“How did he know he was going to die?”
“That summer morning we left to steal Blackfoot ponies, my brother again stacked up some buffalo chips, this time in the privacy of his lodge, and called his headmen to meet with him. When he laid his shield on top of the pile, he told us that if the shield rose into the air without his touching it, then his medicine had told him he was going to die in battle.”
Turning slightly in the saddle, Bass stared at Whistler a moment before he asked, “Is that what happened to your brother, to my friend?”
“We all saw the shield rise there before He-Who-Is-No-Longer-With-Us. No one touched it as it floated as high as the chief’s head. And no one spoke until I told my brother he should not lead the horse stealers.”
“Why didn’t he listen to you?”
“The One-Who-Died said that his death was already foretold,” Whistler declared. “He could not call off the raid. He would not allow his people to believe he was anything but brave enough to face his own death.”
Despite knowing the shield had predicted his death, Arapooesh nonetheless pushed ahead with the raid. And as much as other warriors tried to protect him once they were confronted by superior numbers of the enemy, Rotten Belly did not hang back and let others do his fighting for him.
Scratch gazed at Whistler, sensing that this same trait of honor must also course through this younger brother’s veins—
Suddenly two of the advance scouts bolted out of the trees a half mile ahead, sprinting back toward the head of the march. They raced their ponies around in a tight circle, then slowed to a walk to explain their excitement.
“We have discovered a trail!”
Whistler asked, “An enemy trail?”
“It must be,” explained the second scout. “Many riders.”
“Is it a fresh trail?” asked Yellowtail as he rode up and brought his animal under control.
The first scout nodded. “Very little snow in the tracks.”
“Are they dragging travois behind them?” Scratch asked.
“There are a few,” the second scout declared.
Bass looked at Whistler. “It might be a small band of the enemy.”
“Women and children—they are our enemies too,” Strikes-in-Camp said.
Turning suddenly on the young warrior, Titus asked, “So now you kill women and children too? Does this make you a mighty warrior?”
“Those children will grow up to be fighting men and the mothers of warriors. Those women will bear the seeds, giving birth to more of our enemy—”
“Quiet!” Whistler demanded, clenching a fist in his son’s face. The group gathered round them fell silent. “We won’t kill the women, nor children. Mark my words: a warrior kills only the warriors.”
“Those women—”
This time Whistler drew his hand back, prepared to slap his son across the cheek, but he suddenly stopped his hand inches away. “I should take your weapons and your ponies from you—make you walk back to Absaroka.”
It was so quiet Bass could hear some of the horses snort in the cold air, the vapor rising from their nostrils like gauzy wreaths as the sky continued to snow.
“But I won’t do that, Strikes-in-Camp,” Whistler continued. “Not because you are my son … but because you need to learn how a Crow makes war on his enemy that is more numerous, an enemy that is stronger.”
Strikes-in-Camp glared at that hand Whistler lowered. Yet he did not utter a word to his father.
“I am the leader of this war party—not my son,” Whistler announced. “We are here to revenge the death of my brother. Not to stain the honor of our people by killing women and children. No—we will capture those women and children, take them back to our country when we turn around for home. The young ones will grow to become Crow. And the bellies of those women will give birth to many Crow warriors!”
The half-a-hundred immediately yipped and trilled in triumph with a great ululation of their tongues.
Then Whistler turned back to those two scouts, asking, “How far away do you judge the enemy to be?”
“Before the sun is in its last quarter of the sky and the winter moon has climbed out of the east,” the second young warrior explained, “we could reach them.”
“Return to the others,” Whistler commanded. “And tell them to follow the trail carefully until they have found where the enemy will camp tonight. We will continue on your trail into the time of darkness. Only when our enemies have stopped for the night are you to return to us.”
Whistler’s scouts found the Blackfoot on that broad plain just north of the Sun River.
As the dimming orb continued its descent toward the horizon, the Crow war party crossed the frozen river, then cut sharply west toward the uneven rim of bare hills that bordered the narrow valley, following the young men who had raced along the backtrail to bring up the rest. As predicted, by late afternoon Bass and the others neared the crest of those hills with their weary ponies, hearing the faint, distant boom of the enemy’s guns.
“It is a good thing my brother realized how important it would be to have good trade with the white man,” Whistler huffed as they neared the brow of the hill on foot, having left their horses below with the others.
“Powder and lead,” Bass agreed. “To fight your enemies.”
“And guns!” the warrior cried in a sharp whisper as he went to his belly. “He-Who-Is-Not-Here decided long ago that we needed to be friends with the white man because we needed the white man’s guns.”
Dropping to his belly in the snow, Scratch inched to the brow of the barren hill and peered over. As the reports of the large-bored muzzle loaders echoed from the surrounding slopes, the scene below opened itself before them.
“That is not a village on the move,” Whistler declared quietly, his breathsmoke a thin stream of gray against the deep-hued blue of the winter sky that outlined the handful that had crabbed to the hilltop to join the white man.
“No, these are hunters,” said Pretty On Top. “Men. Warriors. And they are delivered into our hands!”
“But there are some women,” Bass warned.
On the far side of him Strikes-in-Camp scoffed, “Is this the warning of a woman who is afraid of the fight to come?”
“Take care that your father does not mourn your death in battle before the sun falls from this sky,” Scratch growled.
Strikes-in-Camp chuckled, saying, “I will be an old, old man before I will ever heed the woman words of the white man!”
“You will hold your tongue!” Whistler snapped. “And you will obey me as the leader of this war party, if you will not obey me as your father.”
“Perhaps the white man is afraid we will learn he is too afraid to fight the enemy—”
Whistler interrupted his son. “No more of your angry, foolish talk about my friend, Pote Anil Time and again he has proved himself a friend to our people, a friend to He-Who-Has-Died, and a friend to our family. I will not have you insult him.”
For a long moment Strikes-in-Camp was silent, un-moving; then he rolled onto his hip and slid away from the rest, hurrying downhill to rejoin those who waited with the horses.
“Forgive my son and his words,” Whistler begged as he peered at the Blackfoot below him.
“You are a good man, Whistler,” Titus told him. “I would not be near so patient as you.”
The older warrior chewed his bottom lip in contemplation, then confessed, “I feel it is my fault Strikes-in-Camp has become the man he is.”
“He is a man,” Bass reminded. “He cannot blame who or what he is on you. And neither should you. Your son’s sins will not fall upon his father’s lodge—”
“More are coming!” Pretty On Top announced, pointing across the snowy bowl.