by Kim Roberts
© 2000
The beat of the drum is the heartbeat of the Earth . . . calling to her children . . . calling her children home.
"Wind Dancer, you are being unreasonable. I have waited many years for my brother to come home and I will not turn him away because my wife fears something that will not happen."
It was not a Kiowa woman's place to argue with her husband but the small woman was firm in her belief and pulled herself to her full height to oppose Red Bear. "He carries the white man's sickness," she insisted, her voice rising. "Have you forgotten the death of your eldest son, my husband? I have not. I do not wish to sing the death song of another child. I do not want him in our home."
"He has lived with the whites but that does not mean he brings illness. You are acting foolishly," Red Bear replied brusquely, surprised and more than a bit irritated by his wife's boldness.
"Is it foolish for a mother to protect her children?" Wind Dancer asked, crossing her arms tightly over her chest with a defiance not tolerated in a Kiowa wife.
"Running Buck did not bring the white man's sickness," Red Bear repeated firmly. "He stays."
Buck stopped a few yards from the tepee at the sounds of an argument. The hide walls muffled their words, but after Wind Dancer's icy reception the day before, he was fairly certain he was the reason for the quarrel. When he lived with them before it was clear by her quiet mistrust that he wasn't welcome, but Wind Dancer had never openly opposed his presence. He wondered what he had done to incite such a response in the short time he had been there. Buck didn't intend to eavesdrop but before he could find his feet to move away, the exchange of words came to an abrupt halt and the entry flap of the tepee flew open.
Red Bear quickly exited looking flustered and a bit embarrassed. It would hurt his credibility as a leader if others knew he couldn't control his own wife. His eyes quickly scanned the area, finding only Running Buck close enough to have possibly overhead the altercation. He knew his brother would never question his leadership abilities, but wasn't anxious for Running Buck to know that Wind Dancer, considering him a threat to the health of their children, insisted that he leave. His brother was home, where he belonged, and Red Bear intended to keep it that way.
Wiping the exasperation from his face, the chief strode toward his younger sibling. "Come," he ordered and motioned Buck to join him as he turned toward the center of the village. "Two Rains wishes to discuss the white man's war you spoke of."
Buck fell in beside Red Bear, his brother's long, purposeful strides telling of the agitation he still harbored over his wife's behavior. Buck debated for a moment whether to ask about the argument. Even if he was the cause, Red Bear's marital woes weren't his business, but the question didn't wait for him to decide on a tactful approach and slipped out on its own.
"Why is your wife…"
"We had a disagreement. It has nothing to do with you," Red Bear interrupted in a tone that told there would be no further discussion of the matter.
Buck laid his concerns about Red Bear and his wife aside in exchange for new worries as they approached the center of the village. Gossip spread just as quickly through a Kiowa village as it did through the streets of any other community and he knew the villagers were aware of his return. Feeling eyes upon him, he tensed uncomfortably and felt moisture spreading across the palms of his hands. Falling unconsciously into old habits, he lowered his head and dropped his gaze to the ground, but after a moment realized what he had done. No, he would not look away. He had as much right to look into their faces as they did to stare at his.
He remembered many of them. Women, now middle-aged, were the young mothers who had roughly pushed him away from their own small children leaving a bewildered little boy alone and wondering where his playmates had gone. He saw braves and maidens his own age who in the innocence of childhood had seen no difference in him only to hurl insults and laughter in his face once they grew old enough to learn the prejudices of their parents. Staring at him behind drooping eyelids he saw the leathery skinned faces of the superstitious old ones who had cast blame on him for every malady and misfortune that befell the Kiowa. Buck tried to gauge their response, but what he saw was the emotionless face of indifference - somewhere in the middle of the vast span between the open animosity he prayed he wouldn't find and the wide-armed acceptance he craved. He breathed a little easier and wiped his sweaty palms against his shirt sleeves - at least he knew where he stood. The middle wasn't a bad place to start.
Lastly, Buck saw the oblivious face of Red Bear's aunt, Black Water Woman, happily chattering in front of her tepee to guests unseen by the sane eye. Buck slowed his pace watching the crazy woman. He had feared her as a child, even though his mother assured him Black Water Woman lived in a far away world and could not hurt him. His mother and brother never spoke of it, but others were eager to remind him that the woman had cried away her sanity grieving for her son - a young brave killed alongside Red Bear's father, White Eagle, as they sought revenge for the attack on his mother. Black Water Woman had never forgiven Five Horses or the white man's son she bore for the death of her only son and the venom flowing through her veins had poisoned her mind. Watching the woman prattle away nonsensically, Buck no longer felt fear, but pity. He understood the power of grief. Grief could make you do crazy things.
Buck stood just inside the doorway of Two Rains' tepee, the thick cloud of smoke from the old man's pipe stinging his eyes. Out of respect for the ancient leader of the Owl Doctor Society he made no movement forward or spoke until instructed to do so. Members of the Owl Doctor Society had the power of prophecy - they were visionaries - and made Buck nervous. Living in the present was difficult enough - it would be a daunting responsibility to know the future also, and he didn't envy them their gift. When prompted to enter, he quietly sat himself beside Red Bear across the fire pit from the old man.
Lines of age, deep as canyons, creased the old prophet's face. Two Rains had once stood tall and erect, but his advancing years and the responsibility of his high rank weighed heavily upon his frame and the old man's bones had curved under the burden leaving him hunch shouldered and frail. Each breath he drew was heavy and demanded thought. His waist length gray hair, once the pride of a Kiowa warrior, was now brittle and it seemed to Buck that the dry strands would shatter if touched. Two Rains stared intently at him through milky white eyes. Cataracts had taken the old man's vision, but Buck felt as if the prophet could see through him.
"I have not seen this white man's war you speak of," the elderly one began. His voice sounded raspy and dry, as if poured through a bed of gravel that old age had left in his throat. He wasted no time with pleasantries as if he knew his remaining days were few and he had no time to dawdle. "Tell me what you know," he demanded and laid his pipe on the ground next to him. He then placed his tobacco in a leather bag and tied the top securely, his actions as sure as those of a sighted man. As he laid the tobacco pouch beside the pipe, Buck noticed the bag was worn thin in several places but the beadwork was still intact. He made note of the symbol within the beadwork - a spider - a symbol of wisdom.
Buck responded as best he could, but found he had few answers to Two Rains' questions. The old man seemed to think that because he had lived with the whites, he should know their plans. Buck tried to explain that the country was very large and men in far away places would make decisions regarding troops and weaponry. Although he had never traveled further east than St. Joseph, Buck knew from the maps and geography lessons at the mission school that the white man's country was huge. Two Rains understood the world of the plains, but the old man could not fathom the enormity of what lay to the east of the prairie and Buck finally gave up trying to impress the size and power of the white man's world upon him. Even Red Bear looked at his brother with disbelieving eyes.
"Will the Pony Soldiers go to fight in the white man's war?" the old prophet asked, still determined to glean information from the outsider.
"I don't know," Buck answered honestly. "The fighting had not started when I left. But I think it will be soon. Perhaps some of them will leave."
Two Rains leaned against the back-board that supported his bony frame, dissecting the young mixed-blood's words. A white man's war would benefit the Kiowa, especially if the soldiers on horses went away to fight. Once they were gone, the Indians could roam the plains as they had in earlier days, free and powerful under Pahy, the sun, as it was intended. But if he spoke lies to lure them into a false sense of security, the Kiowa could be easily attacked and would deserve to be beaten because they had believed the words of one who should not be trusted. "Why should I believe you? The spirits have told me of no such war. Perhaps you have brought the Pony Soldiers and they wait for us to lay down our guns thinking we are safe before they attack."
Buck considered his words thoughtfully, careful not to offend the respected elder. "Maybe you have not seen the coming war because it is the white man's battle. I have returned to find a place among my mother's people and would never bring harm to the Kiowa."
The frail old man motioned for Buck to come closer and after a nod of approval from Red Bear he hesitantly moved to the elder's side. Buck flinched involuntarily as the ancient prophet reached for him. Two Rains' mottled skin hung loose across his knuckles and blue veins bulged against the thin flesh. Buck's first thought was that the hands were ugly and rough, but as the old one drew him closer and touched his face they felt remarkably gentle instead. Seeing him with his hands, Two Rains placed his fingertips at Buck's temples, then ran his fingers across his brow, down his nose to his mouth, circling up across his cheekbones and back to the starting point. He repeated the motion several times until he could clearly envision the young man.
Two Rains needed time to determine the significance of Running Buck's account of the white man's activities, but his well honed intuition told him the young outsider spoke the truth. It also told him the boy's heart was pure even if his lineage wasn't. In his younger days he would have doubted the genuineness of a half-blood but the loss of vision had opened his eyes. Color meant very little to a blind man. Especially a blind man who's remaining days were few. Satisfied with his assessment Two Rains dismissed Buck and motioned toward the doorway. The old man's clouded eyes turned toward Red Bear as Buck rose to leave. "Perhaps now that you have returned, Red Bear's decisions will not be tainted."
Startled by the reprimanding tone of the old man's voice, Buck looked to Red Bear for an explanation, but he sat motionless, his eyes unblinking under the heavy gaze of the blind prophet. It seemed to Buck that in that moment he looked more like a scolded schoolboy than a war chief. Buck turned to Two Rains, but the old man had spoken his piece and did not care to elaborate either. Puzzled, Buck left the two leaders as instructed. The meaning of Two Rains' comment would have to wait.
The unmistakable odor of tanning fluid met Buck as he stepped out from Two Rains' tepee. A small hunting party had returned with several antelope and the women were already boiling down the animal's liver and brains to create the liquid used to tan the hides. Buck had been intrigued by the process as a child, but the stench of the mixture now turned his stomach and he hastily walked away from the odor toward the stream outside the village, chastising himself for how soft he had become living in the white world.
He knelt in the rocky soil beside the stream and dipped his hands into its cool depths. Cupping the water in his hands, he drank liberally of the refreshing liquid, washing the offensive odor from his senses. Feeling better, Buck allowed himself to become amused. Yes, he would need to work on a few things to adapt to life in the village again. Acclimating his nose to the smell of brewing brains and liver was one of them. But, overall, Buck was pleased with his return to the village. The old man, Two Rains, seemed interested in what he knew of the white world. It certainly wouldn't hurt to have an ally in the old leader of the Owl Doctor Society. With the exception of Wind Dancer, the Kiowa had not openly taken offense to his presence. He was still puzzled by her actions, but perhaps, his addition to her household had merely taken her by surprise. A tepee wasn't a large home, anyway, and making room for him had made the quarters fairly cramped. He needed to earn his keep, too. He remembered seeing fresh antelope tracks during his ride with Red Bear the day before and resolved to bring home fresh meat for dinner. Maybe she would eventually warm to him. Perhaps he could talk to Red Bear about erecting a small tepee for himself. It would be nice to have a place of his own. Maybe someday he could find someone to share it with, too. Maybe… Buck stopped himself, amused again. It was only his second day back. "One thing at a time," he told himself. "One thing at a time."
Raven Wing watched with interest as Running Buck left the village and headed toward the stream. He didn't really know why he despised the chief's half-brother. He just always had. The rigid structure of the Kiowa social system had been in place since the tribe's beginnings and was taught to children at a very young age. The classes were clearly defined and unquestioned - there was no place in their society for a half-breed. To Raven Wing a mixture of blood meant a mixture of loyalties - how could he be trusted? Mixed blood was a threat to the purity of the tribe. The tight circle of Kiowa society would fall into decline if undesirables like the bastard half-breed were allowed inside.
Engrossed in his thoughts, Buck didn't hear the approaching footsteps until they were upon him. The hair on the back of his neck bristled at the voice. It was lower now with manhood, but the tone was well remembered. Buck slowly let the water drain from his cupped hands and stood to face his childhood tormentor. Seven years had not changed the haughty expression of arrogance on Raven Wing's face and Buck's first impulse was to knock the look off. But he stopped himself. He came back to find a home with his people - not fight them. Not unless he had to.
"I heard that the white dog had returned, begging for a place to sleep."
Raven Wing paused for a moment as Buck's jaw tightened noticeably. He scrutinized the half-breed's expression, calculating the effect of his insult. The results were satisfying. It was almost too easy. "So the white world did not want you either. . . the whites are smarter than I thought. You are not wanted here either, White Face, so why don't you just leave."
Buck knew when he returned that at some point he would encounter Raven Wing again, but he had hoped with maturity their differences could be resolved on a more civil level. But it was painfully obvious that nothing had changed.
"I'm not going anywhere, Raven Wing," Buck answered with as much conviction as he could gather and still keep a firm hold on his mounting anger. "I proved myself Kiowa."
Raven Wing chuckled and shook his head animatedly as if he was enjoying a good joke. "You make me laugh, White Face." Raven Wing took a threatening step forward as his amusement turned to something dark and dangerous. "My friends and I were very disappointed when you left years ago. We were looking forward to putting the white-faced, mongrel dog out of his misery. But Dark Feather and Gray Wolf now walk in the land behind the sun because of your brother, and white filth like you. Now they won't get the satisfaction. We should have drowned you when we had the chance."
Buck drew a deep breath in hopes of calming the thunderstorm growing in his stomach and pulled his shoulders back, refusing to buckle under the weight of the agonizing memories stirring within him. Somewhere deep inside he knew he should feel something upon hearing of the deaths of Dark Feather and Gray Wolf, but he didn't. He wondered briefly what Raven Wing meant by his comment about Red Bear, but it was a fleeting thought and quickly left as Raven Wing's onslaught of insults continued.
"You do not belong here. You were a mistake, White Face. An error. Just looking at you makes me sick."
"I have a right to be with my mother's people, Raven Wing," Buck spat back through clenched teeth as the storm clouds continued to roll.
"Your mother brought shame to the Kiowa when she let herself be taken by a white man." Raven Wing's voice grew low and menacing as his eyes locked with Buck's in the gaze of a predator primed for the kill. "You are not Kiowa, half-breed. You are nothing more than the bastard of a whore and no old man's ritual will remove the stain your family left on my people. Go back to the filthy whites where you belong or I will finish what I started years ago."
He tried to stop the waves from overtaking him, but the pain of old wounds and the insult to his mother was too great and Buck felt himself being swept away in a flood of anger. Raven Wing was not solely responsible for the misery Buck endured as a child, but he had inflicted more than his share on the lighter skinned boy. Every tear the little boy ever shed, every bruise, bloodied nose or blackened eye demanded payment in kind as the storm clouds opened wide and Buck threw himself on the larger brave, knocking them both into the swiftly moving stream. Years of unleashed anger crashed like thundering surf against a rocky shoreline as his fist connected with Raven Wing's nose. A geyser of blood spewed from the mangled face, the droplets tingeing the stream a delicate shade of pink before swirling away in the current. Buck found his footing in the rocky stream bed and grabbed at his stunned opponent's buckskin shirt pulling him out of the water only to pound his fist into Raven Wing's face again. The skin on Buck's knuckles broke open from the impact, but it felt good. He fought for the child - the little boy who had been too small and outnumbered to ever win a battle and he was determined, this time, victory would be his.
Incensed by the taste of blood, Raven Wing sprang to life and threw his arms around Buck's legs sending him sprawling backward onto the rock lined bank. Raven Wing pulled himself from the water and viciously kicked at Buck's stomach while he tried to regain the air lost by the impact with the rocky ground. Buck choked back the bile rising in his throat and grabbed at Raven Wing's foot before it flew again, pulling him to the ground. Senseless with hatred, they rolled in the grass, fists flying, kicking and choking in a tangled blur of buckskin and blue cotton. Out of the corner of his eye Buck saw the flash of a metal blade but pounded Raven Wing's hand against the ground until his hold on the weapon loosened. Raven Wing was the heavier man, but Buck's desperate need to avenge old indignities more than made up the differential. Every ounce of humiliation he ever suffered, every laugh at his expense rose to the surface, feeding the storm.
Overcome with the memory of the ultimate degradation, Buck beat Raven Wing's head against the hard earth until his dazed enemy lay limp. He determinedly turned Raven Wing onto this stomach and straddled his back, the remembered cries of a humiliated child drowning out his better judgment. His chest heaving from exertion and anticipation, Buck reached for his knife, craving vengeance for the crime Raven Wing and his friends had committed against him years earlier. Buck twisted the black waterfall flowing down Raven Wing's back tightly around his fist and brought the knife under the mass of hair. In a long-awaited moment of reckoning, he leaned into the task ready to slice through the tight coil but stopped suddenly as a familiar, whisper soft-breeze brushed his face, calming the storm clouds. Brought back to his senses by a friend's gentle touch, he looked from the knife to his bloodied knuckles and Raven Wing's crushed face. No. . . No. He was better than this.
"Remember this, Raven Wing," Buck declared triumphantly as he caught his breath and released his hold on Raven Wing's hair, letting his head drop to the ground. "I am the victor, but I let you keep your hair." Buck stood on unsteady legs and wiped the blood from his split lip. Satisfied, he replaced his knife in its sheath and turned back to the village leaving a disgraced Raven Wing dazed in the dirt.
The beaten young brave slowly regained his bearings and pushed himself to his feet. His head and face throbbed as blood, thick with hatred poured from his nose and mouth. Humiliation suffered by the defeat oozed from every pore of his body and his wounded ego demanded a swift retribution. Quickly locating the hunting knife lost in the scuffle, he gathered his strength and ran as a mad-man toward the object of his hatred.
Raven Wing's war cry pierced the air as he flew at Buck's back, knife poised for the kill. Alerted by the cry, Buck twisted away from his attacker, narrowly avoiding the blade as they crashed to the dirt floor. Somewhere in the distance he heard demanding voices and felt the earth shake under approaching footsteps as a startled group of onlookers gathered to watch the battle. Pinned to the ground under his enemy, Buck desperately wrestled against Raven Wing and the knife between them, feeling the sting of the razor edge as it reached out to bite his grappling hands. In a sickening instant he felt the resistance before blade enters flesh and the warmth of freely flowing blood.
Raven Wing's body lay heavy against him like a stone, his expression carved in the horrified stare of one who met death unprepared. Unseen hands rolled the weight away and Buck felt himself being pulled to his feet, stumbling backward away from Raven Wing as a stunned crowd congregated around the lifeless body of the Onde brave.
"What have you done?" Red Bear demanded as he tightened his hold on his brother.
Buck struggled against the restraining arms and turned to face Red Bear, an incredulous look covering his face. Had he not seen?
A mother's anguished cry split the air as Gray Dove dropped to her dead son's side and pulled the knife from his chest. Her sorrow quickly turned to unbridled anger as she saw the one responsible and lunged forward at Buck like a she-cat pouncing on her stunned prey. The wildly slicing blade opened a large gash on his upper arm and Buck gasped in pain, leaning heavily into Red Bear's supporting arms. The sudden gush of blood startled the grieving woman and she dropped the weapon, her knees buckling under the weight of her loss.
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Buck rested his elbow against his knee, supporting his pounding head in his hands as Red Bear bandaged the knife wound to his left arm. His stomach lurched violently and he wondered briefly if it was the odor of the tanning fluid or the rusty smell of Raven Wing's blood that was making him nauseous.
He heard the murmurs of the council as the elders discussed Raven Wing's death. Yes, he had killed him - but in self-defense. He had every right to protect himself. Surely the council would see it that way. But still, rank in a Kiowa village had its privilege. Raven Wing was Onde and he was . . . well, he was nothing.
The piercing wail of Raven Wing's mother floating through the village until it found him. The shrillness of her grief hurt his ears and he wondered if his own cries for Ike had been as pitiful. He jumped at the sound of a rifle discharge and the strangling sound of a dying horse as Lame Wolf killed his son's pony, providing Raven Wing a mount for his journey to the spirit world.
"Hold still!" Red Bear demanded as he tried to close the wound. Buck didn't feel it. He didn't feel anything but a growing blackness inside him that threatened to swallow him whole. If the council found him guilty of a crime, the punishment could be anything from a swift death to banishment. He held his breath and choked back his fears as Stone Eyes approached with the council's decision.
Although Stone Eyes was Red Bear's uncle, he held no affection for his nephew's half- brother. His own family had been shattered by the carelessness of Running Buck's mother. His son was dead and his wife had lost her mind because of Five Horses. Still, he was Kiowa, and Kiowa spoke the truth. He had witnessed Raven Wing's attack on Running Buck and testified to the other elders of the village that the half-breed had acted in self-defense.
Any relief Buck felt was quickly swept away as the older man's spit hit him squarely in the face. The council may have seen him not guilty, but by the blazing looks of the Kiowa beating down on him with the intensity of an August sun, Buck knew he was far from innocent in their eyes. His heart fell as any ground he had gained toward acceptance quickly crumbled and gave way under his feet.
