it’s just their practice and their duty. They do it to any enemy, Indian or not.”
“It’d be bad enough to die out here,” I said. “But to be cut to pieces and scattered too . . .”
“When you’re gone, you don’t know it,” Theo said. “And anyway, it ain’t no good to die nowhere, ain’t that right?”
I owned it was probably true, although I said as how I wouldn’t mind it so much in a warm bed of a snowy night in my sleep. He agreed that was so.
Big Tree and me rode away from the militia without looking back again. Even though they moved their horses out of the way to let us pass. I didn’t hear no movement at all behind us. They was just a setting there, watching us as we rode down the trail. I think I could feel their eyes on us. That Frenchman wouldn’t forget Big Tree. I feared what might happen someday if we ever run into him again and Treat’s gone off somewhere else.
Later that night, I had my first real conversation with Big Tree.
We’d left the trail after the run-in with Treat’s militia. We was still headed for the Musselshell country, but now we went along a small stream, then cut up into higher ground and better cover from trees and rocks. They wasn’t following us, Big Tree made sure of that.
We camped out just as the sun started to scuttle along the horizon. It sent yellow beams into the sky and lit the underside of great, blooming clouds. It didn’t look like rain—in fact, it looked clear and clean like after a rain—but the crisp breeze that rose up every now and then smelled like ice, and green earth.
When we had a fire going, Big Tree settled himself in front of it, his legs crossed in front of him, his hands resting on his knees. In the smokeless firelight his hair hung down by his face like some sort of cape. I couldn’t see his eyes right away. I known better than to chatter like I used to around him, trying to get him to say something. We done most everything without words, or much sound at all, except for our breathing and chuffing when we carried wood to the fire or tethered the horses and mules in some tall grass so they could feed.
I cooked some ham in a frying pan over the fire. We had set up a few yards away from the shade of a big cottonwood tree. Along with the ham I heated some water for coffee. Big Tree set there watching the water as it commenced to boil. Just when I thought I’d chew on some ham, drink some coffee, and then puff on a pipe for a while before going to sleep, he reached behind him and come out with a small leather pouch. Inside was a few small stones, four small white bones, a few planks of tobacco, a hank of hair, and a short, stubby pipe. He was careful with the pouch, holding it in both hands, his eyes so focused he probably didn’t remember I was there.
“You gonna have a smoke?” I asked. “I was going to wait until after we eat something.”
The corners of his mouth moved a bit. Then he said, “This good medicine.”
Dumbly, I said, “Oh.”
Now he looked at me. “Say your name.”
“Bobby.”
“Bubby.”
“Bahbby,” I said. “Bobby Hale.”
“Bubby Hairle” was how he pronounced it.
“Yeah.”
“It mean nothing?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned.
“No, really. It don’t have no meaning.”
“I am Big Tree That Blocks the Sun.”
“That means something,” I said. “You folks give names that describe a activity, or a thing. We don’t do that.”
“When I am young boy,” he said, “I was different name.”
I waited. He sat there stuffing his pipe with tobacco and a few seeds from his pouch. It didn’t look like he was gonna say another word, so I said, “You had another name?”
He nodded, looking directly at me, maybe for the first time. His eyes was dark black and the firelight sparkled in them.
“What was you called when you was a little one?” I said.
“My first father and mother name me Talking Boy.”
I didn’t want to but I laughed. His face changed and his eyes went even
“It’d be bad enough to die out here,” I said. “But to be cut to pieces and scattered too . . .”
“When you’re gone, you don’t know it,” Theo said. “And anyway, it ain’t no good to die nowhere, ain’t that right?”
I owned it was probably true, although I said as how I wouldn’t mind it so much in a warm bed of a snowy night in my sleep. He agreed that was so.
Big Tree and me rode away from the militia without looking back again. Even though they moved their horses out of the way to let us pass. I didn’t hear no movement at all behind us. They was just a setting there, watching us as we rode down the trail. I think I could feel their eyes on us. That Frenchman wouldn’t forget Big Tree. I feared what might happen someday if we ever run into him again and Treat’s gone off somewhere else.
Later that night, I had my first real conversation with Big Tree.
We’d left the trail after the run-in with Treat’s militia. We was still headed for the Musselshell country, but now we went along a small stream, then cut up into higher ground and better cover from trees and rocks. They wasn’t following us, Big Tree made sure of that.
We camped out just as the sun started to scuttle along the horizon. It sent yellow beams into the sky and lit the underside of great, blooming clouds. It didn’t look like rain—in fact, it looked clear and clean like after a rain—but the crisp breeze that rose up every now and then smelled like ice, and green earth.
When we had a fire going, Big Tree settled himself in front of it, his legs crossed in front of him, his hands resting on his knees. In the smokeless firelight his hair hung down by his face like some sort of cape. I couldn’t see his eyes right away. I known better than to chatter like I used to around him, trying to get him to say something. We done most everything without words, or much sound at all, except for our breathing and chuffing when we carried wood to the fire or tethered the horses and mules in some tall grass so they could feed.
I cooked some ham in a frying pan over the fire. We had set up a few yards away from the shade of a big cottonwood tree. Along with the ham I heated some water for coffee. Big Tree set there watching the water as it commenced to boil. Just when I thought I’d chew on some ham, drink some coffee, and then puff on a pipe for a while before going to sleep, he reached behind him and come out with a small leather pouch. Inside was a few small stones, four small white bones, a few planks of tobacco, a hank of hair, and a short, stubby pipe. He was careful with the pouch, holding it in both hands, his eyes so focused he probably didn’t remember I was there.
“You gonna have a smoke?” I asked. “I was going to wait until after we eat something.”
The corners of his mouth moved a bit. Then he said, “This good medicine.”
Dumbly, I said, “Oh.”
Now he looked at me. “Say your name.”
“Bobby.”
“Bubby.”
“Bahbby,” I said. “Bobby Hale.”
“Bubby Hairle” was how he pronounced it.
“Yeah.”
“It mean nothing?”
“Nothing.”
He frowned.
“No, really. It don’t have no meaning.”
“I am Big Tree That Blocks the Sun.”
“That means something,” I said. “You folks give names that describe a activity, or a thing. We don’t do that.”
“When I am young boy,” he said, “I was different name.”
I waited. He sat there stuffing his pipe with tobacco and a few seeds from his pouch. It didn’t look like he was gonna say another word, so I said, “You had another name?”
He nodded, looking directly at me, maybe for the first time. His eyes was dark black and the firelight sparkled in them.
“What was you called when you was a little one?” I said.
“My first father and mother name me Talking Boy.”
I didn’t want to but I laughed. His face changed and his eyes went even
Similar Books
