's the bugler's duty to wake up the troops when they'd rather sleep and he is the one who sends them charging into battle, which is why Gettis probably swallowed that twaddle about his being threatened and gave him private quarters, allowed him to live above his station. But this!”—he shouted, throwing down a fine white shirt in disgust—“is beyond the limit. No ordinary soldier should have had any of this!”

Carefully handling the silver-framed mirror and the silver-handled shaving brush, I quite readily agreed. These were the things of a young soldier chief who, because of love, had been reduced to a pauper. I began to set aside all of things I knew belonged to Lieutenant Danny. It wasn't right that those things would be sent to Buug-lah's family. While I sorted through the items, Hawwy incited Captain Mac further by informing him that their dead bugler had been in the process of buying a commission. Captain Mac exploded, demanded to see the proof of that with his own eyes. Hawwy complied, showing him the letter and the tin box full of money. Those two were working each other up about the duplicity of the dead man as I instructed Billy on the return of Lieutenant Danny's property. That done, I announced that I wanted to go home.

*   *   *

Neither Captain Mac nor Hawwy wanted me to leave. In fact, they insisted I stay. Captain Mac even went so far as to offer to put me up for the night in his tent if I was feeling too crowded in Hawwy's. But that wasn't why I was anxious to leave, and through Billy I made them understand that the meticulous examination of the dead man had defiled my person, that I needed to purify myself through an exhaustive ritual which would take the whole of the night.

Actually, that was a lie, a little cedar smoke and a good scrub with soap and water would have done the trick, but I was tired of white people and I missed my wife. Then, too, I did need to talk to Skywalker. Amazingly, the instant I mentioned the mysterious ritual, both Hawwy and Captain Mac began to blather on about how they fully understood, that of course it was right I should go. I have noticed that, whenever anything bordering on mystic beliefs is voiced, white men, and women, get nervous. They begin saying they fully understand when they so obviously don't, and seem mortally terrified I might actually commence to demonstrate dark and peculiar rites right then and there.

*   *   *

Captain Mac took charge of the money box and went off, and Hawwy sent a trooper to fetch me a horse. Even though the sun was going down and the air was definitely colder, I returned Hawwy's fine coat. He wanted me to keep it, bring it back the next day, but that wasn't wise. A stronger, more aggressive warrior might put the claim on it and then I wouldn't have it to return to him. So I took it off and gave it back, along with my thanks for its use. When the saddled horse was brought forth, I eagerly mounted up and rode for my home camp.

My wife was the only one pleased to see me. My unexpected appearance produced a crowd of men, every one of them arriving just in time to witness Crying Wind hugging my neck and raining kisses on my face. When I, too, ignored their presence, began kissing her back with a building passion, White Bear stepped in, pulling us apart.

“What are you doing here?” he bellowed. “You were told to stay with those Blue Jackets until Lone Wolf fetched you out.”

“There was no need for me to stay,” I said, holding my wife's warm body tight against mine.

“You know who killed that soldier?”

“Yes.”

The Cheyenne Robber shouldered his way forward. “It wasn't Little Jonas, was it?”

“No.”

“Then tell us who it was,” White Bear shouted, stepping in closer to me.

“I think you should know,” I said evenly, “that I've recently touched another dead white man.”

Clearly repulsed, everyone stepped well back, and with a cry, Crying Wind wriggled out of my arms. Then her fist collided with my shoulder.

“How could you touch me and kiss me when you knew you were unclean?”

Loving even the sight of her scrunched-up, angry face, I said humbly, “Because during the whole way here I had thought of nothing else but the two of us bathing.”

A sparkle came into her eyes. “Oh! Well, that's all right, then.” A smile on her face, she instructed her cousin White Bear to take our son to her sister.

*   *   *

Sitting in that stream, the water so cold that my body became numb, I missed that big black pot with the fire under it and its hot soapy water. One way or another, I was going to steal that pot. I no longer cared if taking it required a team of us to carry it away, I would have it and that was that. As the coldness of the water penetrated our very bones, Crying Wind and I did not linger with our bath. Bundled up in thick blankets, we made a headlong dash for home and, sitting side by side before a good fire, I added a good supply of cedar chips to the flames. When we felt a little warmer we knelt and, using our arms to call up the pungent smoke, washed it over our naked bodies. Completely clean now, like a pair of frolicking otters, we began to tussle beneath the covers of our bed.

“Come up for air!”

We did, both bobbing up at the same time, the blanket settling around our hips. The voice shouted again.

“You're not newlyweds you know.”

I scowled at my wife. “He can be the worst nuisance I have ever known.”

“I know you want to talk to me,” the voice outside laughed.

“True,” I hollered, “but not just now!”

“Now is all we have,” came the reply. “Lone Wolf is expecting company.”

Wrapping a small blanket around my waist, I scrambled across the space between our bed and the door. Opening the flap, poking my head out, I saw that familiar lanky form, that mocking half-smile.

“Who?” I quizzed. “Who is he expecting?”

“Ten Bears,” Skywalker replied.

My reunion with Crying Wind had to be put off. Ten Bears, chief of the Comanches, was Lone Wolf's most staunch ally. If he was coming to council with Lone Wolf, odds were high he was bringing bad news.

*   *   *

Skywalker waited outside. Leaning against a pine, contenting himself with the brilliance of a glorious sunset while my wife and I bustled around inside our lodge and she helped me dress. As I was to take part in an important council, she wanted me to look my best, insisting I wear my new shirt, best leggings. Somehow I was to put these things on, holding completely still while she combed knots out of my hair. The end result was that I felt grandly thrown together as I made my escape from my wife's tender clutches.

“You look nice,” Skywalker said, as I passed him by.

I came to a jerky stop, turned at the waist. When he made no attempt to move from his spot, I yelled, “Why are you just standing there? You said we had to hurry!”

Skywalker, the very essence of aloof, pulled his weight away from the trunk of the pine. “True, but a dignified walk makes a better impression than a worried scurry.”

The image of dignity, we wended our way through the heart of the camp, eventually arriving at Lone Wolf's lodge. Before it stood dozens of tripods, each bearing a war shield. I instantly recognized Ten Bears' shield, then one by one, the shields of every other important chief in the five Nations. This was impressive company we were about to keep and my heart banged nervously inside my chest as Skywalker bent low and entered the lodge. Summoning my nerve, I followed.

Skywalker took his rightful place in the seated circle while I stood at the back. Now and then some of these great chiefs looked over their shoulders at me, wondered who I was. I tried to look important. The trouble was, I didn't know what to do with my hands. Waiting for those moments when no one was looking, I tried three different poses, finding each of them too awkward and too uncomfortable to maintain for any length of time. So I settled with just clasping my jittery hands behind my back. Then there was nothing left to do but listen.

In council meetings, when outsider chiefs are in attendance, while passing the pipe each man is required to relate, as briefly as possible, his family history. This can be especially trying as the names of the dead cannot be mentioned. Therefore, the dead relative must be described either by appearance or by a remembered deed, just as a Cheyenne chief was in the process of doing while I was searching for a dignified stance.

“I am the son of the man who once found a roan horse. That was a good horse and because my father could find no owner's mark on it, he kept it. Well, that horse belonged to a Crow chief and he wanted it back. My father wouldn't give it because he never did trust the word of a Crow, so they had a war which became known as the Roan Horse Fight. My father's father was…”

Now, while all of this was very interesting, there were simply too many stories to tell, and I was standing whereas everyone else was comfortably seated. By the time a third chief began to speak, except for a burning sensation in my locked knees, I had no feeling in my legs, and my hands, tired of being locked behind me, were hanging limply at my sides. Still I suffered through another hour of individual genesis, until finally the pipe was handed back to Lone Wolf and the cause of this council was stated.

“I well know,” Lone Wolf began in a gravelly tone, “that because of certain blunders”—he glanced at White Bear—“the need for a Kiowa presence at the treaty talks has been called to question. I have also heard it said that I am timid. That if the other one [meaning Little Bluff] were still alive, none of this would have happened.”

Avoiding any direct eye contact with Lone Wolf, the other chiefs nodded their heads, muttered, “Ho”—that this was so.

Lone Wolf considered at length, then said, “I am a man who speaks the truth and that truth is this. I was only recently elected to my high office and the two who would have preferred themselves over me, have not had sufficient time to settle down, to understand that neither of them were chosen by the people.”

The two in question responded in very different ways. White Bear squirmed. Kicking Bird lifted the corner of his upper lip in a sneer. Lone Wolf dryly continued.

“On advice from my most trusted council member, I selected one to stay in the Blue Jackets' camp. He was to stay until I came for him,” he twisted his head on his neck, looked directly back at me. “But I see that he has come back.” He sat forward again. “He disobeyed. I am told that he did this because he can prove that no Kiowa was the cause of the death of one of the Blue Jackets. They also tell me that the sacrifice of the Buffalo Soldier is unnecessary.”

Lone Wolf took a deep cleansing breath and released it. “This last thing makes me glad. I do not know this Buffalo Soldier, but others do. They have vouched for him. It is good that a worthy person will not be thrown away.” He nodded as the others let go a chorus of agreement. When they gradually became quiet, Lone Wolf spoke again.

“Because I agreed with the ones who spoke for that Buffalo man—that he should not die unnecessarily—I delayed all further decisions concerning the Blue Jackets. Doing this caused me to look weak, uncertain, a bad leader of a great nation. I know that all of you have come here to pass this judgment. I ask only that you listen to the one I mentioned, and if whatever he says fails to convince or dissuade you, there will be no need for you to vote on what to say about me. Without argument, I will stand aside, give up being chief. It is better for one like me to lose office, lose honor, than to cry against what my fellow chiefs say and know that my Nation will no longer have a place at the Council Fire of Nations—a fire, I do not have to remind any of you, that was sparked into life by the one before me, the man responsible for ending the generations of wars that once divided us.”

His mouth thinning until it was little more than a shadow of a line, Lone Wolf bowed his head.

And there it was, Lone Wolf's long-awaited decision. A pronouncement that left me holding his chieftainship in my trembling hands. So dazed I couldn't move, my throat so tight I could barely breathe, all heads turned in my direction.

The lodge was so crammed that there was nowhere for me to go, so I did not, as has been later testified, move to the center of that important assembly with any type of dramatic sweep. All I did was stand exactly where I was and squeak out the things I knew to be true. And I did this just as quickly as I could—not because I was too afraid to dazzle and impress the great minds present but simply because, just as I was readying myself, I'd heard The Cheyenne Robber mutter to Hears The Wolf, “I hope he doesn't need to talk for a long time. I have to pee.”

Thus inspired, I got right down to it.

“It has been my privilege to do this small favor for a man I know to be a wise chief,” I said. Hearing this, Lone Wolf turned his bowed head, his eyes peering at me. Well, I had voted for the man to be our new principal chief. If he was about to lose everything, common decency demanded he know that someone in the lodge still thought highly of him. Then, swallowing nervously, I rambled on.

“The Blue Jacket world is a strange place. Their rules are not the same for everyone, their leaders have no love for their men. As you all know, if a chief has no love or concern for his warriors, then they cannot trust in him. But this is the way Blue Jackets live, in a state of arrogance and restrictive laws. Which makes them dangerous, not only to themselves but to others.”

“Ho!” shouted the assembly.

“In the short time I was with them,” I began, “I learned many dark secrets.…”