by Kim Roberts
© 2000
The beat of the drum is the heartbeat of the Earth . . . calling to her children . . . calling her children home.
The rising sun called to the war chief rousing him slowly from the dream world. Red Bear grumbled his disapproval and turned away from the persistent new day and the demands it made of him. Rather than rise to greet the morning he lazily draped an arm over the sleeping figure on the buffalo robe next to him and breathed in the scent of the woman who shared his bed. Though Kiowa custom permitted a warrior to take more than one wife, Red Bear had eyes for only one woman. Wind Dancer had captured his attention eleven years before and her hold on his heart had not diminished in the years since. She had been a wispy bit of a girl when they married, but four pregnancies had filled out her figure and Red Bear found her more attractive now than ever.
Though his wife had borne him four children, only three small pallets lay on the floor of their tepee. Two daughters, nine and ten summers old, slept peacefully on the opposite side of the dwelling. Red Bear had rejoiced over the birth of his daughters, but his masculine pride longed for a male child and he was barely able to contain his elation when Wind Dancer became pregnant a few years after his youngest daughter's birth. But his joy turned to intense sorrow as he watched his wife grow ill with the white man's spotted sickness. Wind Dancer survived the illness although it drained her strength and the child she delivered, a son, was stillborn. It had taken several years for her health to return but when she was strong enough the spirits blessed them with another son to ease their anguish. The doted upon toddler slept soundly within his parents' easy reach.
Red Bear pulled his wife closer and tenderly pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. She was most beautiful in the morning, he decided, with the faint glow of a dying fire illuminating her bronze skin. He often lay awake beside her simply watching her breathe, marveling that the touch of her warm breath on his chest filled him with life, too. Urging Wind Dancer to awaken, Red Bear moved his hand from her waist to the nape of her neck and caressed the soft skin, losing his hand in the dark ebony mass that flowed down her back. "The children still sleep," he whispered as his wife's eyes fluttered open only to close again, savoring the last moments of rest.
"And so do I," she mumbled, curling up against him, seeking the safety of her husband's strong arms in her half sleep.
"We have time," Red Bear insisted, gently brushing his lips across his wife's delicate features, enticing her to awaken. His efforts were rewarded as Wind Dancer opened her eyes and smiled drowsily at her persuasive husband.
"You must have slept well," she whispered, casting a glance around their home to ensure the children were indeed still sleeping.
"Yes," Red Bear answered quietly, his kiss tracing her jaw line before moving down her neck. He paused at the feel of her pulse beating against his lips, then raised his eyes to meet his wife's loving gaze. "The spirits came to me in a dream. Something good will happen today."
"And what will this something good be?" Wind Dancer asked playfully as she turned to her back and reached for her husband, inviting him to come closer.
"I do not know, but the spirits would not lie."
Red Bear captured her lips between his with a growing need and blindly untied the leather string fastening the shoulders of her doeskin dress. The copper skin, the curve of her hip, the beat of her heart beneath her breasts, the touch of her small hands entwined with his were all familiar to him after years of marriage but Red Bear never tired of the feel of Wind Dancer's body against his. There was something right in loving only one woman.
The sounds of a waking village drifted past the entry flap of their tepee reminding the couple of responsibilities. "The others are waking," Wind Dancer whispered. "They will be ready to travel soon and need their chief to lead them."
Red Bear turned a deaf ear to the noises of a breaking camp outside and pulled their buffalo robe blanket higher to cover them lest the children awaken. "But their chief needs his wife. Let them wait."
The summer had been prosperous. A successful hunting season provided an ample store of buffalo meat and hides to last the winter. Raids on the Utes had increased the herd of ponies and only one of their band had been lost in the thieving party. Several of the elderly had succumbed to their advancing age but new lives had been born into the village, completing the cycle of life and death. All in all, the Kiowa were pleased with their season under the sun.
The move to their winter home began typically enough but after a few days travel, Red Bear suddenly felt the need to stop. He couldn't explain it to himself or the elders, but something told him to linger in the hunting grounds. Red Bear was not known to hold the power of prophecy, but he was insistent and after the decision makers held council it was decided the final leg of the pilgrimage could be delayed for a few days. The weather was not yet threatening and, truthfully, no one was anxious for the move into the hills. The Kiowa established a temporary camp on the edge of the hunting grounds and waited for three days, expecting a sign of some import from the spirits but received none. Red Bear still did not feel ready to move on, but after a scouting party brought back reports of a group of pony soldiers in the area he relented. The safety of his people overshadowed the vague feeling of something . . . something he couldn't identify. The village was vulnerable - it was time to continue.
Red Bear emerged from his tepee, reluctantly exchanging his wife's embrace for the yoke of leadership. With the expertise of a corps of engineers, the women of the band quickly disassembled the village. An experienced woman of the plains could have her home torn down and converted to a travois for traveling within thirty minutes. The buffalo hides that acted as the covering of the dwelling were secured to the long support poles of the tepee which were in turn harnessed to either the most gentle of the pony herd or one of the large dogs of the village. No one claimed ownership of these dogs, but yet they seemed to belong to everyone. Beasts of burden long before the arrival of the horse, they were as much members of the Kiowa village as any of its human inhabitants. The Kiowa's worldly possessions were placed upon these travois and with babies strapped to their mother's backs, older children running along beside and the men of the band corralling the large horse herd it was time to continue the journey.
It would be another long day of travel, but if all went well, they would reach their destination by nightfall and some semblance of normalcy would return to the Kiowa. Red Bear insisted upon order in his life - the lack of order was dangerous. The move to winter quarters was a large-scale affair and the commotion of the trip rattled him. Red Bear became a successful war chief because of his ability to formulate and successfully carry out a plan. Even though the Dog Soldiers of the band did their best to maintain control over the parade of families, livestock and belongings, their annual trip to the high country never went entirely as the chief planned. Planning war was simpler.
Red Bear's most recent problems centered around a group of braves led by an arrogant young man of the Onde social class named Raven Wing. Raven Wing had done nothing to deserve his high status in the hierarchy of the Kiowa village- he merely had the good fortune to be born into the right family. Lame Wolf, a respected elder, took great pride in his only son and insisted Raven Wing's cockiness would make him confident in battle. Red Bear, however, saw a young man more concerned with impressing his friends with his recklessness than learning the ways of a Kiowa warrior.
Red Bear didn't like Raven Wing - the young brave thought too much of himself. Rather than be held accountable, he assumed his high status in the tribe would pardon his antics. Red Bear had been born into a prominent family, also, but his was not a charmed life. He had lost his father at a young age and rather than spend his youthful days in playful disregard of responsibilities, he had provided for his mother and half brother as the man of the family. Raven Wing had known no difficulty in his life and probably never would. Before he left the village, Running Buck had insisted that Raven Wing was intent on killing him or was at least intent on making him wish he had never been born. Red Bear had dismissed the accusations - his little brother was prone to exaggeration. Still, the fact that Raven Wing was living a life of ease and Running Buck was out there, somewhere, in a hostile white world did little to endear the brash young brave to the chief.
The important task of covering the band's tracks fell upon Raven Wing and a group of other braves. But more often than not, rather than hiding the visible traces of travel, their days were spent in competition, besting each other in contests ranging from horse racing to tales of their young female conquests. It was necessary for Red Bear to repeatedly remind them of their duties. The chief consoled himself with thoughts that order would return once the Kiowa were settled in their winter home. "One more day," Red Bear told himself as the caravan continued on its way. "Just one more day."
Red Bear, like all Kiowa, would have preferred to remain on the open plains basking in the sun and hunting buffalo year round. But that was not what the earth intended. Long ago the earth had promised to care for the Kiowa. It would suckle the young grass that fed the buffalo and would lie flat and unmoving so approaching enemies could be seen at a great distance. The earth would provide for and protect the Kiowa, asking only that it be left alone and allowed to rest for a short time each year. The sun also grew weary and needed to find its bed behind the mountains earlier in the day. It was important that the earth and sun rest and the Kiowa learned to be patient waiting for them to awaken.
The chief sat quietly in the twilight poking the coals of the fire with a twig until the white-hot embers crumbled, revealing a glowing orange center. The coal, finding new life, reached out greedily for the twig igniting the dry wood with an enthusiastic spark. Red Bear breathed deeply of the night air and finally began to relax. Order was returning to his people.
The band was settled in their winter home, snugly tucked into a hidden valley in the foothills of the great mountains. The soothing sounds of running water floated through the valley as the runoff from last season's snowcap high in the cloud covered peaks flowed in a well worn path through the groves of aspen that dotted the valley floor. Dense growths of fir and spruce lay thick on the sloped walls above the shallow canyon absorbing the noise of the squealing children, anxious for play time after the day's travel. It was a good place to wait while the earth and sun rested. Red Bear reminded himself to commend the scouts who had found the site.
His contentment was short lived and his brow wrinkled in uncertainty as he considered the spirits' message to him. Red Bear was bothered that nothing had come of his dream and wondered if he had missed a sign during their travels. It had been a good day, but nothing exceptional had happened. The move was completed and there had been no difficulties in the last leg of the journey, but he had expected something more. The message in his dream had been distinct, or so he thought.
Reviewing the events of the day in his mind, Red Bear leaned forward to revive the dying fire but turned sharply at the snap of a twig behind him. He was startled not because someone was approaching, but because the sound was of a twig breaking under the hard sole of a boot, not by the soft step of a moccasined foot.
Twilight was quickly turning into darkness but in the dim light he recognized the short stocky outline of Little Otter, the sentry posted at the south entrance to the village. Beside Little Otter walked another man leading a smallish horse. The horse held its head low and shook it several times sending a metallic rattle into the night as the pony tried to rid itself of the bothersome bit in its mouth. Their slow, plodding steps told that the pair was very tired and the chief assumed they had traveled a great distance. Red Bear rose to his feet, wary of the approaching stranger, growing concerned that their location had been discovered by an outsider. The intruder was limping slightly but there was something familiar in the way he carried himself, something remembered in his step. With a quick nod of his head Red Bear dismissed Little Otter and moved toward the newcomer.
Buck felt his throat tighten as the chief approached. Red Bear's last words to him had been strong. If he chose his white family over the Kiowa, he should go and not look back. As he rode out of the village that day to rejoin Kid and Ike, he never dreamed that someday he would return to ask for the acceptance he tossed aside. When he found his voice it was weary and colored with apprehension. "Years ago you said there was a place for me in your home. Is there still?"
Red Bear knew of men who judged their wealth by the size of their horse herd. He had heard of the large homes and ornate furnishings that made white men rich. Possessions are important to some. Other men understand the value of a family. Red Bear lay awake for a long while considering his fortune. His tepee was a bit crowded now, but he didn't mind. It was a welcome closeness. His adored wife lay asleep in his arms, his children, healthy and strong, rested nearby and the wandering spirit of his brother had finally found its way home. Yes . . . it had been a good day.
