village. They would remain this way for the rest of their lives unless traded to another tribe or chosen by a brave to take a place among the other women in his lodge and become like them, no better, no worse.
Grass Child’s pinched, worried face had lost its scowl. She was more relaxed. Surely her fate would be the same as the women’s, a general slave in the big Hidatsa village. That could be endured. So, to make certain the nearsighted chief thought she was truly a woman, the child grabbed handfuls of dried grass and turned from the firelight to stuff the wads down the front of her loose-fitting tunic. It was her turn to approach the ceremonial fire.
The old chief shifted his feet and stared with his near-sightless eyes from his great moon-shaped face, all furrowed with folds of dry skin. The chief’ 8 hands were energetic as he called for one of his braves. Grass Child was startled to see Buzzard Beak step forward. He proudly held his flintlock and lance above hie head. Grass Child tried not to look at the neat black braid that swung in the firelight from the stock of the flintlock with two other tiny tufts of shiny black hair. The story of the raid was retold. The crowd listened with a kind of quiet frenzy. Their eyes flashed and their fists clenched as Buzzard Beak relived the battle again.
As another bronzed brave took up the story. Buzzard Beak moved away; and someone pushed Grass Child forward, so that she stood facing the old chief. The bronzed brave pushed up his flintlock for all to see the scalp lock dangling at the butt. A red feather was twisted in the long hair. Only one man that Grass Child knew had worn such a red feather in that twisted manner—
Chief No Retreat. She felt her insides rise to her throat, and the darkness enveloped her.
The young squaw, Sunflower, lifted her up and tried to comfort her. At that moment there was no one who could offer comfort. A large hole had been torn inside Grass Child. Was anyone left of her blanket? Had her two brothers and older sister shared the same fate?
Buzzard Beak grabbed at Grass Child’s shoulders and spoke sharply to her. She shivered uncontrollably: urine slid unchecked down her legs. Seeing her father’s scalp lock had been too much: her head swam. Chief Black Moccasin beckoned, and she regained some composure. She remembered the grass wads inside her tunic and held her chest out tight against them. “I am woman of the Agaidüka,” Grass Child said in Shoshoni, fighting down her fear, trying to keep her voice relaxed and even.
“Umph,” said the chief as his hands began their slow descent over her skinny body, over her chest. Her heart skipped, but the grass did not slip. It was almost over, she thought. Now they would take her to the lodge. Chief Black Moccasin was making an announcement to the crowd and they were yelling in approval. Grass Child began to understand. She was not to go with the other captives. She was to be a gift from the old chief to one of his honored warriors, Buzzard Beak.
The chief began to pass Grass Child over to Buzzard Beak, then stopped and gave her a fast, sharp slap in the belly. Her stomach and chest caved. She vomited the meat and corn she had eaten earlier in front of her feet, spattering the wads of grass that fell from her tunic. After retching, she hung her head in shame.
The old chief smiled, and the folds of flesh around his chin quivered. His laugh was deep and hearty. Buzzard Beak whooped and jumped up and down. The Hi-datsas slapped each other on the back and guffawed. It was a great joke. She was now fully accepted as a member of the Minnetaree tribe, of the big Hidatsa village, of the People of the Willows.
It was smoky in Buzzard Beak’s lodge. He pulled his horse inside first, then came back and led Grass Child past the horse that stood in the narrow entry passage, about the length of two grown men. She was shivering, although the round earth lodge was overheated. A sharp gust of wind blew smoke
Grass Child’s pinched, worried face had lost its scowl. She was more relaxed. Surely her fate would be the same as the women’s, a general slave in the big Hidatsa village. That could be endured. So, to make certain the nearsighted chief thought she was truly a woman, the child grabbed handfuls of dried grass and turned from the firelight to stuff the wads down the front of her loose-fitting tunic. It was her turn to approach the ceremonial fire.
The old chief shifted his feet and stared with his near-sightless eyes from his great moon-shaped face, all furrowed with folds of dry skin. The chief’ 8 hands were energetic as he called for one of his braves. Grass Child was startled to see Buzzard Beak step forward. He proudly held his flintlock and lance above hie head. Grass Child tried not to look at the neat black braid that swung in the firelight from the stock of the flintlock with two other tiny tufts of shiny black hair. The story of the raid was retold. The crowd listened with a kind of quiet frenzy. Their eyes flashed and their fists clenched as Buzzard Beak relived the battle again.
As another bronzed brave took up the story. Buzzard Beak moved away; and someone pushed Grass Child forward, so that she stood facing the old chief. The bronzed brave pushed up his flintlock for all to see the scalp lock dangling at the butt. A red feather was twisted in the long hair. Only one man that Grass Child knew had worn such a red feather in that twisted manner—
Chief No Retreat. She felt her insides rise to her throat, and the darkness enveloped her.
The young squaw, Sunflower, lifted her up and tried to comfort her. At that moment there was no one who could offer comfort. A large hole had been torn inside Grass Child. Was anyone left of her blanket? Had her two brothers and older sister shared the same fate?
Buzzard Beak grabbed at Grass Child’s shoulders and spoke sharply to her. She shivered uncontrollably: urine slid unchecked down her legs. Seeing her father’s scalp lock had been too much: her head swam. Chief Black Moccasin beckoned, and she regained some composure. She remembered the grass wads inside her tunic and held her chest out tight against them. “I am woman of the Agaidüka,” Grass Child said in Shoshoni, fighting down her fear, trying to keep her voice relaxed and even.
“Umph,” said the chief as his hands began their slow descent over her skinny body, over her chest. Her heart skipped, but the grass did not slip. It was almost over, she thought. Now they would take her to the lodge. Chief Black Moccasin was making an announcement to the crowd and they were yelling in approval. Grass Child began to understand. She was not to go with the other captives. She was to be a gift from the old chief to one of his honored warriors, Buzzard Beak.
The chief began to pass Grass Child over to Buzzard Beak, then stopped and gave her a fast, sharp slap in the belly. Her stomach and chest caved. She vomited the meat and corn she had eaten earlier in front of her feet, spattering the wads of grass that fell from her tunic. After retching, she hung her head in shame.
The old chief smiled, and the folds of flesh around his chin quivered. His laugh was deep and hearty. Buzzard Beak whooped and jumped up and down. The Hi-datsas slapped each other on the back and guffawed. It was a great joke. She was now fully accepted as a member of the Minnetaree tribe, of the big Hidatsa village, of the People of the Willows.
It was smoky in Buzzard Beak’s lodge. He pulled his horse inside first, then came back and led Grass Child past the horse that stood in the narrow entry passage, about the length of two grown men. She was shivering, although the round earth lodge was overheated. A sharp gust of wind blew smoke
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