The Holy Road

Chapter VIII

They appeared late in the afternoon four days after Owl Prophet's pronouncement, a long line of travelers occupying a narrow band of light on the horizon, heralded by the hollow boom of thunder from ominous skies.

Wind In His Hair and his family were visiting one of his wives' relations in the south, and Dances With Wolves, accompanied by his two eldest children, had taken a small hunting party off to the east. Everyone else was in camp and they all turned out to greet their friends, the southern Cheyenne.

Because Ten Bears' strongholds were found only in the most far-flung sectors of the measureless space that comprised the Comanche homeland, such visits, especially with the Cheyenne, were extraordinary. From the moment the visitors were sighted an atmosphere of celebration swamped the village.

People rushed to their lodges to make themselves presentable. A welcoming committee was hastily assembled to provide the honored guests with everything they needed: a practical campsite, fresh water, pasture for their animals.

Once the new lodges were erected visiting began in earnest, led as always by young people. Initially shy, children of both tribes were soon tearing around camp, cavorting together as if they had known one another all their lives. The adults followed suit. The Cheyenne were an exotic disruption in the routine of village life, and the isolated Comanches relished the change.

The visitors were generally taller and leaner than their hosts. Their clothing and accessories were different, as were their prayers and taboos and humor. The only thing truly abhorrent about them was their reputation for eating dogs. But since no Comanche had actually witnessed such a barbaric practice, the unsettling quirk was quickly pushed to the back of people's minds so that the best of times could be enjoyed.

The Cheyenne leader, a stately, elegant man of middle age whose name was Wolf Robe, immediately paid a visit to Ten Bears. The men had met twice over the years, and their acquaintance, though slight, made this occasion a reunion. Wolf Robe and his band were on an expedition to Mexican traders in the west and sought permission to camp with the Comanche for a few days before proceeding on, that is if water and game were plentiful. Ten Bears insisted that was the case. The old man also insisted that Wolf Robe and his leading warriors come to dinner that night, suggesting Kicking Bird's lodge as a good site for the feast.

The dinner at Kicking Bird's was the last of many on a night when everyone stayed up late. The children were too excited to sleep, and so were the adults. There were many new people to meet and, like all Indian get-togethers, the trading began at once, not stopping until the Cheyenne left. People began to eat and that didn't stop, either. On the first night the camp crier announced half a dozen calls to eat at various Comanche homes.

Men with high standing from both tribes filtered in and out of the public dinners. They enjoyed themselves bur they ate little and expended little energy. The feasts of real importance, feasts they could not miss, were coming later. The Hard Shields were sponsoring a party for their Cheyenne counterparts, a handful of Dog Soldiers who were riding with Wolf Robe. That was to be followed by the gathering at Kicking Bird's, where information of real weight was to be exchanged. It had been announced as a dinner, but everyone knew it was to be a high level council.

As might have been expected, the meeting of the two warrior societies was a full-throated, free-wheeling orgy of anecdotes concerning combat and hunting raced with hilarious stories, many of them off-color. At its conclusion an intermission of almost an hour was observed, giving people time to make ready for the rendezvous at Kicking Bird's lodge.

Comanche men arrived first. The most influential placed themselves around the fire next to Kicking Bird and Ten Bears. Then a constant stream of Comanche men, their thick hair combed and oiled, their shirts and leggings and moccasins resplendent with beadwork, their scalplocks and ears and fingers festooned with sparkling metal, flowed into the lodge until it was bulging. They sat or stood quietly, uttering nothing above a murmur as they waited for their guests to come.

The Cheyenne arrived shortly after the last Comanches had wedged themselves into the tent.

Led by Wolf Robe, they came as one, and, though the Comanche men looked formidable, the Cheyenne warriors ducking into Kicking Bird's lodge eclipsed them. It was as if a delegation of gods had alighted from a cloud to file mutely into a common lodge, their glistening copper faces masks of dignity, their every movement a testament to the impeccable grace of power. The twelve men were part of a very few who lived at the pinnacle of Cheyenne manhood. They had endured every privation their wild country could produce. They had survived the illnesses and accidents of youth to reach maturity. They had triumphed over the hazards of the hunt and each of them had survived combat many times. The sullen, confident men filing inside that night represented the finest blood, the richest essence of all Cheyenne life. To call them gods might have seemed far-fetched in another society but in their world no greater men existed.

When Wolf Robe appeared Ten Bears was helped to his feet, and though he stood unsteadily, the old man's face was bright with animation as he welcomed his guests to the fire and cordially invited them to be seated. Ten Bears drew his pipe from its case and there was silence as the smoking began.

It was silent outside as well, which was unusual because a meeting of this gravity normally attracted eavesdroppers who pressed close to the walls in hope of hearing what passed inside. On this night, however the vicinity around Kicking Bird's lodge was deserted. People were worn out from eating and visiting, and from overtired children who had stayed up too late. Nonetheless, they would have come had there been anything to hear. But anyone trying to listen would have been disappointed because this council was not being conducted by voice. The tribes knew a few words of each other's tongues, and both counted Spanish-speakers among their ranks, but neither was adept enough to make meaningful talk so they naturally resorted to a language whose fluency was shared by all: the language conducted as music by fingers, hands, and arms, the artful language of signs.

There was only one soul lurking outside the meeting place that night, and he had not come out of curiosity. Loitering close by, he had happened to see the Cheyenne delegation arrive at the lodge and drifted closer with the idea that spying on the gathering might provide a respite from his misery. He had already attended several feasts but had been unable to appear at the one hosted by the father of Hunting For Something. He would have walked through fire to see her face and it would have been simple to stop by and pay his respects to the Horned Antelope family. But courage had failed him. If he had showed his face, no mask, however thick could have hidden the hopeless ardor in his bleeding heart.

As Smiles A Lot moped about, hoping to pick up any sound from inside that might distract his despair, he noticed a sliver of light. There was a tiny rent in one of the lodge's seams, and as he placed one eye against it, the lovesick young man found that it afforded a complete view of the principal men seated around the fire.

He was in time to see Ten Bears offer his visitors still more food.

"If there is room in your bellies," the old man signed, "you are welcome to more."

"No," Wolf Robe countered amiably, "your generosity has made every Cheyenne belly hearty. Some of our people can barely walk."

Smiles flashed through the lodge and the two headmen chatted easily for a few moments about the prospects for a successful round of trading with the Mexicans. The assembled warriors listened passively to the preliminaries, knowing full well that the meat of the discussion was yet to come, and when Ten Bears made a casual inquiry about the quality of hunting in Cheyenne country it opened the gates to a flood of alarming news.

Wolf Robe had remained cross-legged throughout the small talk but now he rose to give everyone a full view of all he had to say.

"Our brother the buffalo has given us all we need. The grass is good and the buffalo are plenty but they are acting strangely. They gather less and less in great herds. They are acting like ants scattered from their nest. They act lost."

"Why is this?" Ten Bears asked.

Wolf Robe paused as if pained. Then he signed curtly.

"The whites are overrunning our country."

Silence pervaded the lodge and Wolf Robe listened to it for a few moments before continuing.

"They are popping out of the ground like grass after rain. There is nothing but trouble everywhere we look. That's why we are here now. We are hoping some of these troubles will have passed by the time we get back."

The Comanche looked at one another for enlightenment but each face showed only puzzlement.

"Tell us about these troubles," Ten Bears asked.

"White hunters are camping everywhere. They come in small groups but they have far-shooting guns that can kill as many buffalo in an hour as we can take in a week."

"Are you killing these men?" Ten Bears asked.

"We kill as many as we can. It is not easy to ride against the far-shooting guns. A party from my wife's brother's band killed six in one raid but it turned out bad. The white men were infected with the spotted sickness and the warriors carried it back to the village. It killed many. My brother-in-law is dead from it. Our band has killed a few of these hair-mouthed hunters but every time we do they send soldiers out to chase us. . in our own country! There are two soldier forts, in the east, on the edge of our country. We learned before we left that they are making another one."

Ten Bears' brows pinched together. "Why are they doing this?"

"They want our land," Wolf Robe replied. "They're on it now, all along the Vermillion River off to the east. They make square houses of mud to live in."

"I have heard of these square houses," Ten Bears interjected. "It is said that these houses cannot be moved and that inside there is no air.”

"I have only seen them from afar. I have never touched one. These white people put blades in the ground and skin the earth. They drill holes and plant seeds and eat the green things that grow out of the holes. . "

One of the Cheyenne warriors said something to Wolf Robe.

"Trees are being felled everywhere they can be found," he went on. "They cut the trees into pieces and push the pieces into the ground and stretch wire between them. ."

"Singing wire? " Ten Bears asked.

"The wire doesn't sing. It sits there."

Another Cheyenne mumbled something to Wolf Robe and the headman made more pictures in the air.

"If we kill the earth skinners. . soldiers chase us around for that, too."

Still another warrior spoke up. Wolf Robe listened, nodding at what the warrior was saying. Then he turned to his Comanche listeners.

"Some of our people are trading robes for colored water that white men make. Everyone has a name for it. I call it crazy water."

"I know about that," Ten Bears put in. "It's the water that burns the throat and makes people wild."

"Yes. Don't let it into your camp. People can't stop drinking it. They get tired and fall down, or they get so crazy they can't see who they are. . they fight. ."

"Indian against Indian?"

"Indian against Indian. People get killed sometimes. One man I heard of gave his woman to a white man for pleasure just to get more of this water. People get sick when they drink it, yet they still want more when they get better. Don't let any of your people get hold of this water. It always brings trouble."

As the Comanches sat in stunned disbelief, several of Wolf Robe's warriors beseeched him to tell something more. Wolf Robe's head twisted back and forth, trying to catch everyone at once. Then his hand went up for silence and he signed again to Ten Bears.

"Have you heard of the holy road?"

Ten Bears glanced over his shoulder at the warriors who sat and stood transfixed behind him.

"No," Ten Bears finally replied. "What is this holy road?"

Wolf Robe considered the question a moment. Then he turned and nodded to a warrior sitting close by. Wolf Robe sat as the new man rose to speak.

The Comanches paid close attention to this warrior. He was tall, even for a Cheyenne, and particularly resplendent in heavily beaded moccasins and leggings. His bone-pipe breastplate extended to his waist and a heavy disc of hammered copper hung about his neck. Tied in his scalp-- was a huge claw taken from a humpbacked bear. His eyes were lidded, his lips thin and delicate, his nose long and straight. The most spectacular thing about him, however was the tight-fitting white soldier jacket with its brass buttons lining one side of its open front and golden bars of fabric sewn on its shoulders.

"I am Fast,” he signed. "I have smoked the pipe tonight. My words are true."

Outside, Smiles A Lot was not aware of the stiffness in his legs, nor was he bothered by the light rain that was falling. He was not even aware of Hunting For Something. As a boy he had sometimes spied on high-level councils but that was only because he had nothing better to do. But

what had been a lark in his early youth was suddenly something more. He was spellbound by the exchange taking place between the two tribes' best warriors.

The new speaker's quiet presence stood in sharp contrast to the sublime action of his arms and hands. Perhaps it was because the boy outside had never paid attention, or perhaps he was witnessing a true master, but whatever the reason, Smiles A Lot remained entranced by the exquisite perfection of Fast's every gesture as he spun out his story.

"White men with long looking-glasses came into the country last year at the first melting of the snow. The whites had said they were going to build a road on which a fire wagon of steel would pull boxes on wheels behind it. We didn't want to see a road like this coming through our country. My brother and I and a few other warriors overwhelmed one of these parties while they were in camp. We killed all of them and took the long looking-glass and tried to see what the white men were looking at, but it was worthless. We never saw anything.

"From then on, white soldiers were with the looking-glass people and we had a hard time driving them off. When the grass started out of the earth this year some Kaws told us that the road for the fire wagon was being built. They said there were many white men doing this and that the road was aimed at our hunting grounds.

"Council fires burned for many sleeps until it was decided that we should make war against this road. A great party of a hundred warriors set out to the east when the ponies were fat. We wanted to stop the road. Our hearts were strong. We were willing to fight the fire wagon.

"After five sleeps we found the fire-wagon road. There were many white men making it. ."

"How does this road look? " Ten Bears interrupted.

"Two ropes laid side by side. Metal ropes. The white men we saw were pounding these ropes into the earth. We decided to drive these whites off and circled behind them so we could come out of the sun when we attacked them in the morning. We did this and they scattered over the prairie. We took two scalps but some had the far-shooting guns and we fell back.

"We were going to attack once more when two scouts galloped in from the east. These scouts had seen something coming toward us on the metal rope road. It was not a fire wagon but some kind of wagon bed without sides. It had wheels and a stick with handles which two white men were pumping up and down like drinking birds. A third white man was riding on this thing.

"We saw it come over a little hill and rush down to where we were sitting our horses. The two pumping white men rolled onto the ground and ran off. Our horses were so frightened that they began to jump into the air. It was hard to hold them.

"The third man did not run away. He came down the hill, standing straight up on the funny wagon. He wore a black robe. Around his neck were two pieces of crossed silver. He pulled the silver over his head and waved it as he drew closer. He pulled a black thing from his robe, the thing white men call a 'book.' He held these things over his head, screaming words we did not know. The man was not pumping and the little wagon lost power. It stopped in front of us and the man stepped off.

"Many stout warriors did not want to look at the man. He had no meat. His skin was the color of wax. His nose was as thin as a needle and his eyes popped like a frog's. He waved his arms and yelled and paced back and forth. He pointed the cross at people. People were getting scared.

"Then he fell down in the grass. He began to roll on the earth. He talked in many strange voices and his eyes turned up into his head showing only the whites. Saliva poured from his mouth. All could see that some spirit was inside him and that he was deranged. The strongest warrior has no power against such things. We rode away, hardly stopping until we were home."

Kicking Bird, who had followed Fast's strange story with rapt attention, got quickly to his feet as the rain outside began to fall faster.

"Did anyone find out who this being was?"

"We have counseled with all who know anything of whites," Fast replied. “It might be a white man priest. It might be that the road for the fire wagon is some kind of holy road. People are calling it the white man's holy road."

"And the fire wagon, the thing the white man calls a 'train'. Have you seen this thing?"

"Two times," Fast replied. "It makes a horrible noise and is covered in armor. Nothing can penetrate. We have tried to pull the road up from the earth but it takes many men to get one piece out. And the whites always put it right back. We are still trying to find a way to fight the fire wagon. It is a hard thing to fight."

Fast let his arms drop to his sides and stood, surveying the crowd of Comanches across the fire. Then he sat down. A hush filled Kicking Bird's lodge and for a few moments only the rain, beating steadily on the conical hide that surrounded them, could be heard.

Ten Bears' chin had dropped toward his chest but now he raised it and started shakily to his feet, rising with the aid of the strong arms around him.

"We have heard your talk,” he signed. "We pity the Cheyenne for their troubles. What will you do?"

Wolf Robe rose to answer.

"What can be done to fight an enemy that is everywhere," he replied, "an enemy with weapons no one understands, an enemy that becomes larger every day no matter how many we might kill? No one can answer these questions but we are all warriors and a warrior knows but one thing and that is to defend his people and his country. It may be that the next time the snow flies our bones will be scattered over the earth but none of us are afraid to die."

Ten Bears nodded as Wolf Robe sat. "It is the same with the Comanche. Who knows what fate the Mystery has planned for us. But if Cheyenne runners reach this village and ask us to come and help, we will do it anytime. We have fought side by side in the past and we will help the Cheyenne if they want us to. Comanche fear no enemy."

Ten Bears blinked as he looked out at his guests, wondering briefly if it was possible to fall asleep on his feet. "Our hearts are glad to have old friends in camp. It makes everyone happy. The rain is coming down now and I long to be under the good robe in my lodge. Good night."

Everyone who had been sitting got to their feet. Those standing stirred perceptibly for the first time since the meeting had been convened. Outside, Smiles A Lot pulled back from the lodge wall and receded into the darkness.

But he was still watching as the conferees ducked out of the lodge and moved off through the driving rain with as little care as if they were strolling in the sun. Smiles A Lot, too, was unfazed by the rain that had soaked him through and was now running down his face.

He had read the words of the warriors disappearing into the night as if for the first time. He had seen them as if for the first time. The dreamer he had been all his life was no more, shed as if by magic. It had joined the water pooling around his feet. Confusion had suddenly lifted and he knew he would no longer worry about what he might do.

His dilemma over Hunting For Something was gone, too. His feelings for her were the same, but he no longer felt sick.

Something strong had invaded him, a force with the power to erase the past and set the future. There was only one thing he wanted now. He wanted to be a part of the talk he had just witnessed. When there was a call to arms, he wanted to catch up his strongest pony and ride to battle. He wanted to sire children and provide for them, and from that night on, Smiles A Lot possessed a single, all-consuming ambition.

He wanted to die a warrior.