Cry of the Hawk

Women rose from their work at new buffalo hides that had been taken in the weeks before the village was required to move for its safety away from the white man and his Pawnee trackers. Each woman, young and old, holding an elk-handled scraper, with only the power of their resolve and muscle slowly working the flesh from the great white-and-red hides staked out like huge squares demarcating the outskirts of Turkey Leg’s village.

Old men rose from their places in the warm sun that afternoon. They had been talking of days gone by when the meat was good and fleet were the ponies a man could steal from the Pawnee or Crow or Ute. Then the young horsemen were among the lodges, making a show of themselves, more weapons in evidence now. Bows, yes—but many more rifles than Shad had expected he would see.

“This bunch been raiding to get them guns?” asked Hook from the side of his mouth as the four white men entered the outskirts of the lodge circle.

The air was strong with smoked hides and grease, pungent with wood smoke and boiling meat. Fragrant with the incense of white sage. Far better were those perfumes than any meal of boiled potatoes and red whiskey and a cigar smoked after a man had himself a full belly. Shad thought of Shell Woman, then worried for their son.

With warriors and headmen spread out from him like the sides of an arrow point, Turkey Leg waited for the white men to approach, halt, and dismount. The old chief motioned forward some young boys, who took the reins to the four horses and led the animals away.

“It is always good to see you, my friend,” Shad said, smiling at the old chief.

Turkey Leg smiled in return. “How is life for you, Indian-talker?”

“Some things could be better, I suppose. But, what life is worth living if it is not filled with lessons to be learned?”

“You always pose questions that this old man cannot easily answer.” The chief motioned for the other three white men to follow, taking Sweete by the arm as he turned toward his lodge erected at the center of the camp crescent. “Come. We will eat. Then smoke. And only then will we hear why you have journeyed here. I suppose you want me to go listen to words of the peace-talkers once more.”

“My belly talks now,” Shad said, grinning. “It is so empty. Yes—we will eat, then with the pipe speak of the peace-talkers.”

More than two hours passed in that lodge filled with white man and red alike. Eating first the jerked meat passed among the circle while the main course came to a boil. After every man had licked his fingers clean and finished his coffee flavored with generous heapings of sugar, the pipe was lit. It was the first time, Sweete knew, that Jonah had been witness to such a conference, held at the leisurely pace of the plains Indian, with no artificial timetable to be satisfied. Only the dictates of the old men themselves.

Turkey Leg cleared his throat. “Black Kettle comes to this talk planned for Medicine Lodge Creek?”

“Yes, he and Medicine Arrow.”

The chief nodded, looking at the faces of his headmen. “The one who was once called Rock Forehead. He is a powerful chief.”

“Three from the Southern Cheyenne will come. Those two and Little Robe as well.”

“And of the Kiowa?”

“We believe White Bear and Lone Wolf will attend with their warriors to talk of making peace on this part of the plains,” Sweete answered.

For a long time the pipe passed among those seated in a grand circle in that lodge. No man talking, only the noise of the pipe as air was drawn down through the bowl, only the music of camp life outside the lodge. Children playing, dogs barking, and ponies coming and going through the browned cones raised against the autumn sky.

“We are going south with the coming of winter,” Turkey Leg began after a long, considered silence. “It is there that winter will not arrive as soon, nor will it last as long. Yes, perhaps we can raise our lodges beside Medicine Lodge Creek with the others who will speak with the peace-talkers.”

“You will be there by the time the moon is half-full?” Shad asked the old chief.

Turkey Leg looked about the lodge at his headmen. No man spoke, no man gave signal that he disapproved. “We will come talk this one last time to the white soldier chiefs. Perhaps we will hear something that is good in their words.”

“They want all the bands to live in peace with the white settlers.”

“But the white man fails to understand that we do not want to live in peace with his people. We do not want to live with the white man at all.” Turkey Leg sighed.

The expression on the old chief’s face spoke something to Sweete, as if Turkey Leg understood more of what was in the scout’s heart than what the white scout had ever spoken.

“There are some among us who believe we can live near your people,” the chief went on. “Yet there are a few among us who will never hold anything but a bad heart for the white man.”