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Authors: Don Coldsmith

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BOOK: The Elk-Dog Heritage
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If was five
suns before the first of the newly arriving Head Splitters came. There were six or seven of them, and they lost no time in circling the camp of the People.
An arrogant young chief, resplendent in his war paint, charged alone to within a bowshot of the barrier. He pulled his big horse to an openmouthed, sliding stop, while several young warriors of the People hooted in derision.
Heads Off, however, did not like the serious, businesslike way in which the other looked over the situation. Here was a man who was accustomed to having things go his own way. He apparently intended to see that they did.
More enemy warriors arrived next day, and still more the next. For several suns, small groups of Head Splitters trickled into the area, to mingle with those already there. They seemed in no hurry, were willing to wait for the proper moment.
Each morning a handful of enemy warriors, always the same individuals, would ride out and exchange taunts and derision with the young warriors of the People. It seemed a half-hearted, boasting attempt to goad each other into an indiscretion, and was completely unsuccessful.
Still, the strength and number of the enemy increased. It became evident that there were warriors arriving from several different bands of the Head Splitters. This seemed to indicate that word had spread among that tribe. All who wished vengeance for the defeat in the Great Battle a few seasons back could now
gather. It was a deliberate, almost ceremonial preparation that the enemy was now making, for the extermination of the Elk-dog band of the People.
The Moon of Greening was now nearly past, and the Growing Moon beginning. It was time to start the journey to the Big Council, but no one mentioned that fact. It would have taken most of the Growing Moon to make the move. The tribe would gather at a prearranged site on the Salt River, starting the Sun Dance and Big Council in the Moon of Roses.
Again, Heads Off thought of the circle of chiefs at the Big Council. There would be an empty space this year, and for all the years to come. It would be pointed out to future generations that the empty place in the circle had been that of the Southern, or Elk-dog band, exterminated long ago by the Head Splitters. There would be a record of the event painted on the Story Skins and preserved in the history of the tribe. It would be remembered for all time as the year the Elk-dog band was killed. Oddly, he wondered how the painters of the skins would depict the scene. Even at such a time, the hope crossed his mind that the Elk-dog people would be portrayed as dying bravely and fittingly. Then he shrugged. What did it matter?
Heads Off watched the enemy as they moved around their camp from day to day, hunting and practicing with their weapons. Once a party of Head Splitters made a buffalo kill within sight of the People. They made a great exaggerated show of butchering and preparing the succulent hump ribs, knowing that the captive band was near starvation, and subsisting on the tough, stringy meat of the elk-dogs.
One of the recently arriving groups of Head Splitters had actually brought their lodges and families with them. Such confidence was beyond belief. It was unheard of to take women and children on a war party. The only explanation, of course, was
obvious. The conclusion of the events now approaching was foregone. There was no danger involved, the enemy was saying, in merely exterminating this helpless, starving band of the People. The arrival of the families of Head Splitter warriors meant simply contempt for the beleaguered People.
There was one slim hope that kept occurring to the young chief. With all the warriors of different bands now gathering, there seemed to be a lack of organization. With his previous military training, this was more obvious to Heads Off than to the others.
When they had been confronted by only the one enemy band, there had been a semblance of order. The mock charges, the attack that was to have been final, had all been organized and well-disciplined. Now there seemed, at least from this distance, to be mere milling confusion. There appeared to be no directed effort to organization on the part of the enemy.
Heads Off discussed this with Coyote and a few of the others.
“I think you are right, Heads Off,” Coyote nodded thoughtfully. “They have lost some strong chiefs in the attack. No one is their main chief now.”
“How can we use this?”
There was a long silence, then Long Elk spoke.
“We could have attacked while they were weak,” he said wistfully.
“No, they were not that weak. It was too dangerous.” Heads Off was firm.
They continued to discuss the situation, but could arrive at no conclusion. It would require a major surprise to take advantage of the enemy's disorganization. Something like an unexpected attack, and the People had simply not enough strength for such a move. They had only a few elk-dogs and a handful of young warriors trained to use the lance on horseback. The only way such
a group could be used was in a suicide charge. Then there would be even fewer warriors to withstand the final onslaught. Heads Off refused to consider such a plan.
In the final event, the enemy was so overwhelmingly superior in numbers and equipment that it would matter little how disorganized they were. What matter if the defenders were sliced efficiently to pieces, or merely crushed in a disorganized trample?
“Come, my friend,”
Coyote was speaking. “Let us go and speak to White Buffalo.”
The two men threaded through the camp toward the lodge of the medicine man. It was now the most pretentious lodge remaining, the only one of the big lodges constructed in recent years. Heads Off wondered what would happen in the final debacle. Would the lodge of the medicine man fall and be destroyed with the rest, or would the enemy's strange fear of his medicine spare it again?
It was entirely possible, he decided, that the enemy would leave the medicine lodge as the only thing standing, and its occupants the only living things on the scene when they departed.
“Uncle!” Coyote was tapping on the taut lodge skin. “We would speak with you!”
Crow Woman held aside the door skin and the two stooped to enter. The delicate scent of dried herbs assailed their nostrils as they stepped into the dusky interior and greeted the medicine man. He was seated in the host's place directly across from the doorway, solemnly smoking. He nodded and motioned them to sit.
“Uncle,” Coyote began, “we wish to speak of the Head Splitters.”
White Buffalo nodded again and sat, still not speaking.
“Could you,” Heads Off spoke at last, “tell us of the coming fight?”
The old man turned and stared wearily at him for a long moment. Then he sighed, and rose to collect the various accoutrements of the dance that would help his vision. Crow Woman warmed the drum over the fire to tune it, and started the rhythmic beat. The fixed expression on her lined face left no doubt that she considered the situation hopeless.
Heads Off had always been impressed with the ritualistic dances and visions of the medicine man. To be sure, White Buffalo was an opportunist. The old man was a shrewd observer, watching the actions of animals, birds, and insects, as well as the patterns of the weather. He was acutely aware of human behavior as well. By the use of all the information available to him, White Buffalo's vision predictions were remarkably accurate.
Heads Off had sometimes been amused by the way in which the medicine man took credit for fortunate happenings. White Buffalo's shrewd powers of observation allowed him occasionally to guess the outcome of the course of events, slightly before they were seen by the others. Thus he could foretell or warn and seem to predict correctly things yet to happen.
These were the thoughts that drifted through the mind of the young chief as they watched the dance. The intricate preparation, the face-painting, the costuming and manipulation of the scep-terlike gourd rattles. But Heads Off, watching the old man, had the feeling that his heart was heavy. White Buffalo, more than anyone, had the insight to see the ultimate outcome of the events in progress.
Heads Off began to feel sorry for the medicine man. The band had long looked to him for advice. His visions were usually optimistic, sometimes with a warning if necessary. But now, when the conclusion of this siege was clearly to be tragic, what could the medicine man say? There was no way the old man could give
an encouraging forecast. Heads Off wondered if it were possible for him to present a bleak vision.
Possibly White Buffalo was thinking of the same dilemma. There was something of depression and despair in the shuffle of his feet, the slope of the shoulders and swing of the head.
At last he finished the dance and Crow Woman spread the painted skin on the floor of the lodge. Perhaps it was only in the imagination of the onlookers that the incantation was a little longer and more fervent. White Buffalo made his cast, and bits of bone and wood and pebble skittered and skipped over the surface. As they came to rest, the medicine man began his interpretation.
“
Aiee!
” he muttered to himself. He glanced quickly at the others, something akin to excitement and genuine surprise in his face.
“What is it, Uncle?”
The medicine man seemed puzzled. He poked the bright pebbles gently with a gnarled forefinger, muttering to himself. The suspense was growing intolerable.
“It is good!” he finally exclaimed, the expression of surprise and bewilderment still on his face as he rocked back in a squatting position on his heels.
“But, Uncle,” Heads Off interjected, “how can this be?”
The medicine man shrugged, as if such things were beyond his powers to interpret.
“I only know that the signs are good!”
The uncomfortable thought struck Heads Off that perhaps the old man's mind had snapped from the stress. How could any sign be good? Still, the confident expression on the medicine man's face, his calm demeanor, and the alert look in his eye were not those of a lunatic.
It was difficult not to become caught up in the obvious mood of White Buffalo. No further information was forthcoming, however. He had said all he would. That was the message that his prediction had to tell.
“The signs are good.”
It was obvious, as Crow Woman placed the equipment of the dance back in its place, that the interview was over. White Buffalo resumed his seat, and relighted his pipe. Coyote and Heads Off thanked him and Crow Woman held the door skin aside for them to leave. Already there was a change in her face, optimism beginning to shine through.
Possibly it was Crow Woman who spread the word. At any rate, it traveled like a prairie fire. By the time they reached their own lodge, people were calling to each other the cheerful message.
They encountered Big Footed Woman at the door.
“What is it, my husband?”
“White Buffalo says the signs are good!” Coyote sounded puzzled.
His wife lifted her glance to the gathering of the enemy camp beyond the brush barrier.
“But how can this be?”
Both men shrugged again, still bewildered. A long shout reached their ears from down by the stream as someone called to a friend.
“The signs are good.”
It was impossible not to become caught up in the optimism of the thing. Even Heads Off began to believe, against what he knew to be true. By dark he, too, was completely convinced that by some miracle they would be successful. Though outnumbered three to one, the People would turn the enemy back at the barricade and emerge victorious.
Just what would happen next was unclear. How they could
escape from the siege remained a mystery. Yet the new optimism was contagious. Everyone had a new strength and determination, despite the fact that nothing had changed. The mere message “the signs are good” had transformed the spirit of the band.
The People retired that night with more hope than they had had for many suns.
And it was that night that the enemy burned the barricade.
Heads Off awoke
at the first cry of alarm from one of the sentries. He sprang from the sleeping robes and grabbed his lance as he dashed outside, ready to defend the lodges.
But there was no attack. A flicker of light from the direction of the brush barrier made him turn that way. There was a warm spring breeze from the southwest, and as it struck his face, it carried also the unmistakable smell of fire. He trotted upwind, zigzagging among the lodges, and came into the open of the meadow just as someone gave a long shout.
“
Aiee!
They are burning the brush!”
Flames were licking hungrily through the tinder-dry barricade in at least three places. No enemy were to be seen. They had planned well. Under cover of darkness they had chosen the proper moment to creep to the barrier and ignite it. Fanned by the brisk breezes, the fire was already burning well out of control. Several people were silhouetted against the glare.
“Stay back! Let it burn!”
There was no hope of extinguishing the flames anyway, and to approach the light of the fire was to invite an unseen arrow from the darkness.
The People gathered in groups to watch the destruction, staying well back to avoid a chance bowshot. A few warriors, at the suggestion of Heads Off, trotted to the woods in case of an attack from that direction. Coyote thought that event highly unlikely. The Head Splitters were known to avoid combat at night. According
to their beliefs, it was said, the spirit of a warrior dying in the night was doomed to wander forever, lost in the darkness.
Whatever the reason, no major attack by the enemy had ever occurred during night time. They might strike at a lone sentry, or steal elk-dogs, but not engage in battle.
So it was with some sense of temporary security that the People watched their major defense burn. Heads Off, however, was thinking rapidly ahead. This event would require a complete reevaluation of their defensive position. Obviously, the enemy would now have easier access to a charge by horsemen.
By first light, the chief was on the hillside with a few warriors, to assess the new situation. He doubted that the attack would be immediate. The enemy, too, would need to evaluate the changed condition.
As he had feared, the destruction had been complete. The wind had died, but where the defensive barrier had been was now only a strip of smoldering gray ash. An occasional wisp of smoke still rose from an incompletely burned log. Even the remaining sharp stakes had been burned off at the ground. There was nothing at all now to stop or even slow a charge by the milling horde of horsemen beyond.
“Can we rebuild it?” Standing Bird spoke.
Heads Off shook his head.
“No, there is not time. They will come as soon as the embers are cool enough to ride over.”
In addition, the supply of available brush was becoming scarce. Much had been used for fuel during the winter, and more for the barricades in the woods.
As if to add to their worries, a soft rain began to fall, obscuring their view of the enemy camp beyond. The men started back toward the lodges. No one spoke, but the thought was present. The light spring rain would cool the embers more rapidly
and facilitate an enemy attack. Already a curtain of steam was rising from the hot ashes, giving the illusion of an ethereal defensive barrier, the ghost of that now destroyed.
The downpour was becoming heavier, and they scattered to their respective lodges.
Heads Off had seen all he needed. The main attack would now come, he believed, sweeping in from the prairie through the meadow, now unobstructed, for a massive crushing charge. There might be a diversionary attack through the woods, but it would be the force of the enemy horsemen that would need to be reckoned with.
He struggled to devise a solution to the defensive problem. Some of the positions in the woods could be filled by those women skilled with weapons, but there would still not be enough warriors. They were still outnumbered by at least four or five to one.
“Uncle,” a small girl, Coyote's youngest daughter, spoke hesitantly, “could we stop the Head Splitters with ropes where the barrier was?”
For a moment, the idea looked valid. By knotting together all the rawhide lariats in the village, it might be possible to string a line or two across the narrow isthmus.
Then reality returned. The first charging elk-dog might be slowed, perhaps even trip and fall, but that impact would also break the rope. It was simply impractical. He patted the child on the head.
“We might try it, Snowbird,” he smiled. Inwardly, he wondered if this handsome girl would grow up to grace the lodge of some enemy warrior as his slave-wife.
The rain continued through the day, but shortly after dark the stars began to appear. There was all the promise of a bright warm day to come. Almost without thought, the People seemed
to know that tomorrow would come the Battle, the last for the Elk-dog band.
No one had any inclination to sleep. They wandered uneasily about the camp, greeting friends, preparing weapons, making final plans and preparations. In grim anticipation, there were jokes about how many Head Splitters each warrior must account for in the battle.
Their defense plan was pitifully simple. The women and a few of the warriors would station themselves in the woods with those children old enough to use weapons. They would hope to stop whatever attack came on foot from that direction. There were enough who had skill with the bow to handle this assignment, Heads Off felt.
He would personally lead the mounted warriors. On horseback they would form a living barrier across the now undefended meadow. When the charge came, they would attempt to slow the oncoming rush so that the Bowstrings, stationed on each side, could make themselves felt.
“We must strike as many as we can very quickly,” he cautioned. “If their numbers are smaller, we have a chance to fight. Try to kill those who appear to be the leaders first.”
He could convince himself, almost, that it was possible. If they could, very early in the conflict, even the odds somewhat …
BOOK: The Elk-Dog Heritage
13.2Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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