“So many it makes a man feel he ain’t got friends left.”
It is men that must die,
Arapooesh’s voice reverberated in Bass’s head.
Our old age is a curse.
Sensing the burn of tears, Titus said, “Times like this, I feel older’n I really am. And I feel any more years is a goddamned curse … living without them what’s gone is a hard thing. Too hard.”
Again, Rotten Belly’s words whispered in his head,
And death in battle is a blessing for those who have seen our many winters.
In the death of a great chief, Crow tradition dictated that the band mourn across four days. The entire camp would grieve any man killed by an enemy—but especially a beloved chief like Rotten Belly, felled as he was in battle with their most hated enemies.
That first day of public grieving, the chief’s lodge had been painted with wide horizontal red stripes. Inside where no fire would ever burn again, the body was cleaned, dressed in his finest war regalia, then laid on a low four-pole platform. In his hands was placed a fan of eagle feathers, and his chest was bared to the spirits. Therethe body rested while his people expressed their utter sorrow at his death, their unrequited anger at the Blackfoot who had killed their leader.
Across those nights and days, Rotten Belly’s warrior society conducted elaborate ceremonies in his honor. The Otter Clan saw to it that the dead man’s treasured war totems lay beside his body, and assured that his face and bare chest were painted red. For hours they beat drums throughout the camp. Wailing, mourners pierced the skin at their knees, others pierced their arms to draw blood. Some jabbed sharp rocks against their foreheads, making themselves bleed. For four days a somber pall fell over the entire camp.
Then on the morning of the fifth day, the Crow had torn down their own lodges, abandoning the site on the Grey Bull River and leaving the chief’s lodge to decay with the elements through the coming seasons. While the dead man’s relations would continue to grieve in their own way, the rest of the band went on with its life and a new leader stepped to the fore.
From time to time as the sun sank from midsky and disappeared in the west this cold day of his own private mourning, Bass left his perch to scour both sides of the bluff for deadfall poking from the crust of snow, wood he could drag back to his fire pit. After each short trip he found he needed to rest longer and longer, sucking on more and more of the icy snow as he heaved for breath. Once he was ready, Scratch clambered to his feet and trudged off again. Exhausted, he returned from what he knew would be his last trip as twilight darkened the sky and threw the land into irretrievable shadow with night’s approach.
“C’mere, boy,” he called, patting the edge of the crude lattice platform beside him.
Zeke eagerly lunged up through the snow, then went to his belly at his master’s knee, laying his jaw on Bass’s thigh where he knew he would receive a good scratching.
“I’m glad you come along, ol’ fella. You’d been a mess for her back there in camp if’n I’d left you behind. Gotyourself in the way but good, staying underfoot. Better the woman didn’t have you whining and moaning after I left.”
He watched the first stars come out before he grew too tired to watch any longer. Bass banked more wood against the fire, then rearranged the robe and blanket on the platform that kept him out of the snow.
“Lay here, Zeke,” he instructed, patting the robe.
The dog came up, turned about, and nested right next to him. Then Scratch pulled the other half of the robe and that heavy wool blanket over them both. Laying his cheek down on his elbow, Bass closed his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of that cold winter night—an utter silence so huge and vast that he felt himself swallowed whole by the open sky above them.
He tried to imagine what she was doing right then, if Waits-by-the-Water had Magpie on her knee
It is men that must die,
Arapooesh’s voice reverberated in Bass’s head.
Our old age is a curse.
Sensing the burn of tears, Titus said, “Times like this, I feel older’n I really am. And I feel any more years is a goddamned curse … living without them what’s gone is a hard thing. Too hard.”
Again, Rotten Belly’s words whispered in his head,
And death in battle is a blessing for those who have seen our many winters.
In the death of a great chief, Crow tradition dictated that the band mourn across four days. The entire camp would grieve any man killed by an enemy—but especially a beloved chief like Rotten Belly, felled as he was in battle with their most hated enemies.
That first day of public grieving, the chief’s lodge had been painted with wide horizontal red stripes. Inside where no fire would ever burn again, the body was cleaned, dressed in his finest war regalia, then laid on a low four-pole platform. In his hands was placed a fan of eagle feathers, and his chest was bared to the spirits. Therethe body rested while his people expressed their utter sorrow at his death, their unrequited anger at the Blackfoot who had killed their leader.
Across those nights and days, Rotten Belly’s warrior society conducted elaborate ceremonies in his honor. The Otter Clan saw to it that the dead man’s treasured war totems lay beside his body, and assured that his face and bare chest were painted red. For hours they beat drums throughout the camp. Wailing, mourners pierced the skin at their knees, others pierced their arms to draw blood. Some jabbed sharp rocks against their foreheads, making themselves bleed. For four days a somber pall fell over the entire camp.
Then on the morning of the fifth day, the Crow had torn down their own lodges, abandoning the site on the Grey Bull River and leaving the chief’s lodge to decay with the elements through the coming seasons. While the dead man’s relations would continue to grieve in their own way, the rest of the band went on with its life and a new leader stepped to the fore.
From time to time as the sun sank from midsky and disappeared in the west this cold day of his own private mourning, Bass left his perch to scour both sides of the bluff for deadfall poking from the crust of snow, wood he could drag back to his fire pit. After each short trip he found he needed to rest longer and longer, sucking on more and more of the icy snow as he heaved for breath. Once he was ready, Scratch clambered to his feet and trudged off again. Exhausted, he returned from what he knew would be his last trip as twilight darkened the sky and threw the land into irretrievable shadow with night’s approach.
“C’mere, boy,” he called, patting the edge of the crude lattice platform beside him.
Zeke eagerly lunged up through the snow, then went to his belly at his master’s knee, laying his jaw on Bass’s thigh where he knew he would receive a good scratching.
“I’m glad you come along, ol’ fella. You’d been a mess for her back there in camp if’n I’d left you behind. Gotyourself in the way but good, staying underfoot. Better the woman didn’t have you whining and moaning after I left.”
He watched the first stars come out before he grew too tired to watch any longer. Bass banked more wood against the fire, then rearranged the robe and blanket on the platform that kept him out of the snow.
“Lay here, Zeke,” he instructed, patting the robe.
The dog came up, turned about, and nested right next to him. Then Scratch pulled the other half of the robe and that heavy wool blanket over them both. Laying his cheek down on his elbow, Bass closed his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of that cold winter night—an utter silence so huge and vast that he felt himself swallowed whole by the open sky above them.
He tried to imagine what she was doing right then, if Waits-by-the-Water had Magpie on her knee
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