the old dog against him beneath the buffalo robe, Scratch sorted through the dizzying glimpses of blood and loneliness, those confusing and blurred images of violence, despair, and loss.
Each time the haunts visited him, he somehow managed to drift off again—reminding himself that he would never be frightened for himself, fearing only for those he loved.
Strikes-in-Camp was the first to volunteer. This tall, haughty warrior had reacted with violent jealousy when Arapooesh chose Scratch and Josiah to go in search of McAfferty. Whistler’s firstborn, Waits-by-the-Water’s brother, and now one of Bass’s relations, Strikes-in-Camp nonetheless remained cool and distant to the white man.
“I came to say I will go with you to take Blackfoot scalps,” the young warrior announced the afternoon of that first day Whistler spread the call across that camp of some three thousand souls. But he spoke only to his father, rarely allowing his eyes to touch the trapper.
Whistler glanced at Bass, then asked his son, “Are there any others in your society who will join us?”
“Some,” the warrior answered. “And they will come to join for themselves. I am not here to speak for them.Only for myself. You must understand that I do this not for my brother-in-law,” he explained, clearly refusing to mention the white man by his Crow name. “I go to take revenge on the enemy because they killed my uncle.”
When Strikes-in-Camp had gone, Whistler settled at the fire again and continued drinking the strong coffee he and Bass shared every afternoon, an anticipated and much-enjoyed treat the trapper brought from the rendezvous where the white men gathered.
After some reflection the aging warrior declared, “My son has been shamed, perhaps.”
“Shamed?”
“Yes, perhaps. Because you were the first to announce you were going to take Blackfoot scalps in the name of He-Who-Has-Died.”
For some time Bass did not answer. How best to walk the straight road with his words without offending Strikes-in-Camp’s father. Eventually he said, “Your son could have raised the call as soon as the four days of mourning were over, as soon as this village moved on and left the chief’s lodge behind. He could have convinced many of his warrior society to join him, and he would have been well regarded.”
Whistler could only nod in agreement. “But I think he was too busy with other things more important than family and honor.”
“We were young once, Whistler,” Bass sympathized. “The two of us, we both grew older, we both came to know there is nothing more important than family … and honor.”
Across the next five days more than ninety others came to Whistler’s lodge on the outskirts of the Crow village to ask that they too could ride along, men old and young. Some were men of such considerable winters that they had long since given up the war trail, content to let younger men do battle in the name of their people. Most of these Whistler turned away with his thanks, acknowledging that they had already given many years serving in defense of the Crow nation. And there were many of the very young, really no more than boys—most tall and lithe,of ropy, hardened muscle, but every one of them smoothfaced.
“Some mother’s son,” Whistler would say when he had turned them away and promised that he might lead them on the next war trail. “I am a father, and I know what fear I had in my own heart when Strikes was just as young, believing he was ready to take scalps for the first time. I remember how Crane wept, begging me to keep him from going. How she pleaded with me to go in secret and demand the pipe bearer turn our son away, to prevent him from going along.”
“Each man must have his first fight,” Scratch said as he savored that coffee. “My first blooding was against the Choctaw.”
“Ch-choctaw? I have not heard of these people.”
“They live east of a great muddy river, so far away that your people have no name to
Each time the haunts visited him, he somehow managed to drift off again—reminding himself that he would never be frightened for himself, fearing only for those he loved.
Strikes-in-Camp was the first to volunteer. This tall, haughty warrior had reacted with violent jealousy when Arapooesh chose Scratch and Josiah to go in search of McAfferty. Whistler’s firstborn, Waits-by-the-Water’s brother, and now one of Bass’s relations, Strikes-in-Camp nonetheless remained cool and distant to the white man.
“I came to say I will go with you to take Blackfoot scalps,” the young warrior announced the afternoon of that first day Whistler spread the call across that camp of some three thousand souls. But he spoke only to his father, rarely allowing his eyes to touch the trapper.
Whistler glanced at Bass, then asked his son, “Are there any others in your society who will join us?”
“Some,” the warrior answered. “And they will come to join for themselves. I am not here to speak for them.Only for myself. You must understand that I do this not for my brother-in-law,” he explained, clearly refusing to mention the white man by his Crow name. “I go to take revenge on the enemy because they killed my uncle.”
When Strikes-in-Camp had gone, Whistler settled at the fire again and continued drinking the strong coffee he and Bass shared every afternoon, an anticipated and much-enjoyed treat the trapper brought from the rendezvous where the white men gathered.
After some reflection the aging warrior declared, “My son has been shamed, perhaps.”
“Shamed?”
“Yes, perhaps. Because you were the first to announce you were going to take Blackfoot scalps in the name of He-Who-Has-Died.”
For some time Bass did not answer. How best to walk the straight road with his words without offending Strikes-in-Camp’s father. Eventually he said, “Your son could have raised the call as soon as the four days of mourning were over, as soon as this village moved on and left the chief’s lodge behind. He could have convinced many of his warrior society to join him, and he would have been well regarded.”
Whistler could only nod in agreement. “But I think he was too busy with other things more important than family and honor.”
“We were young once, Whistler,” Bass sympathized. “The two of us, we both grew older, we both came to know there is nothing more important than family … and honor.”
Across the next five days more than ninety others came to Whistler’s lodge on the outskirts of the Crow village to ask that they too could ride along, men old and young. Some were men of such considerable winters that they had long since given up the war trail, content to let younger men do battle in the name of their people. Most of these Whistler turned away with his thanks, acknowledging that they had already given many years serving in defense of the Crow nation. And there were many of the very young, really no more than boys—most tall and lithe,of ropy, hardened muscle, but every one of them smoothfaced.
“Some mother’s son,” Whistler would say when he had turned them away and promised that he might lead them on the next war trail. “I am a father, and I know what fear I had in my own heart when Strikes was just as young, believing he was ready to take scalps for the first time. I remember how Crane wept, begging me to keep him from going. How she pleaded with me to go in secret and demand the pipe bearer turn our son away, to prevent him from going along.”
“Each man must have his first fight,” Scratch said as he savored that coffee. “My first blooding was against the Choctaw.”
“Ch-choctaw? I have not heard of these people.”
“They live east of a great muddy river, so far away that your people have no name to
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