Titus nodded with a smile, saying, “I wasn’t a pony holder, even though I was with older, wiser men. None of us were out to steal horses. I was alone, hunting supper when the Choctaw found me—chased me—and wounded one of the others.”
“Did you kill any of your enemy?”
“Later,” he said, remembering how the canoes slipped up alongside the flatboat in the dark, warriors sneaking onboard to initiate their fierce and sudden attack. “I lost a good friend in that fight.”
“And you killed your first man that night?”
“Yes, I know I killed. There was no doubt.”
“Blood you spilled, to atone for the blood of your friend the enemy spilled,” Whistler observed grimly.
Scratch gazed into the older man’s eyes. “Yes. Sometimes the only thing that will do … is blood for blood.”
“Now we ride this trail together,” Whistler said quietly. “Together and alone, we go to do what old warriors know must be done.”
6
From the moment they forded the half-frozen lichii’likaashaashe, every last one of them realized he was leaving Absaroka behind. With every mile, every step, every breath taken north of the Yellowstone, they were inching closer to enemy country.
North by northwest the war party marched from the moment it grew light enough to ride till it became too dark to safely cross the broken landscape. If there was a place where rocky outcrops or the shelter of trees would hide the flames from distant eyes, then the older men allowed the warriors to disperse and start half a dozen fires where eight to ten men gathered to warm their dried meat, their hands, their stiffened joints from sitting too long on horseback. Fire or not, through the endless winter nights they talked in low tones as Whistler and the white man moved from fire to fire, group to group, reminding the young that they were on an honor ride, calling upon the veterans to be watchful of the young men when it came time to fight.
Every morning three or four proven warriors were chosen to mount up before the others. In the dim light of dawn-coming, these wolves would make a wide-ranging circle of their camp to learn if they had been discovered, searching for any trail of enemy spies. When they had reported back that all was safe, the scouts for that day would lead out ahead of the others as the sun brightened the winter sky. Riding ahead on both sides of the march, their task was to choose the safest path of travel through dangerous country, scouring for sign of the enemy, some telltale smoke on the horizon.
Day after day they trudged farther and farther north, encountering nothing more than last autumn’s fire pits lying cold in old camps. Ahead they watched the clouds boil around the snowy peaks of two mountain ranges, then struck the south bank of the Musselshell.
As they stopped to water their horses at a spot along the river’s edge where the water slowed, remaining unfrozen, Whistler sent the scouts across to the north. He said, “We follow the Bishoochaashe toward its headwaters and cross to the far side of those mountains. From there we should see the Aashisee.”
“What your people call The Big River?” Scratch asked.
“I have heard it flows north for a long way,” Whistler explained as they started across the Musselshell with the rest, “then it turns east, through the land of the Assiniboine and the Arikara before it curves south at the land of the Hidatsa and finally enters the country of the Lakota.”
“From what you describe, that must be what my people call the Missouri.”
“Miss-you-ree,” the older man slowly tried the word out on his tongue.
“Good,” Bass said. “The Missouri. I lived beside that river for many winters. More winters than I should have before I broke free.”
Whistler smiled. “This Aashisee is a good river this far north … before it goes far to the south where it enters the land of the white man. But on the other side of this Miss-you-ree, we must hold tight to our hair.”
With a grin Bass said, “Many Blackfoot wanting our scalps, eh?”
Whistler glanced at the top of the white man’s head. “But this is nothing new for you, son-in-law.”
“No,” Bass replied as their horses slogged onto the north bank of the Musselshell and shook themselves like big dogs. “More times than I can count, these Blackfoot have tried to take what I have left for hair.”
Around the fires that last night before they reached the Missouri, the older warriors, those contemporaries of Rotten Belly and Whistler, spoke of Arapooesh. Not only did they speak in reverent tones for one who had died, but they recalled the departed chiefs sharp, cutting sense of humor, the youthful jokester he had been in years long gone. And they talked of his many war deeds.
Not content merely to defend Crow land from encroachment, Arapooesh was constantly organizing war parties to venture into enemy territory on pony or scalp raids. East toward the land of the Lakota, southeast to steal from the Arapaho and Cheyenne. Southwest to sneak into Bannock country. And there was always the northern land of the Blackfoot.
“He-Who-Is-No-Longer-With-Us made himself very popular among our people many long years ago by bringing back so many enemy horses,” Whistler explained to the curious young men come along on their first war trail.
Another old warrior, Turns Plenty, spoke. “Very rarely did he lose a scalp to the enemy.”
“Every young man wanted to ride with him,” Whistler observed.
“If a man steals the easiest horses,” Strikes-in-Camp said, “then he never has to worry about fighting the enemy.”
Biting his tongue for some moments, Whistler glared at his impudent son, then said, “Your uncle often showed he was as good a war leader as he was good at stealing horses.”
Yellowtail agreed. “He-Who-Is-Dead always chose the best men, put them on the best ponies, made them carry the best weapons … so his war parties would be ready to fight for their lives if necessary.”
Whistler continued. “Those times we rode into enemy land, my older brother always chose at least two ways to get out of that country so we could make our escape with the ponies we stole and our hair. He figured out places where we could all meet after we had split up to throw the enemy off our trail.”
“But if escape did not work,” Real Bird declared, “He-Who-Has-Died was ready to turn around and fight. That’s when his leadership proved itself—for he had made the effort to choose only the finest warriors with the best weapons.”
“Like us,” Strikes-in-Camp boasted.
Whistler gazed at his son. “Sometimes it is better for a warrior to let others do his bragging for him.”
“Perhaps it was that way in your day,” the young warrior argued, teetering on the edge of disrespect. “But today, with the coming of the white men and the Blackfoot pushing hard against us—I think our people need warriors who aren’t afraid to speak for themselves.”
Whistler opened his mouth to speak, but Bass put his hand on the old warrior’s forearm and got his words out first. “A man who speaks too much for himself might find that there isn’t anyone else willing to speak for him.”
Glaring at the white man as if his hatred for Bass was smoldering anew, Strikes-in-Camp announced to the group, “Perhaps we shall do better in the land of the enemy than He-Who-Is-Not-Here ever did. Perhaps our deeds will far outshine his.”
Scratch watched a few of the young heads nod, young faces smile.
Then Whistler stepped over to stand beside his son. “Maybe you are right, Strikes-in-Camp. Who knows? We who are old horses, like Pote Ant and me, have tired bones, so it’s not so easy making war anymore. Perhaps you are right that war is a job best left for the young men.”