by Kim Roberts
© 2000
The beat of the drum is the heartbeat of the Earth . . . calling to her children . . . calling her children home.
Buck remembered watching a man use a cider press at the Founder's Day celebration in Sweetwater. He placed pieces of apple in the bottom of the container and then turned a wooden handle attached to a screw-like device that moved the press up and down. Every turn of the handle moved the press further toward the pieces of apple until the pressure was so great they crushed under the press and the juices ran. When the man was finished, all that remained of the apple was its broken skin and pulp. He and Ike were intrigued by the remarkable contraption - a treat like apple cider wasn't served at the mission school. They had watched the process for quite a while. Lying awake in Red Bear's tepee, Buck felt like the pieces of apple - felt that one more heavy sigh from Red Bear or one more sideways glance from Wind Dancer would turn the press so tight that he would be squeezed into nothingness. He quickly grabbed his shirt, rolled off his bed and scampered out the opening of the tepee before the press turned once more.
The blast of night air that greeted him was cold and he shivered as he dressed, but it was a welcome change from the smothering discomfort of the tepee. Buck flinched a bit as he slipped his bandaged arm into the blood-crusted sleeve. He would have preferred a clean shirt, but didn't take the time to rummage through his things to find one. He had been too numb to feel the knife wound before but now it throbbed. It wasn't serious, but hurt enough to remind him it was there and why.
A shift in the air sent a chill down his spine and the acrid smell of smoke from Raven Wing's funeral pyre wafting through the village. Buck turned away trying to evade the repulsive odor and the sickening feeling it left in his stomach. He closed his eyes to steady himself, but the vision of his hopes for the future being reduced to ash alongside Raven Wing's corpse burned against his eyelids. It was no use - there would be no escape from what he had done.
He never intended to kill Raven Wing. If he had, he could have taken his life easily by the stream. Beating Raven Wing didn't change anything from the past, but he had walked away from the fight feeling that his tormentor had suffered a slice of the humiliation he endured for so many years and a small victory had been his. But as the Kiowa threw curses and hostile glances in his direction before turning away to comfort the dead brave's grieving family, Buck wondered if perhaps Raven Wing had won after all.
"The hour grows late, brother," Red Bear said as he approached the hollowed out log where Buck sat, mindlessly stirring the fragments of a dying fire with a dry twig. "Come back inside."
"I can't go back in there," Buck answered, preferring to spend the night where he sat, rather than confront his sister-in-law's resentment again. "Your wife fears me, Red Bear. Does she really think she needs to protect your children from me?"
"You are mistaken, Running Buck."
"Then why does she lay with the children and not in your bed?" Red Bear didn't offer an answer. He really didn't want to talk about Wind Dancer or Raven Wing or anything else for that matter. If left alone, everything would heal in time. But his little brother was impatient. He always had been. "Why, Red Bear?" Buck questioned again, his tone growing insistent.
Red Bear sighed and sank down resignedly on the log beside Buck. "Wind Dancer is afraid you that you have brought the white man's sickness and will make the children ill."
"What?"
"She is afraid of losing another child."
"You lost a child?" Buck asked, suddenly realizing there were things about his brother's life that he knew nothing about.
"His life was not intended," Red Bear answered quickly, his hurried response telling Buck he didn't wish to discuss his son's death. "Wind Dancer grew ill also. I almost lost her, too. She wants you to leave, but I told her 'no'. That is why she is angry."
That was why she wouldn't let him touch the baby and why she made her bed with the children rather than her husband. She was only trying to protect her children. Buck wondered for a moment if her worries were valid but quickly dismissed the thought as a remote possibility. Still, her fear was very real and he couldn't fault her for it. "I'm sorry Red Bear. I never wanted to come between you and your wife."
"She is a good wife. She knows her place," Red Bear said with certainty.
"Her place is beside you in bed not on the opposite side of the fire," Buck mumbled.
"You worry too much, little brother. You always have," Red Bear said as he pushed himself to his feet and prepared to return to his empty bed. "Wind Dancer will come back to my bed and everything will be better tomorrow. Come."
Buck suddenly felt like a child again being ordered to bed with his brother's insistence that he was exaggerating his plight. How many times had he tried to make Red Bear understand? How many times had he watched his brother shrug off his pleas like an uncomfortable garment? "Your brother sees what he wants to see," his mother had told him. Nothing had changed. Buck's lips pursed together in a tight frown. He tapped the twig on the bed of coals a few more times, each tap striking with a little more force than the previous one, until the twig broke and he chucked the remaining piece into the coals. "Red Bear, listen to yourself," he began, his words stewing in a slow simmer as Red Bear turned to leave. "I killed the son of an important man and the Kiowa despise me for it. Are you still so blind that you didn't see the looks on their faces? Tomorrow will be no different than today, and neither will the day after or the day after that."
Red Bear stopped and turned back to his brother, his disapproval jumping unexpectedly from his throat. "Perhaps if you did not look for trouble, things would be different."
"What would you have me do?" Buck nearly shouted, suddenly defensive. "Would you rather that I lay down and let Raven Wing put his knife through me? I killed him to save myself, Red Bear." Remembering the sting of Red Bear's reaction to the killing he added sarcastically, "but even you doubted that didn't you?"
"You were fighting," Red Bear stated firmly.
"He insulted Mother. You would have done the same thing," Buck spat back. Buck was quiet for a moment, then realized that he was wrong and snorted with a bitter amusement. "No. . . no you would never have to. No one has ever threatened you, or spit on you, or cursed our mother in your face. You are just as blind as that old prophet, Red Bear. You have no idea what my life has been like."
"You think I have not suffered?" Red Bear retorted in an accusatory tone that startled them both. He didn't want to argue - he seldom did. Nothing good ever came of it. But a rusty hinged lock inside him had sprung open. "White Eagle died because of what happened to our mother. The years that I should have spent with my father, or spent chasing women or chasing horses were spent taking care of you and mother instead." Buck sat dumbfounded, his mouth opened slightly in surprise. Red Bear's insinuation hit him below the belt and he flinched at the blow. It never occurred to him that Red Bear might resent him and it was a very disturbing thought. "I put food in your stomach and clothes on your back, Running Buck, only for you to walk away and choose to live with our enemy rather than the brother who loved and provided for you."
"Red Bear, I left because you never listened to me! I would have gladly gone hungry and naked if only you would have just once listened to me!" Buck's shoulders drooped a bit as his exasperation slid off and pooled, useless, at his feet - an all-to-familiar hopelessness taking its place. "I asked Mother once if I was a mistake. She told me 'no', that I was a gift to ease her pain after White Eagle died. What about you, Red Bear? Was I a mistake?"
The conversation made Red Bear uncomfortable. He never intended for it to go this far, but the words buzzed in his throat and flew out of his mouth before he could force them back inside. "Running Buck, I love you with all my heart but loving you has clouded my judgement and a war chief must see clearly."
"What are you talking about, Red Bear?"
Red Bear didn't answer, rather stood numbly with the remorseful expression of a man who had spoken more than he intended. He wished with all he was worth that he could simply go back inside his tepee. Go back and let Running Buck sit in the cold if he wanted to. It had been hard enough admitting his mistake to the council. But he had opened the door and his brother stubbornly stuck his foot inside to prevent it from closing.
"Red Bear, tell me!"
Red Bear looked away and fixed his eyes on something of grave import in the dark distance but his brother's unrelenting gaze pulled his eyes back, demanding an answer. "The white messengers began crossing our land again," he began after a long moment of hesitation. "The council wanted to take swift action to stop them. I told you once that I would kill you if I had to, brother, but I could not. I hesitated to act, fearing you would be among the messengers. A small party of young braves went against my orders and attacked them on their own but there were Pony Soldiers with the messengers and they were gravely outnumbered."
"Gray Wolf and Dark Feather?" Buck asked as Raven Wing's comment began to make sense. The old man had said something too. Something about tainted decisions.
Red Bear nodded regretfully. "They were among the dead. A few members of the council tried to have me ousted fearing my tie to the white world was too strong. That is why it is important that you have returned, brother," Red Bear added, almost excited at the prospect. "Our ties to the white world are severed now."
Red Bear reached out for his brother in a reconcilitory gesture, but Buck turned away from his attempt to bridge the gap that had formed between them. Somewhere deep inside it felt good that Red Bear had worried about him, but at the same time it hurt that his only thoughts now were that he wouldn't be confronted with the same situation again. It evidently didn't matter to Red Bear if he was miserable, if he was flailing in a sea of despair as long as his position as chief was secure. "Why should I stay where I'm not wanted. . . where I'm spit on and cursed at and have no hope it will ever be any different?"
"I lost you once, brother. I do not wish to wake in the morning and find you gone again."
"Why, Red Bear?" Buck tried to swallow his disappointment but it lodged in his throat. His words were thin as his voice struggled past the hard lump. "Because you want your brother with you, or because it will make your job easier if I stay?"
Buck's question hung between them like a suspension bridge swinging in the wind. He didn't wait for the answer and quickly walked away, leaving Red Bear alone and apologetic by the dying fire. Buck knew what his brother's honest answer would be. It would be "both" and that was the wrong answer.
Buck sifted through the large horse herd for his mare trying to calculate how long the ride back to Rock Creek would take if he left that very instant. He wasn't looking forward to another long, lonely journey any more than he relished the thought of admitting he had failed in his attempt to reconcile with the Kiowa. He knew Rachel, Kid and Lou had questioned his return, but he doubted they would reap any satisfaction knowing they had been right. They were family and family treated each other better than that. They would accept him back with no pretense, no hidden motive. Maybe the deputy position Teaspoon had offered was still available. He tried to imagine himself, feet propped up, drinking coffee all day, shuffling paperwork, hiding from Rock Creek's prejudice behind Teaspoon's booming voice of authority and a tin star. He would go home at night to a cold room with a colder bed and wake the next morning to the exact same day telling himself it was enough. It wasn't what he wanted, wasn't what he dreamed about, but it didn't matter much any more. How many people really got what they wanted out of life anyway?
A heavy cloud cover made the search for his mount difficult, but he finally located her and led the animal away from the herd. He reached for a handful of mane and started to swing upon her back, but winced in pain as a grip tightened around his wounded arm and pulled him backward into the darkness, throwing him rudely to the ground. Buck tried to push himself up but a heavy foot landed squarely on his back and sent him sprawling in the dust again. The foot then moved to the side of his face and pressed it firmly against the ground. Buck tasted dirt and felt gravel and small stones bite into his flesh under the twisting pressure of the moccasined foot. He spit mud as his attacker released him and unseen hands dragged him to his feet.
Through the darkness, Buck could make out the shapes of three, perhaps four, braves. Friends of Raven Wing, no doubt anxious to pronounce their own sentence for his crime. He sensed them gathering around him in a tight circle, felt their hands on him, pushing, shoving him between them as he clawed for an escape. He smelled whiskey - the white man's firewater spurring his attackers on, assuring them their actions were sanctioned by an authority higher than the council that set this murderer free.
Buck heard the sloshing of liquid as one of the braves raised a bottle to his lips and drank noisily of the liquor. He sensed an opportunity as the one with the bottle staggered a bit and he lunged forward at the drunk in hopes of knocking him further off balance. But the larger man was firmly planted and Buck received a sharp blow to the small of his back for his efforts. Waves of pain raced up his spine and he bit down hard, on his bottom lip, tasting blood, to suppress a scream. They intended to kill him, he was certain of that, but he would not entertain them with his cries while he died. He felt his arms twisting unnaturally behind his back and tried desperately to stand his ground, but there were too many. Buck felt his legs buckling underneath their pressure, forcing him to kneel in the dirt. The sharp upward motion of a knee collided with his chin and snapped his head backwards. He heard laughter - loud, drunken laughter and then the high-pitched crack of the glass bottle breaking against his temple. Pain, sharp and jagged, bounced inside his skull. Blinded by a gush of blood he reached into the night, groping for support as he felt himself swaying, falling. In the distance he heard the rustling of grass under retreating footsteps and the graveled voice of an old one before the last fragment of awareness slipped away.
The smell of tobacco smoke was familiar, just as the old voice had been. He felt coarse buffalo hair against his face, against his hand and he rubbed its wooly warmth between his fingers. Buck tenderly touched the gash on his head and felt dried blood matted around the wound pasting his hair hard and crusted to his scalp.
He heard chanting and opened his eyes in search of the monotone drone. His vision blurred, but he forced it steady, focusing on the orange flames dancing before him like a chorus line of gaudily dressed saloon girls. When he dared to raise his head, he found the worn remnants of a man behind the fire pit. Two Rains sat cross-legged braiding bunches of dried sage into tight bundles, a steady flow of ancient words flowing over his pencil thin lips.
The old man was nearly transparent, blending with the smoke filled lodge. Buck blinked and brought the prophet back into focus. He wondered briefly how he had gotten to the blind man's tepee. Two Rains was much too weak to carry him or even drag him from the arroyo where the horses were pastured even if he could see.
"Grandfather," Buck said, using the term as a form of respect rather than relation.
The old man stopped chanting and turned his milky eyes in the direction of the young voice. "You must be more careful, Grandson," he began. "It is unwise to walk alone in the dark when there are those who wish you harm."
"I was leaving," Buck groaned and pushed himself to a sitting position on the buffalo blanket. He placed a hand on the ground to steady himself and cradled his aching head in the other until the lodge stopped spinning around him.
"Why?" the old man asked as he continued braiding the sage. "Because you argued with your brother?"
"He does not understand you, does he?" he asked when Buck didn't offer an answer. "How could he? He is not half-white. He has not walked your path."
Buck eyed the elderly prophet suspiciously but remained quiet. "But you . . . you have led your people, you know the responsibilities of a chief, don't you?" Two Rains asked attempting to make Buck see the selfishness of his thinking.
Buck scowled and turned away from the blind man's repreimanding gaze. "No, Two Rains," he answered feeling like a scolded child. "I have never led the Kiowa and I do not know the responsibilities of a chief."
"Then why do you judge what you do not know?" the old man asked, his gaze unwavering. "Nothing is as simple as you think, Grandson."
Buck let out a heavy sigh. Alright, he could concede that much. He began to realize that he really didn't know that much about his brother's life. Only earlier that night he learned that Red Bear had mourned the death of a son. He had always been too consumed with his own problems to ever consider that Red Bear had difficulties of his own. Red Bear had become the family's provider overnight when his father, White Eagle, died - not an easy task for a thirteen year old boy. It was common practice that, after a suitable period of mourning, a marriage would be arranged for a widow in the village, but because of her half-white son, no other brave would have Five Horses. What Red Bear said was true. He had missed what should have been the most enjoyable time of his life because he had a mother and half-brother to care for. He had clothed and fed his little brother and then taken him into his own home after Five Horses died. But Red Bear had never seen his misery. Why had he never seen? Was his resentment for the mixed blood brother forced upon him so great that he willingly allowed the abuse to occur? "No…no," Buck assured himself. Red Bear loved him. But perhaps it was just easier to convince himself the problem didn't exist than to further complicate his life by having to deal with it. Two Rains was right. Nothing was as simple as he thought.
"Raven Wing died at my hands and the Kiowa aren't willing to forget it. I was foolish enough to think I might find my place here, but I was wrong." Buck surprised himself - he didn't usually speak this easily. But there was something about the weathered old man that made him feel safe. Almost as if Two Rains knew everything about him already, and there was no danger in telling him what he already knew. "Maybe I have no place," he added quietly.
"There is a place for everyone and everything, Grandson. It is a foolish man who does not look for it. You say you were leaving, yet you have only just returned."
"I'm not welcome here. It's best that I leave."
The old man placed the sage bundle aside and folded his hands in his lap. "But if you had been welcomed by the white man, you would not have come back. If you go back to the white world and it turns you away once more, will you return to the Kiowa again? Will you continue moving between two worlds waiting for someone to hand you your place or will you fight for what you want?"
"I don't know where I belong, Grandfather."
"Have you listened to your mother?" Two Rains asked.
Buck's brow creased in confusion. "My mother has been dead for a very long time, Grandfather."
"No!" Two Rains exclaimed and pitched his frail body forward crouching on his hands and knees. He rubbed his hand gently over the ground and scooped up a handful of dirt. Slowly, almost lovingly, he let the dust filter through his arthritic fingers. It seemed to Buck that he treated the handful of earth more like gold dust than dirt. "Have you listened to Mother?" he asked again and bent his bony elbows until he could rest his ear against the ground. "Listen!" he commanded.
Buck stared at Two Rains in bewilderment and searched the prophet's face for signs of insanity. Maybe his first impression had been wrong. The man was as crazy as Red Bear's aunt. He watched the aged Kiowa with a fascinated curiosity. No . . . he wasn't wrong. There was something wise and wonderful in the old man and Buck trusted him as he had trusted few others.
"Listen to Mother speak!" Two Rains cried. He pressed his white eyes closed and a blissful smile filled the crevices of his face. He motioned animatedly for Buck to join him. "Listen!"
Almost timidly, Buck crept closer to the frail bodied elder and placed his ear to the ground - half doubting, half expecting to hear something. After a long moment he admitted, "I don't hear anything, Grandfather." Everything sensible in him told him he wouldn't, told him he looked silly crouching in the old man's tepee with his ear in the dirt, but he couldn't deny the disappointment he felt hearing nothing.
The old man pushed himself up on shaking arms and began stuffing the bundles of sage into the beaded bag hanging from his belt. "You must learn to listen, Grandson. Come," he said. Using Buck's shoulder to steady himself he rose to his feet.
"Where, Grandfather? Where are we going?" Buck questioned, rising to his feet a bit unsteadily himself.
"You have questions," Two Rains replied and looped his spindle of an arm through Buck's younger, stronger limb. "We are going to find your answers, Grandson. We are going to find your answers."
