The Changing Wind (22 page)

White Buffalo nearly laughed aloud. Of course the Head Splitters would refuse rather than admit their poverty. More importantly, however, it allowed Hump Ribs to establish himself as a successful leader in the minds of the enemy. It was a triumph of diplomacy. The enemy had been faced down.

“No, we have plenty,” Bull’s Tail signed, though the lie was obvious.

“It is good,” agreed Hump Ribs calmly, apparently not noticing the discrepancy.

He will make a great leader
, White Buffalo thought to himself with amusement. The young chief had not only handled himself well but had embarrassed an older, experienced adversary.

There was one, however, who was obviously displeased. The dark wiry young man with the shifty look glared in anger. That would be one to watch for in the future.

“How are you called?” White Buffalo signed to him.

The young man stared angrily for a moment. White Buffalo realized that the man was very young, younger than he by several seasons. He must be well respected to be chosen to accompany the chief. This in turn implied again that this was a dangerous man.

“I am Gray Wolf. Remember it. You will hear it again!”

A
t the Sun Dance that year, the entire tribe buzzed with excitement over the doings of the Southern band. Even before the Big Council, where each chief related the events of the year to the assembly, the rumors made their rounds. The story flickered through the big encampment with the speed of real-fire in a thunderstorm, and the excitement rose. There was a new young chief in the Southern band, a nobody who had risen after the death of Broken Horn. Under his leadership the band had prospered. His decisions had been good. In a confrontation with the Head Splitters on the trail to this very gathering, he had publicly humiliated old Bull’s Tail, one of the enemy’s capable leaders. That story had grown, of course. In some versions, young Hump Ribs had heaped supplies on the ground before the hungry Head Splitters, forcing Bull’s Tail to refuse the gift to save face.

Most of this, it was said, was due to the powerful medicine of a new holy man of the Southern band. In a time of starvation and drought, he had caused rain to fall and an immense herd of buffalo to appear from a hole in the ground.

“But is White Buffalo not their holy man?” someone asked.

“Yes, of course. White Buffalo gave away his name to this, his son, and then crossed over. His wife too, the medicine woman Dove, also crossed over.
Aiee
, my friends, this man is good! He has the medicine of both parents. Did you hear of the event with the calfskin, when he drew the buffalo over the cliff’s edge?”

“Only a little part. How did he escape, himself?”

The teller of the story paused a moment, unsure. His
listeners were so intent… it would be a shame to admit that he did not know.

“I have heard,” he half whispered, “that he leapt into the air
and flew
, while the herd passed under him.”

“Aiee! The
holy man can
fly?”

“Well, maybe not. But the calfskin cape… it would let him float a little while, you know, with the help of his medicine.”

“But I have heard that the death of their chief, Broken Horn, was caused by the buffalo. Is this a doing of the new holy man?”

That was an obvious suspicion which caused ugly rumors for a day or two. Could the young chief and the holy man have plotted to kill Broken Horn and take control of the band?

This was quickly proved untrue by the members of the Southern band themselves. First, the death of Broken Horn had occurred
before
the young medicine man had taken his father’s name and prestige. White Buffalo the Elder was still powerful at the time. Next, young Hump Ribs did not seize the leadership. He was persuaded, after older and more experienced men had refused. He had been nominated, in fact, by the respected subchief Short Bow, after refusing the honor for himself. The final argument: Cat Woman, widow of the greatly respected Broken Horn, strongly supported the young chief and the holy man.

All in all, the members of the Southern band, when such questions were raised, became quite indignant. It was apparent that they would tolerate no suspicion over the events of the season. The rumors dissolved like wisps of fog on a sunny morning and were gone. They were rapidly replaced by admiration and even envy for the band that had most successfully weathered the Year-of-No-Rain. The Southern band had never been a great political power in the tribal council. Now, however, even the Real-chief spoke with respect. The Big Council sought the opinion of Hump Ribs when the time came to choose the site for next year’s Suri Dance. Suddenly it was a matter of prestige to belong to the Southern band.

When the tribes separated after the events of the annual festival, the Southern band had grown by perhaps ten families. Of course, some of these were not the most desirable
of members. Some people were constantly changing loyalties, looking for the reflected glory belonging to the most affluent band. However, it was still of some advantage to the Southern band. Sheer weight of numbers tips the balance of prestige, and the other bands noticed the swing of loyalty and were envious.

It was a good season. The grass grew lush and tall; the children were fat and the women happy. There were no more encounters with the Head Splitters. Hunting was good, and the Southern band settled in for the winter, quite comfortable and secure.

In fact, when White Buffalo unrolled the story-skin to record the year’s events, there were few worthy of mention. It was somewhat frustrating to consider that in this season, his first of recording the pictographs, there was little to record. He decided on a successful hunting scene in tall grass, depicting several hunters of note killing buffalo. Above these, and slightly larger, was a figure identified as Hump Ribs, presiding over the scene. He was not pleased with it, but Crow assured him that he had done well.

“It is a good problem to have,” she joked, “a season so successful that there is no event unusual enough to note.”

Good omens continued, and the Southern band prospered. It was a mild winter, with little illness and practically no hunger. It seemed that the existence of the band was charmed, governed by the powerful medicine of White Buffalo and led by the skill and diplomacy of Hump Ribs.

White Buffalo knew that it was false. Things were going too well, and someday it must end. He was concerned that when it happened, there would be much dissatisfaction, and the people would begin to blame Hump Ribs.

This also put White Buffalo in an untenable position. It would be difficult to overcome the complacency of the People, whose existence was basically day-to-day, hand-to-mouth, anyway. In his position as a prophet and seer, he should warn that change would come. The problem was, when? If he issued warnings of dire misfortune and nothing happened, he would lose face, the People would chuckle behind his back, and his effectiveness would be impaired. On the other hand, if he did not voice a warning,
when trouble came, he would be blamed for lack of vision. He wished that his father were here, so that they could consult. He tried casting the bones, but that was little help. The patterns that had seemed so clear when his father was the holy man never quite materialized.

Crow Woman sensed his unrest.

“What is it, my husband?”

There was little that he could keep from her or would wish to. He shared his concerns, and she nodded understanding.

“The question is, when?” he finished.
“When
shall I try to tell them?”

“How do you know when to announce the coming of the rains or the buffalo?” Crow asked.

“That is simple. A change in the wind, the other signs. But in this, there are no signs!”

“There must be signs, sometimes.”

“Yes, Crow, but I do not know what to look for because there is no way to know what form the changing omens will take.”

“Could you warn that there will be misfortune someday?”

“Maybe. But I should be able to support that with a sign, and I have none. The casting of the bones…
aiee
, maybe their power is gone, with my father’s passing.”

“No, surely not,” Crow said. “Have you asked Grandfather Buffalo?”

“No. That would be wise,” he agreed.

He fasted, went out alone, and achieved contact with his spirit-guide, but he felt that it was little help. There were more questions than answers.

You will know
, he was advised,
when the time comes, how to proceed. You cannot foresee everything. It is a gamble
.

How odd, White Buffalo thought, waking from the vision. His guide had seemed almost flippant about it. The comment about gambling… that seemed completely inappropriate. He tried to reason it through. It was true, of course. When the medicine man observed the signs and predicted rain or announced the time to burn, he was sometimes wrong. It was a matter of close observation, an attempt to be right more often than wrong. The holy man’s skill and the power of his medicine were judged not
by whether he was correct
every
time but
most
of the time. But in this case, he should have something to go on. This time it was important that he be right. There had been no major pronouncement since the Great Hunt. None had been necessary. His prestige still depended on the memory of that event. Prestige had a habit of fading, like the daylight when Sun Boy slips beyond the edge of the earth. White Buffalo needed something to reinforce his position, to solidify prestige.

And he must predict correctly.
Aiee
, if there were only some way, when he cast the bones, that he could know how they would fall. A gamble…

He was walking through the village one day, late in the Red Moon. Plums were ripening along the streams, and the People were gathering the fruit to dry or to eat. This always resulted in a seasonal gambling fever, with the plum-stone game. He paused to watch a group of young men, rolling the plum-stones on the smooth flesh-side of a robe spread on the ground.

The man who held the stones shook them between his cupped palms and with a triumphant flourish, cast them on the flat surface. The seeds skittered and bounced, and came to rest. There was a shout of glee from the man who had cast them. Of the five plum-stones, three displayed a red dot. The player swept them up to cast again. Three more times he tossed before the stones betrayed him, and he passed to the next player.

White Buffalo stood, deep in thought. The plum-stone game was an old one, highly favored among the gamblers. Any odd number of stones would be used, usually five or seven. All would be painted with a red dot on the side. The gambler’s win or loss depended on whether there were more of the red dots exposed when the stones came to rest or the plain yellow of the natural stone.

What had caught White Buffalo’s attention as he watched the game was one particular plum-stone. He could identify it at each throw because it was slightly larger than the others. It was considered best to have complete uniformity, of course, but sometimes a little variation occurred. The peculiar thing about this plum-stone was not its size but that it almost never came to rest with the red dot facing upward. He watched, fascinated. Apparently this plum-stone was flattened slightly on the one side,
which affected its tumbling motion. The players seemed not to notice. They would probably lose these stones or throw them away before the next game anyway. White Buffalo watched a little longer to verify his impression, then slipped away. His heart was good because he might have found an answer.

For several days, well away from the camp, he studied hundreds of plum-stones. Thousands of times he tossed his selected specimens across a skin—choosing, discarding, selecting again. The stones must have an asymmetry, flattened on one side but not enough to be noticeable. Yet he must be certain that they would behave in a predictable way most of the time. Finally, he selected nine plum-stones which fit the requirements. It remained only to paint them. Not red… that was too familiar to the gamblers. Black. Yes, that would do. And for this purpose, black should be the favored side. Carefully he painted not just a dot but one entire side of each plum-stone. He could hardly wait for the pigment to dry, so that he could test his theory.

Finally, he was able to toss the stones. On the first throw, seven were black, two yellow. The second resulted in six and three; the third, eight and one. White Buffalo was delighted. Many times he cast the black stones, and only once did they show more yellow than black, five to four. That was no problem. The ceremony of Black Stones which he intended could be based upon three throws. Now he had his predictable ceremony. A thought occurred to him. Could it be that the assortment of sticks and bones he had inherited from his father was such a thing? No, surely not. His father would have told him. But this new ceremony… it must be used very seldom and very cautiously. It would be easy to misuse. Maybe, when the time came to pass on his medicine to another, he would destroy the black stones instead. He wondered for a moment who that successor might be.