Beauty for Ashes (6 page)

He still couldn't see Meadowlark's face. Though he felt sure, he had to make certain. But Red Roan's big body blocked her features from behind, and from this direction the back of her head was to Sam.
Maybe they aren't courting
. But Sam knew this was a silly hope.

He hesitated, screwed up his courage, and walked up close.
Yes, it's Meadowlark
. He studied her face past the big man's shoulder. She was lovely, far lovelier even than he remembered. Sam shivered inside his red-and-white striped capote. He knew the custom. A girl would flirt with one suitor for a while, and others would patiently wait their turn. Sam was next. She was looking up into Red Roan's face in a way that looked adoring.
Oh, dammit, dammit.

He stomped his cold feet, he fidgeted, and he fussed. In a few minutes—it was rude to monopolize a young woman's attention unless you were promised to each other—Red Roan meandered away. He had the swagger of a man who expects to get what he wants in life.

Meadowlark turned to go into her lodge, but Sam stepped forward and lightly took her elbow through the blanket. She turned to him, and he saw she was blushing a furious scarlet.

“I love you,” Sam blurted. Since she couldn't understand the English, he unwisely added,
“apxisshe.”
Though it meant “snubby nose,” in Crow it was a term of endearment used by a lover. He had declared himself.

She lowered her head into her hands. When she looked back into his face, she reached out with one hand and touched the
gage d'amour
she'd given him, as though affirming something. Then she said in the Crow language, “I'm glad to see you.”

That was enough for Sam. He was sure they'd be sharing a lodge within a couple of weeks.

He fished the string of Russian blues out of his capote pocket. “For you,” he said.

She gasped. She looked up at him, her eyes lighted in the way every man wants to see.

“I'm sorry I didn't come to the village last summer.” In summer these Crows rode down the Wind River, through a canyon where for some reason it changed its name to the Big Horn River, and north to a river called the Gray Bull. This site they regarded as a summer paradise.

She said nothing. Her face seemed to say, ‘A maiden knows she will be disappointed sometimes.' He hated that. He couldn't tell whether her face shone in the moonlight, or shone because she was looking up at him, or shone in his mind only.

“I got lost,” Sam said. “My companions sent me ahead to scout and then didn't come up. Some Arapahos stole my horse.” Arapahos were enemies of the Crows. “I walked all the way down the Shell River,” the one whites called the Platte, “to where we have a…”—he wondered what word to use for “fort”—“big house on the Muddy Water River.” The Missouri, if he was speaking English.

He saw the question in her face. “I walked about seventy sleeps,” he told her, “alone.” He didn't mention having only eleven balls for his rifle, not being able to hunt much, and damn near starving to death.

“Seventy sleeps! You're a hero,” she said.

Now Sam blushed. Wanting to cover up with some words or other, he broke out with, “Did you lead the dancers in the goose egg ceremony?”

Seemed everything either one of them said was embarrassing. “Yes, our relatives on the Muddy Waters River came to visit us and we danced.”

The River Crows, Sam translated in his head, who lived on the upper Missouri in a village he'd never been to.
Thank God, you didn't marry one of your cousins.
He blundered forward, “Do you ever go to visit your relatives on the Muddy Waters?”

Now her eyes grew merry. “Rides Twice would never go down the Muddy Waters. One of our dogs, he likes to say, would not drink such water.”

The eyes enchanted Sam. He wanted to kiss her—he was dizzy with wanting it. He reached out to draw her to him.

Just then her father stuck his head out the flap. “Meadowlark, it's time to come inside,” Gray Hawk said abruptly, almost harshly.

With his hands on her upper arms, Sam felt Meadowlark stiffen. She turned away from him, then looked back over her shoulder. “Goodnight,” she said. “I'm glad you're here.”

S
AM FUMBLED HIS
way across their lodge, around the slumbering forms of Gideon, Beckwourth, and Third Wing, and pushed open the flap to the outside world. In front of him stood a spirit horse—it reared and tossed its head. The rising sun shot off the white coat in dazzling beams, and turned the mane and tail into long, flowing strings of black silk.

Suddenly, a dark figure darted from underneath. Sam flinched a little. Then he recognized the silhouette and, yes, the smile of Blue Horse. “Wake up, sleeping head,” Sam's friend called loudly.

“Sleepyhead,” corrected Beckwourth as he peered out over Sam's shoulder.

“Sleepyhead,” echoed Blue Horse dutifully. “Sam Morgan, rise up. I have brought you a gift.”

Sam crawled out of the lodge, shivering in the dawn air.

Blue Horse led the mount in a circle. Sam saw now that it was the finest-looking Indian pony he'd seen, white with extraordinary markings—a black cap around the ears, black blaze on the chest, and black mane and tail.

“She's what we call a medicine hat pony, from the black on her head.” The hat was almost a perfect, dark oval around the ears. “This blaze,” he indicated the blaze on her chest, “we call the shield. She has hat and shield.”

“She's gorgeous.”

Blue Horse put the reins in Sam's hand. To the Crows reins meant a rope tied so it held the head and formed a loop around the lower jaw.

“A gift?” murmured Sam.

“I give Sam Morgan this horse,” Blue Horse said ceremoniously, “in thanks for saving my life.” He cocked an eye teasingly. “Or have you forgotten?”

Last winter, hunting in a brushy draw, Sam came on Blue Horse and a gray-hair lounging half-exhausted in front of a sweat lodge. About ten steps away a coyote was slinking toward them, shaking and frothing at the mouth. Sam shot the rabid coyote. Scared the devil out of Blue Horse and the gray-hair until they understood why he did it.

“Bell Rock also has a gift.” Now another man stepped forward smiling—the gray-hair. Sam hadn't remembered his name. He had to be a medicine man, since he conducted sweat lodges. A medicine man built like a frog.

Bell Rock spoke in Crow in a deep, commanding voice. “I give you teaching this horse, and its rider, how to run the buffalo.”

After a hesitation, Blue Horse added, “That's just as big a gift.”

Sam took the reins of his horse and admired it. The mare was beautifully conformed, and from her teeth only two years old.

Beside Sam, Gideon said softly, “
Belle,
zis horse, she is
belle.
”

“You understand,” said Blue Horse in English, “Bell Rock is good rider and very good horse teacher. Our men, they give him robes so he teach horses run buffalo. You let him teach.”

Sam ran his hands up and down the neck of the animal. Coy crept stiffly out of the tipi and nearly got under its hooves. Sam snatched up his pup. He fondled the horse's muzzle. He checked all four hooves. The horse was sound. He thought of how he'd seen the Crow men ride their mounts right into the midst of the buffalo herd, both hands occupied with bow and arrow, guiding the horse with the knees only. The mounts made incredible adjustments, constantly saved the lives of horse and rider. “Good,” he said. “This mare and I will learn from you.”

“You eat,” said Bell Rock in rough English, “we go.”

 

“T
HIS HORSE
,” B
ELL
Rock said, “is all raw. No human ever touch her back. Yesterday I teach her to lead.” He mixed Crow and English, with Blue Horse sometimes helping out. Just then Coy nipped underneath the mare's hooves, and the pony skittered sideways. Sam nudged Coy off to one side and stayed between the pup and the horse. He was carrying his saddle and apishemore, a saddle pad made of buffalo calf skin—why, he didn't know. No one was going to be riding this animal anytime soon.

They walked toward the river, and the mare now followed on the lead rope docilely.

“How'd you get her to lead so quick?” Back in Pennsylvania they taught horses to lead when they were still too small to pull you around.

Bell Rock smiled enigmatically. “You have to be smarter than the horse, and sometimes quicker. When a horse fights, you can't try to overpower it. But when it rears or crow-hops, you can use that moment. It's off-balance. And more tricks, many more.”

Sam looked at Blue Horse. “You coming along?”

“I also learn to train a horse for buffalo,” said Blue Horse. His English was always pronounced slowly but well. Sam could hear the concentration on imitating each part of each word just right.

They stopped at a deep pool in the river.

“Give me the saddle and apishemore,” said Bell Rock. “Now lead her into the pool.” Bell Rock gave a sidewise grin and handed Sam the lead rope. “It's cold for her too,” Bell Rock said. “That's good.”

The instant Sam pulled on the rope, the medicine hat reared. Blue Horse and Bell Rock shooed the upright, pawing animal, and the mare bounded into the pool.

Sam got jerked in head over heels.

The cold was a universe he'd never known. It felt not like liquid, but a weight, an immense, crushing weight. In one instant he knew he was going to die, and the next instant he burst out of the water for breath.

When the water reached only to his waist, it was merely agonizing.

“Lucky you hold on to the rope,” said Bell Rock.

Coy looked for a long moment and then jumped into the pool. He skittered out just as fast.

The medicine hat stood in the pool up to her withers. Her eyes rolled and she trembled all over. Maybe it was from the cold, or maybe from being held on the lead by Sam—she was looking at Sam insanely.

She couldn't rear or crow-hop or buck, or act up any other way. The deep water put a stop to that. Now Sam began to get what Bell Rock was doing.

Bell Rock stuck the saddle pad out at Sam. “Put it on her.”

Sam did.

The medicine hat shivered when the pad hit her back. But she stayed still.

Sam reached to touch her muzzle and the horse threw her head. “Won't let me touch her.”

“Be glad she's not trampling you,” said Bell Rock. “Lead her around in a circle.”

Sam did. Unexplainably, his legs sort of worked.

“Put your hands on the apishemore.”

Sam did. The medicine hat twitched, but no more than that.

“Take this rope, tie the apishemore on.” He handed Sam about ten feet of line braided from rawhide.

Sam had to dip arms and shoulders down into the cold to bring the rope around. He wanted to screech. But he knew if the mare wasn't deep in water, she would have been kicking the hell out of him.

“Enough for now,” said Bell Rock.

At the tipi they staked the mare with the saddle pad still tied on.

Sam got out of his wet clothes and into his capote. Then he straddled the low center fire for a long moment, feeling the warmth climb up his legs to the middle region. He sighed loudly. After a couple of minutes he rejoined his friends outside.

“Look,” said Bell Rock.

The medicine hat had lost interest in what was on her back and was munching on some winter-brown grass.

“Let's give her bark of the sweet cottonwood.” They did. Of the two kinds of cottonwood, horses liked the bark of this one. “You will always stake her by the lodge, always bring her food, never turn her out with the horse herds.”

Sam nodded. He got it. Not that he had any horse herds to turn her out with.

When they went back to the pool later, they got the saddle on the medicine hat, and left it on. That evening Sam tried to uncinch the saddle, but the mare kicked at him and crow-hopped in every direction. Back to the pool, back into the cold, and off with the saddle.

The next day they left it on all the next day and scarcely worked with the horse, except to lead it around. When the sun was almost behind the mountain, Bell Rock said, “Soon comes the great moment.”

 

T
HAT EVENING
S
AM
stood fidgeting near Meadowlark's lodge. His feet were freezing, so he stomped them. “They'll never be warm again,” he told Coy, and cursed the river.

Coy whimpered. Sam could never tell what that meant. He thought maybe it was, “I'm sorry I don't understand what you're saying, friend.” Coy sat patiently, his butt on the chill earth. Snow seldom stuck in this high valley of the Wind River, but the ground was plenty cold. It didn't seem to bother Coy. “Lucky fellow, you grow your own coat.” It was thick, too. First winter on Earth, but Coy knew what to do to stay warm, or accepted the cold as part of living.

Tonight Red Roan was taking his time, seemed like all the time he damn well wanted, with Meadowlark. Sam's practice now was to stand with his back to them and glance over a shoulder once in a while. He couldn't stand to see Meadowlark looking happily up into Red Roan's face, maybe even adoringly. Every night when Red Roan walked away, Coy yipped a little to let Sam know.

Sam looked around at the lodge circle. Every tipi had a fire inside, and they glowed like lanterns in the midwinter darkness. Children were playing games in those tipis. Stories were being told. Women were beading moccasins, or other clothing. People were sitting close to the fire, or cozying between buffalo and elk robes. Sam stomped his feet hard.

A tap on the shoulder.

He made himself turn slowly, unbelieving. Yes, Red Roan.

The chief's son said slowly in the Crow language, as though speaking to a child, “You are training the horse. Good. Soon I teach the young men to shoot bow and arrow well. You want learn?” A big smile accompanied the invitation.

Sam thought how desperate he had been when he had only eleven balls left for his rifle, how near he had come to starvation. Though making arrows was laborious, going to the settlements for ammunition was harder.

This invitation seemed generous. “Yes.”

Fear bit at his breath. Was this some trick?

“At the half moon,” the big man padded away, light on his feet.

Sam stepped close to Meadowlark, wrapped in her blanket. Now he could forget about his feet. “I love you,” he said. This was the way he began the courting each evening.

“I am glad to see you,” she answered with a smile. She looked at him adoringly. Every night he tried to figure out whether this was the same look she gave Red Roan, but he never could.

He reached out and took the hands that held her blankets clasped. She squeezed his fingers, reached down, and picked up Coy. At about eight months the pup was getting big to pick up, though it seemed he was going to be a small coyote. Still, Meadowlark picked him up every evening. Sam wondered if that was her way of preventing him from embracing her, kissing her. He watched her nuzzle Coy with her face. Yes, she liked him. Sam had seen the delight on her face when this little animal responded well to Sam's commands. Crows didn't train their dogs like this, or pet them. She buried her nose in Coy's fur and rocked him.
Maybe she is avoiding holding hands with me.

He told her about his day, what his progress was with Bell Rock and Blue Horse to train the medicine hat as a buffalo runner. He laughed at himself about the awful cold of the river. After a look of surprise—did Crow men confess weaknesses like this?—she laughed too.

Then he took a risk. “Red Roan offered to teach me, along with the other young men, how to shoot the bow and arrow well. Is he trying to fool me?”

“He's a good man,” she said.

But there was something she wasn't saying.

“And…?”

“I trust him.” She smiled like a pixie. “He and Blue Dog are rivals, maybe a little. Red Roan is a war leader. My brother wants to be.” After a moment she added, “My brother is a natural leader. Everyone has high hopes for him.”

She gave him the news of her day. She was sewing elk teeth onto a dress. Sam knew it took a long time to collect enough of these rear teeth to decorate an entire dress. When she was finished with that, she would trim the yoke, sleeves and neckline with red wool strouding her mother had traded for. She gave Sam a look like, You're special because you brought this cloth to our village. The dress, altogether, would be very beautiful. She would save it for an important occasion, he knew. He hoped she would save it for the day she came to him and they set up their own lodge, together.

Coy mewled. Gray Hawk was sticking his head out of the lodge. “Time to come in,” he told Meadowlark.

She gave Sam's hand a squeeze, set Coy down, and darted into the tipi.

Sam stood and looked at the sides of the lodge, shaped into flat planes by the poles. The fire was lower than half an hour ago. The family would sleep soon, and sleep warm, the parents in the robes at the back, the two daughters on the north side near the door.

Sam wished he had a family.

He strode out of the lodge circle, toward the quarters of the young men and the lodge of the trappers. There a fire would be waiting, and meat, and stories. Gideon, Beckwourth, and Third Wing were such storytellers that Sam could only listen, amazed.

He turned and looked again at the circle of relatives, peoples who made their lives together. The fires were low, making the lodges ghostly pyramids against the black night.

Again Sam wished he had a family.

 

T
HE GREAT MOMENT
Bell Rock promised…

All right. Sam took a deep breath, or as deep as he could get, standing waist deep in this river. The cold made him want to scream.

Blue Horse held the medicine hat's reins. The friends grinned at each other, comrades in being foolish enough to get into this river in midwinter.

Bell Rock handed Sam the saddle pad and the saddle. The use of this saddle was Bell Rock's concession to Sam's being white. He arranged and smoothed the pad, taking his time. He set the saddle loosely on the medicine hat's back. No sense in hurrying when your next job is to…He just did it, as quick as he could. Ducked down into the water, grabbed the cinch, slid it through the double ring, pulled down hard.