Stone Song (36 page)

“I want to show you something,” she said. Now she was taking the big risk. Her breath came tight, but she went ahead. She pulled on a buckskin thong around her neck. Slowly she drew out the ring of carved bone he had given her nearly ten winters ago. It glowed from the time she had spent rubbing it with fat.

“I wear it always between my breasts,” she said. “No one knows but No Water. I never take it off. Ever.”

She held his eyes.

She got up. “Tonight I will send the children to my sister’s lodge,” she said softly. She glanced up at him and back down, feeling shy now. She left the lodge quickly.

Walking home, she felt giddy. She thought she had done it. Yes, he would come to her tonight. Surely. She knew his heart. Didn’t she?

He told himself it didn’t matter. Red Cloud was taking many of the Oglala to live at an agency, where they would need no warriors.

He told himself that after thirty-one winters his real life was over and he should take whatever comfort he could find.

He told himself that No Water would not mind, that it would cause no trouble.

He didn’t truly believe any of this.

He admitted to himself that he had never wanted anything or anyone as he wanted Black Buffalo Woman. His body, his guts, his bones, even his skin yearned for her. If he walked across a desert without water for half a moon, this was how his body would ache for water.

Uncertain, he stepped outside the lodge. The night sun was approaching night-middle-made. He looked at the vast sky of stars, some making clouds of misty light, some separate, isolated, brilliant, cold. It was as though he heard a drum. The plunk of the drum lifted his feet and set them down, lifted them and set them down. The throb of the drum put his hand on her door flap. He himself lifted it.

She slept with her head on his shoulder and a bare leg thrown across his. He did not see how she could sleep. He wanted to hold every moment of their being together, to feel every touch and hear every whisper again in memory, to kiss her for a week, to be inside her forever.

She stirred, moved her body against the length of his, then kept napping. Twice already she had taken short naps, then waked to rouse him again.

He put a finger on her cheek and felt her warm breath on his chest. Out and in, very slowly, out and in, warm and moist. That breath, her life, touched his skin and grew in him an awareness, a presence. In his mind were no words for that presence, but in his body and in his memory he recognized the solace, the comfort, the succor.

He felt whole.

In the morning light Black Buffalo Woman looked into his eyes, and they were different. She wasn’t sure what had changed. His face was unpainted and wasn’t so grave that it made him look forty winters instead of thirty-one. But that wasn’t it. His mouth, maybe—it was sober, but for once had an edge of humor. The twin vertical lines between his eyes were gone, a difference for sure. He had wrapped his braids in strips of beaver she had given him last night, the fur a little darker than his hair.

The eyes were it. She had seen Crazy Horse in every light, every time of day, every circumstance, every mood, but she had never seen him playful, truly playful, as his eyes looked now. They were lovely.

She was sorry this was the Moon When the Chokecherries Are Ripe, which had the shortest nights of any moon.

He was taking food in her lodge at dawn. When he left, everyone would see. They would also see No Water’s moccasins, which she had set outside the door. She was happy.

When they woke this morning, Crazy Horse said the fateful words: “We are taking women on the raiding party tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

She heard what he left unsaid:
I want you for my wife
. She answered, “Yes.”

No Water was gone to the Rawhide Buttes to trade. So she would tell the children they were to stay with relatives until she got back, in no more than a quarter- or half-moon from now. Someone would pick up No Water’s moccasins where she had left them, and tell him.

Crazy Horse finished eating and set the bowl aside. “Come outside.” He led the way out of the lodge, where the whole village would see them, and sat on the side of the door away from the moccasins. “Put your back to me,” he said gently, and patted the earth in front of his crossed legs.

She lowered herself to the ground and felt his strong hands take hold of her hair. She dared not look up at all the eyes on them. “I want to braid your hair,” he said. “Then if you have some vermilion,” and he knew she did, “I will paint a red circle on your cheek.”

She felt a pang in her heart. This circle was the sign of a woman greatly beloved.

She looked back at the many inquisitive eyes. She felt triumphant.

They rode out of the village together ceremonially, in everyone’s view. She had the right to choice, like every mature Lakota woman. She was making her choice for all to see.

She knew what the women were saying. Some said that when Crazy Horse turned out to be the bigger man, she simply switched. Others talked about what No Water and Red Cloud might do when they found out. Some, though, were smiling at her. They knew she was marrying for love.

Actually, she herself wasn’t sure much of the time. She felt giddy, topsy-turvy, her emotions thrown every which way. She couldn’t explain it. Her mother accused her one morning of being enamored of the drama of throwing off one man and taking another and all the attention, even the furor. She wasn’t sure about that. But she knew the fledgling woman of all those winters ago still wanted Crazy Horse. She had discovered that last night. No Water made her want to be taken, which was exciting and frightening. Crazy Horse made her want to give, which was fulfilling.

She looked sideways at her Strange Man as they went over a rise and out of sight of the village. She was committed now. She studied his face—slender, and for once in his life, the face of a truly young man. He looked at her and smiled, and she felt his passion. For this moment she was sure. She loved him.

Standing Bear wrist-whipped his pony into camp, not caring where the pony stepped or what droppings it made or what dust it whirled up. If it was about to collapse, so was he, and he didn’t mean to slow down for the sake of politeness now.

A woman glared at him.

“No Water,” he growled at her. She look alarmed—his ferocity would frighten any woman, he thought—and ducked into a lodge to tell someone.

He’d been sickened by the spectacle. He’d watched them flirting with each other outrageously. Standing Bear knew it wasn’t simply that the woman fascinated the Strange Man. Their flirtation had ended nine winters ago when the woman had made a good marriage. That infatuation was meaningless anyway—every fool felt that way for a little while as a teenager. No, it was more. The Strange Man cared only moderately for the woman. Anyone could see that.

Strange Man
, Standing Bear thought. What he and Pretty Fellow called the Strange Man in private was “the misfit.” The other name was making something obnoxious into something glamorous.

The Strange Man didn’t want the woman—he wanted to insult No Water and the Bad Face people.

A man he didn’t know came out of the lodge. “I am Standing Bear,” he said to the fellow, “and I want No Water.”

The Strange Man despised the Bad Face people. Pretending to advocate peace and goodwill between these factions of the northern Oglala, he had in fact taken every opportunity to oppose them. Now he was throwing dust in the faces of No Water and Red Cloud.

Standing Bear had never forgotten the day Crazy Horse had kicked his brother in the face—the face!—and broken his nose. That day Standing Bear held poor Woman Dress’s head in his lap and swore to get even with the misfit.

This was his chance.

No Water came running.

“My friend,” said Standing Bear, “His Crazy Horse …” He’d intended to tease and mock No Water, to inflame him about this betrayal. From No Water’s expression, he saw that wouldn’t be necessary. “His Crazy Horse has run off with your wife.”

No Water slipped into camp. He had come at a hard run, nearly killing the mule. Now he needed some discretion. The last thing he wanted was for Crazy Horse to find out too soon that he was here. He needed a gun. He meant to leave nothing to chance. Where could he get one? Where, where, where?

A dog growled at him. He kicked at it and it slinked off. He looked around the lodge circle. Who was here? Who had come on this war party? Who were all their hosts?

Bad Heart Bull’s lodge—he knew it from the painting on the hides. Bad Heart Bull was the man who painted the winter counts. He was related to both sides, No Water’s and the misfit’s—a problem.

He had an idea. He would say he wanted to leave on a hunt before sunrise. He smiled. Bad Heart Bull had a pistol. Perfect.

He walked gently toward the lodge. He would speak sweetly. Then he would walk softly to whatever lodge Crazy Horse was in. He could be delicate when he needed to.

And he could slaughter when he needed to. Which was now.

Little Big Man was surprised at how good the feeling among the warriors was. When he’d seen Crazy Horse bringing the woman, he’d been afraid. The warriors would be worried about what the No Water and Red Cloud families might do. But everyone rode cheerfully and talked with good humor. He guessed the feeling was that these two should have been together years ago.

The second day out from camp they came on some other Oglala camped on a little creek. Friends invited the new couple, Little Big Man, and others to a feast. Lots of food, coffee with plenty of sugar, good talk, comradeship—it was a fine time. Their host told a wild hunting story to the men around the center fire. In the back the women were speaking softly and laughing often. Crazy Horse started a story about a grizzly he had seen fall off a boulder. It was a funny story, and Little Big Man had never heard the leader act so silly—

The lodge flap ripped open. No warning, no sound, no scratch for permission to come in.

No Water bounded toward the center fire. His shout crashed at them, and Little Big Man didn’t understand the words.

Crazy Horse reached for his knife. He started to jump to his feet, but Little Big Man held him back by one arm. Crazy Horse pulled at the arm.

“No, no!” shouted Little Big Man.

No Water’s hand jabbed at Crazy Horse’s face with a revolver. Little Big Man saw the flash of powder, heard the roar, and caught his leader’s limp body in his arms.

Blood everywhere. Crazy Horse’s clothes soaked, Little Big Man soaked.

Little Big Man got his friend and leader stretched out and tried to check the wound. Crazy Horse wasn’t dead yet. He was jerking his head from side to side violently. His pain must be terrible. His silence was terrible.

The rip in Crazy Horse’s flesh was directly under the left nostril. Little Shield sent someone for a healer. Blood washed all over Crazy Horse’s face, so Little Big Man couldn’t see whether the bullet had come out or was in his brain.

Black Buffalo Woman ran. She ran blindly, she ran frantically. She couldn’t get the picture out of her head—her Strange Man with his face shot off, the gun smoking in her husband’s hand.

She was next.

Her mind was in a thousand pieces. She had some memory of ducking under the lodge skirt, wondering if No Water saw her, running crookedly among the twilit lodges, falling headlong over some earflap poles, dodging a dog, and skidding to the ground, sobbing. And running again.

Then she remembered her cousin. The picture of her cousin’s lodge and the center fire and the family came to her like a rope to a drowning woman. She held onto it desperately, and somehow she found herself at
the lodge flap. She scratched frantically and went in before they said a word.

The family looked at her gape-mouthed, dinner bowls in their hands.

She blurted out all run together, “NoWater haskilled HisCrazyHorse and he’llkill
me
next!”

“A pony!” No Water shouted to the men, any of them, all of them. “Give me a pony!” He was frantic. He wanted to bellow, to roar, to command, but his voice sounded like a shriek, even to himself.

“What’s the matter?” said Left Hand. “Come sit down and smoke.”

No Water could see Left Hand’s friends weren’t so eager to offer hospitality. His face scared them.

Yes, I’m crazy
, he thought. He did roar now. “Cousin,” he shouted at Left Hand, “give me a pony! I’ve killed His Crazy Horse.” The words shocked even No Water, so he threw each one again, like rocks. “I’ve killed His Crazy Horse. Give me a pony!”

Everyone got right up.

Babble: “His Crazy Horse, killed in an Oglala camp?”

“His Crazy Horse, killed over a woman?”

“Our Strange Man murdered by another Oglala?”

“Two of our best men destroyed? So suddenly?”

“Yes, you idiots, it’s terrible!” No Water screamed in their faces. “Now get me out of here!”

He waved the pistol in the air. Nervous, Left Hand took it from him.

Left Hand heard someone rumble low, “Let’s turn him over to the His Crazy Horse family.” So he grabbed his cousin’s elbow and hurried him away. “Isn’t this Bad Heart Bull’s pistol?” said Left Hand. “Don’t tell me anything. Just go.” They sprinted to the pony herd and No Water went.

Bad Heart Bull put the pistol away. It was warm from No Water’s hands, and from what it had done. He walked slowly to the lodge where the dead man lay. He thought he might vomit. He had helped kill his cousin. Worse, he had helped bring tragedy on the Oglala. Again one Oglala leader had killed another. Again the hoop of the people was broken by one of their own.

The healer was blowing his eagle-bone whistle, so Bad Heart Bull knew Crazy Horse wasn’t dead yet. Spotted Crow, one of Worm’s brothers, squatted near the downed man. A healer mixed a medicine and put it on Crazy Horse’s face. The healer sang. He implored the grandfathers. He shook his rattle and sang again.

Crazy Horse was pale as buffalo fat, and his eyelids didn’t even flutter.

After a while Spotted Crow slipped away. Bad Heart Bull caught up with him. “It was my pistol,” he said.