The Way
Story of Crazy Bear
Andrey Wind Nefedov

© Andrey Wind Nefedov, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-2520-8

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

The way
(The Story of Crazy Bear)

To Julia, my wife

By the author

In September 1917, the editorial office of the newspaper where I worked as a staff reporter assigned me to find some “juicier” material. The head of the department, whom everyone called The Rat – a gaunt middle-aged man with a gray, sagging face and thick lenses on his nose – impressively said:

– I don’t care what you dig up, pal, but it has to be appetizing. Just remember, I won’t accept any anti-war materials from you.

He uttered the last words almost in a whisper. Everyone in the editorial office was afraid of denunciations. Due to America’s entry into the war against Germany, the government had whipped up a real hysteria: all Americans of German origin were being persecuted, and any anti-war sentiments were brutally suppressed.

– Go to Pine Ridge, – The Rat suggested to me, blowing his nose loudly into a dirty handkerchief.

– To the Indian reservation? What the hell would I do there?

– I heard a redskin who volunteered for the front has just returned there. A shell blew his leg off. We really need that kind of story. If you can spin this topic, it would be very useful for the newspaper…

I had never received a more uninteresting assignment. To go into the midst of native shacks and rummage around looking for so-called national heroes – what could be worse and more hopeless!

But I had to go, otherwise I risked losing my job. My only consolation was the brand-new car provided by the editorial office – a bright blue Ford Model T, shining as if it had just been doused with water.

I had no idea that this trip would turn my whole life upside down and that I would be fortunate enough to meet a man who would make me see the world in a new way. I was going to carry out a boring errand, but I encountered a Great Mystery, embodied for me by a frail old man…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My old friend Winthrop Haley, with whom I had studied together ten years earlier but had gone our separate ways, worked as a clerk in the Pine Ridge reservation. I contacted him by telegraph, and he met me at the post station.

– What a magnificent thing! – Haley exclaimed, stroking the steeply curved fenders of my automobile. – No one here has ever seen such a wonder.

Hills covered in dense blue-green forests humped around us.

– Now this is a wonder! This is enchanting! – burst out of me. – This is true beauty and grandeur!

Winthrop just laughed in response:

– If only you knew what it was like here before. A real primitive world. And as for the times before we were here, it doesn’t even bear talking about.

– “We” who? Who are you talking about?

At that moment, a bear emerged from the thickets with a terrible roar. Startled, I hit the brake. The car made a sound like a tubercular cough, jerked, and stopped. The bear rose on its hind legs, opened its huge maw – whose smell I acutely sensed from several meters away – and crashed its full mass onto the front of the car. We were shaken thoroughly.

– God! – Winthrop whispered hoarsely. – It’s a female with her young!

I saw two shaggy cubs peeking out from behind the bushes.

– She’ll tear us to pieces! – Haley gripped the seat with his hands. – Don’t you have a rifle?

– I only have paper and ink!

– Then pray!

And then, a little further down the road, a man appeared. He was dressed in an old plaid shirt and sagging trousers. His gray hair was cut short, but from his facial features, I unmistakably identified him as a member of the Indian race. I would have guessed he was about eighty or ninety.

– Get away! – I shouted to him. – Run from here, quickly!

But the old man paid no attention to my pleas. He had no intention of running away. For a few seconds, he looked at us, slightly spreading his hands as if feeling for something in the air. Then he decisively stepped towards us and spoke a few words in a language I didn’t understand.

The she-bear, who had almost reached the car door, slammed its paws against the side one last time. I heard the terrible screech of its long claws on the metal, a sound that gouged deep furrows of fear in my memory for a long time. However, hearing the words spoken by the Indian, the fierce animal stopped and shook its huge head. The beast’s loud breathing rippled the air hardly less powerfully than its recent terrible roar had. It seemed to me that the walls of the Model T shuddered from its breath.

The Indian approached unhurriedly, stretching his hands out before him.

– He’s talking to her, – Winthrop whispered. – He’s asking her to leave us alone.

– Asking? – I managed to squeeze out with difficulty.

– Asking…

The she-bear seemed to ponder, then stepped closer and for some time stared directly at me and Winthrop. Its hot breath touched my face. Then it reluctantly turned and led its shaggy offspring away, waddling and grumbling under its breath.

– God! – I couldn’t stop the trembling in my hands.

– So much for your introduction to virgin nature, buddy, – Haley laughed weakly. – Welcome to Pine Ridge territory.

– But how did he manage it? – I pointed at the old Indian.

– A bear can always find a common language with a bear, – my friend said and waved a greeting to the native: – Hello, Mató!

– You know him?

– Of course. He’s one of the oldest residents here. He knows so many stories about the tribe’s life that you can lose track of time with him.

– What did you call him? Mató? What does that mean?

– Bear. Actually, his name is Matό Witkό, which means Crazy Bear. You’ll be lucky if you can find a common language with him.

– A common language? Does he speak English?

– Quite passably, – Winthrop nodded.

The Indian walked around the car several times, studying it carefully, sometimes squatting and looking underneath the chassis.

– White people come up with many interesting things! – he laughed.

Then he shook Winthrop’s hand, and after that, greeted me. He smelled of herbs. Looking at me, he smiled almost imperceptibly.

– Yes, yes, – his lips uttered, – that’s how it is…

The entire time I was fiddling with the car, trying to start it by cranking the front-handle, the Indian silently watched me. I constantly felt the old man’s unwavering gaze on me. Finally, the car started, and I took my place behind the wheel.

– Mató, come with us, – Haley invited the Indian.

The old man climbed into the car and settled on the back seat.

– I was waiting for this meeting, – he began when we started moving.

– Waiting? – Winthrop asked.

– The Thunder Beings came to me in a dream, – the Indian nodded. – They said a white man would appear here to whom I must tell the story of my life. You are that man, – he poked me rudely in the back with his finger. – I have never told anyone about myself. But the Great Mystery, through its messengers, demanded that I tell everything without holding back. It is time for me to leave this world. Nothing is eternal on earth, not even the mountains…

We drove on in silence. As we entered the settlement, which consisted of simple wooden huts, Haley nodded towards the Indian sitting in the back:

– He’s one of the strongest shamans here, buddy. If he says he has to tell you something, then so be it. You don’t understand what this is about now, but you will later…

When Mato Witko began to speak, I completely forgot the purpose of my trip and gave myself entirely to the life story of Crazy Bear – the greatest man I ever met on my path. Behind his inconspicuous appearance lay a strength that the boldest minds dare not dream of. As soon as he started speaking, I understood that I would make him the main character of my book.

– I was waiting for you, – he said. – I will tell you about my path, my feelings, and the secret knowledge. You must tell people about them. Wakán Tánka sent you here; you must not refuse. Everything the Creator has intended must be brought to life. The Great Mystery rules the world. It is not for us to decide why certain tasks are entrusted to each of us. We are meant to fulfill our mission, even if we do not understand its meaning. That is the essence of the Great Mystery…

This is how this book was born.

Some chapters of the novel are stenographic records of Mato Witko’s account. I decided to leave them in their original form, without making any edits, even when the old man sometimes jumped from one narrative to another. This, it seems to me, gave the book a very distinctive form. Mato spoke very sparingly about some things, but at times words poured out of him in a stream, as if some force compelled him to utter them. When he was brief, I took the liberty of adding something to the logical sequence of events, as I was writing a novel, not just recording someone’s memories.

I was also fortunate to receive heavily worn pages from the disintegrated notebook of a certain Randall Steven Scott. By fate’s will, the pitiful remains of his diary were preserved among Mato Witko’s numerous relics. The diary, although noticeably damaged and missing many pages, proved no less valuable to me than the memories of the gray-haired Indian elders. The existence of these yellowed papers allowed me to fully reconstruct the chronology of certain events.

And now, my reader, after this lengthy but necessary introduction, I invite you on a journey along The Trail, where many human destinies intertwined into a single knot, fell apart, and merged again, to prove to themselves and others that in the world there is only God and His unwavering laws.

Mato Witko
His Own Words

There is nothing left now. The life of the Lakota was in the past. Now we sit motionless and wait for death. Do not think that death frightens me. Everything in this world dies. Even rocks crumble with time. Of all we see around us, only Mother Earth is eternal, and the Sky. But my heart is heavy with the thought that I did not die sooner, now that the life is gone. Understand me correctly. I am an old man. I have lost a great deal, even though my knowledge does not allow me to think this way. I know things that most people do not even suspect. But I grieve, and I can do nothing about it. I failed to make myself like Heȟáka Sápa (Black Elk). I was too attached to my people and our way of life.

Our world was renowned for its freedom. Freedom was valued above all else. But I did not understand this immediately. Today, our children have children of their own. The elders will tell them of the great days of the Lakota, when our people could travel and hunt wherever they wished, and there were no fences blocking the path. But those born today will never be able to understand this.

I remember a time when my people lived far from the white man; we did not encounter whites, although many spoke of them.

I know that life can be different from what it is now, but my grandchildren, who are no longer children, do not know this.

There were no sick people among us. We breathed clean air and ate fresh meat, killing game with our arrows. The whites did not force us into schools or make us pray to the one they called their God. The world around us, my friend, was to us what a wise book is to you. We read the leaves, the grass, the sand, the stones. The animals and birds shared with us the harshness and the tenderness of the Earth. All living things were our relatives. The white man did not think this way. He did not, and does not, understand how a tree or a river can be our kin. The entire world, except for himself, seemed to him to be populated by wild creatures: beasts and Indians. He began to destroy our great family. The buffalo disappeared, the elk, the deer. Our forests became sparse. The Earth is the mother of all peoples, but the white intruder slit her belly and gnawed at her for some metals. The white man considers himself the master of the earth, not its son. But where will this master go when the earth dies from his abuse?

At first, we thought the whites were simply weak and foolish; they did not understand the language of the animals and paid no attention to the whisper of the wind. But it turned out they were insane. Too much anger ran in their blood, and it poisoned them. I am sorry that we allowed them to enter our land. But how could we have known they were not like us? How could we have guessed that the foreigners would invent their own laws instead of following the eternal order of the Creator, who is the father of all living beings?

A great sorrow has settled in my heart.

My friend, your tribe is great; I have seen your cities, your brothers are without number. Therefore, convey our words to them through your paper. We have told you much. A spoken word must not fall to the ground and turn to dust. It is born for a purpose, it flies up like a bird and soars above us forever, so that people may make use of it.

When we were no longer living in freedom, Short Bull brought the Lakota a message from a seer, who foretold that the past times would return, the land would be cleansed of the white man, herds of horses and buffalo would reappear, our fallen warriors would return… Many believed and began the Ghost Dance, as the seer had taught. They did not understand that he did not mean the return of the bygone years exactly as the Indians remembered them, but was foretelling the coming of harmony.

That seer instructed the Indians of different tribes to love one another. He said they must forever forget the warpath, and only then would the beautiful life begin. He taught the people a new way to dance – all together, not separating men from women, or children from adults. He taught the people the dance of peace, the dance of unity. But the Indians failed to grasp his words and interpreted them in their own way.

I understood the seer and his teaching well, for I had heard of such things in my youth from Black Elk. I know that his prophecy will be fulfilled…

Black Spotted Elk (Big Foot) and many others fell to soldiers’ bullets, but can that stop a prophecy? I do not know how soon it will come to pass, but it will happen. The world of the white people is full of sickness, so it must die. But it will not be overthrown by war. The Indian people spent long years on the warpath; it was war that destroyed our life. We strayed from the laws of the Giver of Life, spilled too much of others’ blood, and now we are paying the price…

Bear

He turned thirteen that year, but he had not yet taken part in any war party (he hadn’t even been asked to guard the horses during an ambush), and he had never shot a large animal on a hunt. Everyone called him Boy-With-A-Ringing-Voice, but he dreamed of a solemn and powerful name, the kind men received after a brave deed on the battlefield… He knew that seasoned warriors often took a teenager as a junior companion to teach them the arts of war and hunting. He, however, had no such mentor.

He sat on a large boulder, its base covered in soft moss and still holding the warmth of the departed sun, and stared with a fixed gaze at the quiet settlement of the Grouse clan – his home camp was quickly dissolving into the twilight. The boy had gone far enough from the Indian village to hear no voices, and now he was surrounded by almost complete silence. He wanted to be alone…

A black figure appeared before him suddenly, as if from nowhere, and from the surprise, the Boy’s heart tightened, and his throat went dry. Everything around immediately became peculiarly dark. Perhaps it seemed that way because of the surge of fear; after all, the man had crept up unnoticed, meaning he was a cunning and deadly enemy… And there was nothing to oppose him with, as the Boy had brought neither a knife nor a bow and arrows.

– Do not be afraid, – a low voice spoke, and the Boy saw white teeth right near his face. In the darkness, only the whites of his eyes and teeth were visible (likely, his entire skin was thickly covered in black paint). Occasionally, an invisible ray of light snatched from the space two mighty curved horns above the stranger’s head. The same glint allowed the Boy’s sharp eyes to discern in a split second the shaggy pelt tied to the head, to which these horns were attached.

– Do not be afraid, – the black man repeated, – I will not harm you. I see you are deeply saddened. I know your thoughts. You feel that the elder warriors unjustly overlook you… I will help…

– Who are you? – asked the Boy, trying to suppress his agitation, – and what help can you give me?

– I cannot tell you my true name. For you, I will be Bear Bull. I am the patron of those who are meant to awaken but do not yet know it. One day, great power will awaken in you, but many years will pass until then, and I will be your guide on the Path.

– Bear Bull? – exclaimed the Boy, unable to hide the surge of superstitious fear. – I do not know you.

– Calm yourself… In time, you will learn much. But I did not come for talk… Take the knife, – the Boy saw the wide blade offered to him gleam dully in the gloom, – and prepare to move from empty dreams to action immediately. Be very attentive and repeat my movements…

His words broke off.

The Boy flinched, hearing a terrible, trumpeting roar almost right in his ear. He turned sharply and saw huge tusks right in front of him. The beast breathed hotly into his face and swiftly rose on its hind legs, powerfully swaying its shaggy belly and instantly becoming impossibly huge. Something burst in the Boy’s chest and sprayed icy needles throughout his body. Time stopped. The Boy forgot about the knife clenched in his hand, and what could he have done even if he had remembered the wide blade? Not a single one of the most experienced hunters would dare face a black bear alone. And here was just a boy…

– Cast aside fear! – came the voice of Bear Bull. – If you are fated to die, then it is too late to be afraid. Give your hands all the strength of your body and strike! Repeat my movements! Be my shadow now!

At that second, it seemed to the Boy that his vision sharpened abruptly: the outlines of the surrounding objects became clearly distinguishable, even though the night continued to thicken. He saw the black figure of Bear Bull swiftly slide under the outstretched paws of the shaggy animal, as if wanting to enter the powerful embrace of the tusked giant. At the same time, the Boy managed to realize that Bear Bull’s movements resembled those of a man swimming underwater – they seemed slowed down. The Boy took a step after him, also smoothly, as if flowing from one pose to another. Now his arm swept to the right, now a heavy paw with gleaming claws froze above his head, now his face pressed into the fragrant fur, his cheek felt the solidity of the bear’s body. The knife pierced the skin with a loud sound and sank into the muscle tissue up to the hilt. And then suddenly everything became incredibly fast. His armed hand, with lightning speed, delivered several blows in succession. The Boy instantly jumped out from under the air-rending clawed paws, leaped aside, and immediately plunged the blade into the beast’s throat, somehow finding himself on its scruff. Hot blood drenched his clenched fingers. He heard his victory cry merge with the bear’s roar…

The powerful, shaggy body crashed heavily to the ground, legs twitching. The Boy, panting, knelt beside it and wiped his face with a sticky palm.

– Thank him, – said Bear Bull, not allowing him to catch his breath. – From now on, you receive the strength of this four-legged brother and his name. Show him respect.

The Boy, loudly gulping air and hearing his chest heave, knelt before the still-quivering carcass.

– Thank you, my elder brother, for the life, wisdom, courage, and strength you have gifted me. Forgive me for having to spill your blood. I will always keep your memory.

Still trembling slightly from the unsubsided excitement, but now feeling no fear at all, the Boy used his left hand (as it is closer to the heart) to scoop up the bear’s blood and smear it on his chest.

– Now cut off his claws; later you will make a necklace from them for yourself, – ordered Bear Bull, – skin him and give the hide to your younger sister (she is still a virgin). Dry the liver and heart and carry them with crushed sagebrush in a small pouch on your belt. When danger threatens you, this amulet will grow heavy and thus warn you… Leave the bear’s skull on an anthill, and when the little brothers have picked it clean, rinse the skull with water and place it on the stone where you were sitting when I came to you. Cover the stone with red ochre and pray to it as a manifestation of the powerful spirit Inyan. This will be a place where the Bear People can give you counsel. From the upper part of the muzzle, you will make a mask and wear it on your head during journeys… And now I leave… I will often appear near you to advise and help, and you will recognize me by my appearance today. But this form is only for you. Others, before whom I appear, see me differently… I leave you the knife with which you slew the bear. You can be proud of such a weapon, but do not let anyone else handle it, and know that you must not speak of me to anyone, otherwise my help will cease. A secret remains a secret; it is not permitted to be revealed.

And the black figure of Bear Bull, taking a couple of steps to the side, vanished.

In the morning, the father of Boy-With-A-Ringing-Voice sent a crier to announce to the entire village that his son had performed a great deed and would now be called Bear. Not a word was spoken about the secret helper, although many asked for details of the fight and craned their necks with curiosity to get a look at the huge knife with which the thirteen-year-old boy had felled the fearsome beast – a weapon he had not possessed before.

Horse raid

It was early morning when Two Humps touched Bear’s shoulder and woke him.

– What is it, father? – the boy started to ask, but his father covered his mouth with his palm and pointed significantly with his eyes toward the entrance of the tent.

– Want to see an enemy? – Two Humps mouthed silently.

The boy hurried to nod in reply and carefully slipped out from under the hide that served as a blanket. In his father’s hand, he saw a stout bow made from a large elk antler and three arrows. His eyes flared like coals under a gust of wind.

– He came to untie the horses, – Two Humps gestured, meaning the scout who had sneaked into the camp.

Two Humps placed an arrow on the string and positioned himself near the piece of hide serving as a door. Beckoning his son with a barely perceptible gesture, he slightly lifted the edge of the hide, and Bear immediately spotted the figure of a man cautiously moving toward the neighboring tent, where two beautiful black stallions were tethered. The horse thief was completely naked and painted from head to toe with white clay. When he stopped, crouched motionless, he looked like a large rock. Even his hair, stiff under the layer of clay, resembled dried grass.

– That is a very skillful and cunning warrior, – noted Two Humps. – But my hearing is sharp enough to catch even his silent steps.

He drew the bow and with his eyes ordered Bear to pull back the entrance flap. As soon as the tent opening was clear, Two Humps quickly raised the bow and released the string. It made a light, barely audible, snorting sound and propelled the arrow toward the horse thief, giving it the speed and force of lightning. The man jerked in surprise and grabbed his side. The arrow had struck him under the rib, and the tip exited his chest, having likely pierced his heart. The scout froze on his knees for a few seconds, then smoothly turned his head toward the source of his sudden death, and lay down on the ground. Blood quickly flowed from the wound, reddening the white clay thickly smeared on the horse thief’s body, seeping into the cracks, swelling in the white crumbs, weighing down the dry pieces of clay and making them fall off.

Two Humps dashed outside, crouching and looking around for other scouts. Bear hurried after him, grabbing the knife given to him by Bear Bull, and shouted loudly, overflowing with excitement. His emotions were spilling over, and the boy couldn’t contain them. His war cry wasn’t very impressive, but Two Humps supported his son, letting out a blood-curdling shriek that stirred the entire village. It seemed even the lazy fog stretching over the sleepy earth shuddered from the war cry of the skilled warrior.

A little ways off, Bear noticed two other painted figures. They rose from the ground and started running away from the camp.

– Father! – exclaimed Bear.

– I see them, son, – threw Two Humps and sent an arrow after them, but both figures disappeared into the fog.

Sleepy people appeared from everywhere. Men ran with axes and bows in their hands, women fearfully stuck their heads out of the tents but dared not come out fully, not understanding what had happened.

Two Humps explained in a few words to the comrades who had run up what had occurred, and five young men rushed to their horses to chase the fugitives.

– Who is it? – asked Bear, squatting near the shot horse thief and tugging the tip of the arrow protruding from under his rib.

– Psaloka. Look at his moccasins, son, he’s a man from the Crow Nation. Touch him. This will be your first touch of an enemy.

The boy confidently placed his palm on the Psaloka and felt the rough surface of the clay with his hand.

– I have killed an enemy! – shouted Two Humps in a pleased voice. – My son Bear was the first to touch the fallen Psaloka! My son has done a great deed! People, today we will celebrate this event! I offer the meat of the antelope I killed yesterday.

– There are blood trails over there, – Otter Tail approached, pointing over his shoulder with his hand. – It seems, Two Humps, you wounded another Psaloka. Perhaps the young men will catch him outside the settlement.

Otter Tail turned over the body of the killed enemy and peered into his face. Women were already crowding around. One of them pushed through the gathered people, holding a long knife in her hand, and without a word, quickly raised her arm above her head. The blade struck the dead man’s shoulder and deeply cut the flesh. Blood splattered in all directions.

– This is for your people killing my son last summer! – the Indian woman cried out and spat several times on the corpse.

After this, a whole hail of merciless blows from clubs and axes fell upon the dead man. Within minutes, the Psaloka’s body was turned into a bloody pile of meat, only vaguely resembling a human shape by its general outline.

– Look at your son, Grass-From-Water, – Two Humps said to his wife who had run up, – he just touched the Psaloka I killed.

– Was it a war party? – she asked.

– No, – Two Humps reassured her, – they came for the horses. But their expedition was not successful. Several of our young men rode after them; they will return soon and tell us if they found a large party and if it’s worth pursuing. If our men are lucky, they’ll take down someone else…

Some time later, Otter Tail and his friends came galloping into the village, shouting cheerfully and waving war clubs bristling with sharp metal blades. Behind the horses, two corpses dragged along the ground, tied with ropes. Every time the dead men hit stones, their outstretched arms twitched limply, and blood spilled from their shattered skulls, spreading thickly in the dust.

That evening, the camp filled with the sound of drums and piercing songs. Grass-From-Water, Bear’s mother, danced, her chin held high importantly, before the fire built in the center of the camp; in one hand she held a pole above her head with the scalp of the killed Psaloka tied to it, in the other – her husband’s bow and shield. Behind her, two very young girls danced with similar bloody trophies attached to spears. Other women followed, shaking the severed legs and arms of the Psalokas attached to sticks. The procession was closed by a little girl with huge black eyes and a wide white smile on her open face; she merrily hopped from foot to foot and clutched with both small hands a long strip of human skin with the genitals of one of the killed enemies, caked with dried blood.

Two Humps, dressed in a long shirt of deerskin embroidered with porcupine quills on the shoulders and adorned along the sleeves with tufts of enemy hair, gave a speech in honor of his son.

– On this significant occasion, I give one horse to the poorest person in our settlement, – he concluded, and these words were met with cries of approval from his tribesmen.

Bear also took part in the dance around the fire, his face painted scarlet.

– When you go on a raid, I want to go with you, – he said to his father when the celebration ended.

– I think I will raise a party in two days. The young warriors are eager to show the Psalokas that the Lakota are more skillful at stealing horses.

– I will go with you, – Bear said firmly.

– Now you are considered a warrior, as you have touched an enemy. I have no right to forbid you. If you are ready, if you are determined, then I will include you in the party. But don’t forget, you need to prepare well. Check your arrows and bow, see if the points are secure, if the string holds well. Don’t forget to take spare moccasins from your sister for the journey. I saw she finished two more pairs for you; they will come in handy.

Late at night, when the noise in the camp had died down and only the occasional snarling of dogs could be heard from outside the tent walls, Bear still couldn’t sleep. To his right, his father and mother were breathing heavily, vigorously copulating under the buffalo robe. Sometimes the dark covering slipped, and the boy’s view was presented with his mother’s naked thighs, between which his father’s buttocks moved; the skin, greased with raccoon fat, gleamed in the dim light of the half-dead fire. The boy smiled quietly. It gladdened him to see his parents happy and without a trace of sadness on their faces. He liked to listen to the sounds of their union and inhale their smell – the smell of possible future life. Bear knew that soon he himself would grow old enough to be with pretty girls. But to make them accessible, he needed to attract their attention with his outstanding deeds. He needed exploits, as many as possible.

The thought of the horse raid into the enemy camp kept him awake until morning. Only near dawn did he fall into a deep sleep.

The next day passed in a flurry. Friends, having learned that Bear would go on the raid with the older warriors, came to encourage him. Some openly expressed envy.

And then the long-awaited morning arrived, the night before which Bear had again spent in impatient and exhausting insomnia.

With the first glimmers of light, Two Humps raised his son.

– It’s time, – he whispered, trying not to wake the others, but Grass-From-Water woke up anyway and, without a word, rushed to her husband, hugging him and pressing her face against his muscular chest.

– Don’t be afraid, – Two Humps said, – everything will be fine.

She nodded in reply and silently followed her husband out of the tent. Near the entrance, a tall pole stuck out of the ground, bearing the scalp with which Grass-From-Water had danced. In the gray pre-dawn air, the outlines of twenty slender, long-haired men loomed. Each held leather bags and weapons.

– Is everyone gathered? – asked Two Humps.

The Indians nodded.

– Then let’s go.

They left the village with quick steps. Here and there, figures of women could be seen near the tents, watching the departing party with anxiety. Everyone hoped for a successful outcome of the raid, but everyone knew the great risk of dying near the hostile camp. They went on foot, following the long-standing Lakota tradition of not taking horses if the goal of the expedition was to return home on captured horses.

Bear turned around. The village was left behind. The cones of the tents, bristling with poles at the top, were half-submerged in the creeping fog; between the poles, sticking out like the whiskers of giant insects, even streams of smoke rose peacefully. The boy felt something like sadness. Goodbye, childhood! Farewell, boyish games! Whatever the outcome of this raid, there would be no way back to the world of children. From this day on, Bear would belong to the world of warriors…

The endless plain, covered with thin stems of tall yellow grass, now looked completely different to Bear. Birds habitually flew into the sky from the grass, coyote ears slipped through here and there, but now the steppe filled the boy with tense anticipation.

For two days the party moved calmly, not particularly hiding. On the third day, Two Humps sat the warriors in a circle and lit a pipe.

– We have entered enemy territory. The Psalokas could be anywhere. Starting today, we will post sentries around our campsites. We make no fires. We sleep during the day, we move at night…

But they didn’t have to go far.

That very evening, Wolf Killer returned to the campsite with hurried but silent steps from his observation post and reported the approach of enemies.

– Who are they?

– They look like Psalokas. There are twice as many as us, – said Wolf Killer.

– It could be the very ones who came to us. Someone must be in a hurry to avenge that horse thief I shot, – suggested Two Humps. – We need to find out where they stop.

– You want us to take their horses? – asked Wolf Killer.

– Why look for their camp when they’ve brought the horses to us? Tonight we will do what we must do.

At sunset, the warriors began preparing for the night’s actions, braiding their hair and painting themselves appropriately. All who wore eagle feathers removed them so their white color wouldn’t attract the enemy’s attention in the night’s blue. Scouts covered in wolf skins went to watch the Psalokas. Bear adjusted the pouch with the sacred mixture on his belt – the powder made from the dried liver and heart of the killed Šakhéhąska (probably the bear) and sagebrush, as Bear Bull had instructed him to make.

– Prepare the paint, – Two Humps said to him.

Sitting beside his father, Bear took out a leather box with buffalo fat, scooped some with one palm, and poured black powder on top. Mixing them thoroughly, he got a thick black mass. Two Humps, slowly dipping his fingers into the greasy paint, applied it to his face, thickly smearing his cheeks, nose, and chin. He never painted his forehead when going to battle or for horses, but if he managed to kill an enemy, he would cover his forehead with the dead man’s blood.

Bear smeared the remainder of the paint from his palm onto his face, not too concerned about how he would look. He was more worried about the position of the sacred pouch on his belt, the necklace of bear claws, and the gifted knife.

The scouts appeared suddenly. Their faces looked out from under the wolf masks, excited and stern, their eyes burning.

– The horses are standing in that hollow over there, – one of the scouts pointed his hand into the murky blue of the evening, – and the Psálokas themselves are settled a bit higher on the slope.

– So, – concluded Two Humps, – we must cut them off from the herd. If we do it quietly, the Psalokas won’t even wake up. How many sentries do they have posted?

– Two are sitting near the horses. We didn’t see others.

– As soon as the moon goes behind those clouds, we will sneak up on them. Yellow Finger, did you prepare the shirt? – Two Humps turned to a tall youth sitting to his right.

– Yes, here it is.

– Put it on. The time has come.

– What kind of shirt is that? – Bear whispered curiously.

– This shirt Yellow Finger once stole from a Psaloka camp. He always takes it when going to the Crow Nation for horses. It smells like Psalokas. Neither dogs nor horses pay him any mind, thinking Yellow Finger is a Psaloka. And the enemies, even if they have a very sharp sense of smell, won’t be able to catch the scent of a foreign tribe…

Two Humps gave a sign, and everyone moved toward the enemy camp. Although the Psalokas were on their own territory, they were being cautious; their fire was not visible. But Bear smelled the smoke and smiled at this smell – fire can be hidden from the eyes, but not from the sensitive nostrils of the Lakota.

The countless world of insects filled the air with chirping. The thick bushes near the hill where the Psalokas were settled rustled anxiously under a soft gust of the steppe wind. Bear looked at his father; he was pressed to the ground and completely invisible in his stillness. A large owl flew low over him, almost touching his head with its wide wing, but Two Humps paid the bird no attention. His piercing eyes stared fixedly ahead. It seemed to Bear that his father had even stopped breathing; the boy had never seen him like this, and for a moment he truly admired his father, completely forgetting where he was and why.

Somewhere to the side, a deer snorted briefly, and a whole chorus of distant wolf voices answered it. The bushes rustled again. Ahead, a horse snorted loudly. Two Humps raised his hand with the knife and signaled to someone. To the left, the silent shadow of Yellow Finger slipped, followed by someone in a wolf skin. Another horse snort was heard. The boy slowly crawled forward, carefully moving his body over the loose stones. His father looked at him and with signs told Bear to stay put and receive the horses that the warriors would start leading out. The boy nodded understandingly.

After some time, Bear was left completely alone. Dozens of steps away, enemies sat on the hillside; he heard their quiet voices, someone chuckled, telling some story. And then the boy felt the sacred pouch hanging on his belt noticeably grow heavier, as if a couple of heavy stones had been thrown into it at once. Bear’s heart beat ten times stronger, the hot throbbing transmitted to his head, and his mouth instantly went dry. Danger was somewhere nearby. Somewhere very close…

A shadow emerged from the bushes. In the light of the moon, which had rolled out from behind the cloud again, Bear made out an unfamiliar man with bangs combed over his forehead, thickly greased. A Psaloka. An enemy. It could be one of the sentries who had been sitting near the horses, or one of the men who had come down from above, suspecting something was wrong. The Psaloka pulled a war club with a round stone head from his belt and crouched down, peering into the darkness where the horses were milling. No more than two steps separated him from the boy. Bear could clearly see the fringe on the enemy’s loose shirt, his bent knee, the sole of his moccasin, the wolf tail sewn onto his shoulder, the tenacious fingers on the club’s handle…

The Psaloka didn’t notice him and took half a step forward. Bear rose up, gripping the handle of the large knife, and with his eyes marked the spot for the strike – between the shoulder blades, right at the base of the neck, on the very edge of the porcupine-quill-embroidered collar.

The wind blew again, and the bush branches rustled noisily. Their rustle allowed Bear to rise to his feet without the Psaloka hearing him. The boy gathered himself, pushed off with his tensed legs, and, biting his lip to keep from screaming from fear and the sudden surge of rage, rushed at the enemy. The knife easily went in where Bear had aimed, severing the spine; the muscular body under the boy immediately went limp and thudded headfirst into the ground. Bear shuddered from the conflicting feelings boiling within him, pressed his chest against the motionless enemy, and for good measure struck the Psaloka under the left shoulder blade a couple more times. The enemy, a strong, battle-hardened enemy who had threatened the entire Lakota party, was dead.

Ahead in the darkness, Yellow Finger appeared with two horses. Seeing Bear lying on the dead body, the warrior scanned the surrounding area and with a nod ordered the boy to get up. Bear pointed the blade at the Psaloka’s head and made a motion indicating hair cut from the back of the head. Yellow Finger nodded. Two Humps appeared behind him, a predatory smile flashing on his blackened face.

One by one, the Lakota emerged from the thick blue of the hollow, each leading two horses. On the belt of one warrior, Bear noticed long hair from which blood dripped onto his leather leggings. A little later, he saw a second taken scalp – on another youth.

– Cut the Psáloka’s hair, – Two Humps gestured.

The boy bent over the corpse, and at that second one of the horses suddenly neighed loudly, pawing the ground with its front hooves. Voices came from the hillside, clearly puzzled that the neighing came from a direction other than where the herd should be. A questioning shout was heard, but the Lakota did not answer. Two Humps ordered them not to linger and to mount up.

Leaping onto the horses, the Lakota drove the remaining herd away. Noise erupted on the hill, branches crunched under the feet of running people.

Bear, who hadn’t managed to take the enemy’s scalp, looked back. He didn’t want to miss such an opportunity, but the danger was too close. Making his horse circle on the spot, he looked once more at the white shirt of the dead Psaloka gleaming in the darkness. The killed man drew the boy to him, and Bear couldn’t resist.

He jumped off the horse and bent over the sprawled body. The pouch on his belt grew noticeably heavier, but the boy paid no attention. Grabbing the Psaloka by the back of the head, he lifted his head and slashed with the knife, almost cutting his own fingers. The movement was too sharp and slanted; the blade cut a piece of skin with hair, but much smaller than needed for a full scalp.

– Go, – someone said in Bear’s head.

Bear felt for the hairline on the dead man’s forehead and pried it with the knife. Trying to suppress the nervous tremor in his hands, he carefully cut the skin along the entire contour of the hair and pulled hard, using the sharp blade to tear the blood vessels under the skin, feeling the hot blood on his hands.

Another moment passed, and very close by, pebbles scattered under someone’s quick feet. Bear dashed toward his horse, but it shied away. He managed to grab its tail, pulled it toward himself, and jumped onto the back of the stubborn steed. Kicking the horse with his heels, Bear let out a victory cry and raised the heavy, bloody, hairy trophy above his head. The next second, the hard shaft of an arrow struck the boy in the buttock. He cried out in surprise and urged his horse into a full gallop. Curses pierced the air behind him.

– Ha! We really gave those Psalokas a hard time! – exclaimed Two Humps when they made their first stop.

Riding up to his son, he took him by the elbow:

– What’s wrong? You can barely stay on…

– The arrow…

They quickly helped him off the horse and laid him on his stomach in the tall grass.

– It’s nothing serious, – said Spinning Raccoon, – the arrow hit him at the end of its flight. Of course, he lost a lot of blood, as the point tore the muscle during the gallop. But I can handle this wound.

– Don’t lose the scalp, – Bear whispered over his shoulder, unable to lift his head, – my first scalp, a very important scalp…

Mato Witko
His Own Words

I am very old now, but I remember my first warpath as if it were yesterday. I killed a warrior of the Crow Nation and decided to take his hair. I was so excited that I did not cut it from the back of the head, as was customary, but took it all, even the long braids were on that scalp. I had skinned the entire head of that Psaloka – from the eyebrows to the neck. It was a rich scalp, a beautiful one. A long eagle feather was tied to the hair at the back; it remained in place, though the tip had broken off when I killed the Psaloka and fell on him with my body.

I never again cut hair in such a way. I was hit by an arrow because I lingered too long by the dead man. When we stopped after a long ride, I collapsed from exhaustion. The arrowhead had torn the wound open, and I had lost much blood.

As I lay there, I saw a dragonfly hover before my face. It said:

“You must pay attention to the voice. If you ignore it, neither strength nor agility will help you. There must be measure in all things…”

Raccoon-That-Turns had treated my wound well, and it healed quickly. I stopped limping after a few days. However, I completed the rest of the journey to our village on a travois they had made specially for me.

We were very pleased with that expedition. The celebration for the successful raid lasted several days. I was honored as no one else had ever been honored in my memory. It is easy to understand. I performed deed after deed, and I was only thirteen winters old.

The scalp of the Psaloka hung at the entrance of our lodge for a very long time…

I went on raids often, for I could not resist the temptation to gain new honors. I was young and hot-blooded. I was consumed by a thirst for glory, a desire to stand out among my people. I enjoyed dancing under the gaze of the young women, but their attention was never enough; I was always left unsatisfied by the praise and honors my friends bestowed upon me. I was waiting for something greater.

Today, I take no pleasure in remembering my war deeds. What was I doing then? I was stealing horses and killing enemies. I killed as many as I could. I had taken so many lives that there was no more room to hang the scalps of the slain enemies. In front of my lodge stood ten poles, thickly covered with human hair. From the abundance of scalps, these poles began to resemble strange animals. Then I stopped cutting the hair of my enemies. It gave me nothing.

Once, I led a party on another horse-raiding raid. We crept right up to the enemy camp. And suddenly I heard a rustle: someone was very close to me.

My sacred bundle, my wotawe, had always warned me of danger; I was used to it guiding me, and I acted with confidence in all situations. This time, it did not grow heavy at all, so I boldly stepped forward, my knife ready. Someone rose quickly from the tall grass. A single strike was enough for me to kill the person. It turned out to be a woman with a child in her arms. Her dress was pulled up to her hips, and I understood she had been relieving herself. I would have taken her child for myself, but the baby died instantly, hitting its head on the ground.

From that time on, I stopped taking scalps.

I simply told my companions that I had killed a woman with an infant. They were pleased and counted her among the total number of enemies killed by our party. During raids, any slain foe, be it a man, woman, or child, was considered worthy of counting for glory. But something in my heart changed that day. I lost interest in such deeds. There was no courage in them. I do not know why I had not thought of it before that day. I do not know…

I never again took a head. If I had to take a life, it was only in open battle. I left the dead untouched. Any of my warriors could take the hair or the entire head of an enemy I had struck down as a trophy. But I myself took nothing, except for a weapon if I liked it.

And yet, I loved to fight, for I was testing my strength against an opponent. I could not resist the opportunity to demonstrate my skill and prove my superiority over all. It saddens me to think of it now, but so it was.

Once, I dressed in a woman’s dress, let down my hair, and entered an enemy camp in the evening. On my back, I carried a bundle of firewood. It never occurred to any of them that right under their noses was I – the foremost warrior of the Ptarmigan clan! It was very amusing to watch the enemies.

It was getting dark. I dropped the firewood near a lodge and headed for the horses. I had picked out the most beautiful ones tied near the entrances. When the camp grew quiet, I calmly untied five horses and led them away. No one paid me any mind. Only one man suspected something was wrong. Perhaps one of those horses belonged to him, for he walked towards me with quick steps. How his face lengthened when he discovered that I was not a woman at all, but a man from a foreign tribe! He wanted to call his friends, but he did not have time. I drove my knife into his throat and immediately jumped on a horse. The dead man must not have been found immediately, for the pursuit started on my trail too late, and I managed to ride very far away.

There were many such amusing incidents in my life. It is much more pleasant for me to remember them than simple killings from an ambush.

Everyone considered me brave. But bravery means a constant struggle with fear. I was not brave; I was fearless. From a certain point, fear simply died within me. I speak of the fear of death. I realized that in life, you can avoid many things: you may not know a woman’s love, or friendship; you may have no luck in hunting, but you cannot avoid death. When I understood this, I stopped fearing it.

Yes, there is much blood on my hands. But what could I do? I was young and dreamed only of glory, for which I was ready to risk my own life. It is foolish. I know it is foolish. Yet, it is common to most young men. It has always been so. It will always be so. The young live by passion and impulse, not heeding the voice of reason. And for this, my heart grows heavy.

Water spirit

The morning promised no good, for Old Beak had dreamed of a huge river monster, like a fish with horns, and smoke poured from its gills.

“It stood in our path and sneezed loudly,” the old man reported, wrinkling his brow thoughtfully. “Behind this creature, I saw a wooden house with light-eyed people sitting around it.”

“Pale-faces?”

“Yes, the Light-Eyed tribe. I do not like them, for I do not understand much of their behavior. Sometimes I even think that the Pale-faces are not people at all…”

Beak shook his head ruefully, and the four bone rings on long threads attached to his ear gave a soft clatter. The wrinkled face of the Indian turned to the sturdy young men standing around him, and they saw his right eye open. Usually, this eye was covered by a drooping eyelid, split long ago in a fight with the People-from-the-Earth-Houses, and it seemed dead. But now it had opened, the lower lid sagging, showing its pink inside, making the right eye appear one and a half times larger than the left.

Silence reigned for a while. The young warriors awaited the decision of their elder. Against the shining whiteness of the morning sky, their still figures looked like dark statues, only their long hair stirring in the wind.

“We will continue our journey,” the old man said after a moment’s thought, pointing a brown, sinewy hand towards the still-unseen river. “The monster did us no harm in my dream. But your eyes must be sharper, and your hearing and smell keener.”

The Indians jumped onto their ponies, and within a minute, they had all vanished from sight. Only a black spot of ashes from the fire remained to show that people had been there. Soon, from behind the bushes, stepping cautiously with soft paws and sniffing the human tracks, appeared a large wolf. Pacing for a moment, it suddenly turned nimbly and trotted back, obeying a voice only it could hear.

And the party of Indians from the Ptarmigan clan moved along the slopes of the gentle hills, habitually pausing before cresting a ridge to avoid silhouetting themselves against the skyline in case enemies were nearby.

Leading the way was Bear, crouched close to his horse’s neck, whispering something to it. Ten years had passed since Bear Bull had given him the knife and helped him kill a bear. Now he was a renowned warrior. His leather leggings, like the war shirt hidden in his bag, were adorned with long locks of hair cut from enemies. The shield hanging on his back alongside his quiver bore the picture of a black bear with long claws.

Ahead, the wide ribbon of the river sparkled in the sun, framed by dense forest, when Bear stopped his horse and waved his hand anxiously to those behind him. The riders froze, tilting their heads like animals. Beak looked intently at the round-faced Laughs-Silently, who had stopped near him. The old man could no longer match the young men’s sharp hearing and waited for the warrior’s explanation.

They were near the confluence of the Elk and the Turbulent Rivers, where, according to scouts, stood the dwellings of the white people, surrounded by a wooden wall. The Lakota rarely appeared here, as the territory belonged to the hostile Psaloka tribe – the Crow People – and was also roamed by the Hohe – the Stone Boilers – who considered these lands their own. For now, the Lakota were only exploring this wonderful land, sending out war and scouting parties like the one led by Old Beak.

“Hissing,” said Bear.

“Yes, something is hissing,” the others nodded, “but very far away, meaning it must be very loud.”

Then one of the Indians let out a cry of surprise and slapped his bare buttocks loudly, making the long fringe on his leggings sway. Everyone followed the movement of his hand in unison.

From beyond a distant bend in the river (hidden there by treetops), smoke was moving. Moving right over the river.

“Ho!” drawled Laughs-Silently, stretching his neck. “The smoke is floating on the water!”

“What kind of wonder is this?”

“Did someone set burning trees adrift?”

“No…”

Talking thus, the party slowly moved towards the river.

“That smoke is heading to where the Light-Eyed ones have built their houses behind the wooden wall.”

“The Pale-faces have worked magic.”

“Beak didn’t see that smoking monster for nothing today,” Bear remembered.

“Yes,” the others nodded, not taking their eyes off the billows rising from the green thicket…

Suddenly, they saw it and stopped, too amazed to utter a sound. Below them opened a clearing free of trees, beyond which a huge stretch of the river was visible. On it, chugging and churning the water, floated something enormous with two tall, straight black funnels, from which thick smoke poured.

“Unktehi!” exclaimed Beak, peeling open his damaged eyelid. “A Water Spirit!”

“I once saw,” Three Fingers said slowly, his eyes glued to the monster, “how an Unktehi pulled eight oxen underwater at once, but it never surfaced itself and didn’t blow smoke. White Otter was with me then. He saw it too.”

“Those who live by the Sacred Lake say the Water Spirit has the body of an ox but the tail of a fish.”

“No,” Beak shook his head negatively, “you can see for yourself it doesn’t look like a bison, but it does have horns.”

At that moment, the smoking wonder let out a long, drawn-out hoot several times. The Indians flinched in surprise and exchanged glances.

“When we return to the village,” Three Fingers began, “and tell of this, the people will make a song about us. We are the first of our clan to see the Unktehi.”

“That’s not a monster,” Bear said suddenly. “I can see people on it. I think it’s the big boat our southern brothers from the Bad River told us about. They often visit the Pale-faces there and trade with them. They said the white men bring many beautiful things on a big boat that moves by itself and blows smoke…”

At that very second, the horses jerked sharply, frightened by a rolling thunderous roar. Their owners grew nervous too. And for good reason – the floating wonder was enveloped in a white cloud.

“Hey! Hey!” came shouts from below, and up the wooded slope from the shore raced riders whom the Ptarmigan clan Indians, absorbed by the incredible sight, had not noticed until now. Suddenly, they found the Psaloka no more than ten meters away. The sworn enemies were approaching quickly, now diving into deep shadow, now reappearing in blinding patches of sunlight. The Lakotas’ confusion was so great that only three of them had the presence of mind to grab for their quivers. But the Psaloka, as was clear from their faces, had also not seen their enemies until this moment. Now, without stopping their horses, they made hand signs showing they did not intend to fight. They raced past on brightly painted horses, glancing over their shoulders again and again at the thundering water creature. The Ptarmigan people, bewildered, twisted their heads, now watching the warriors from the hostile tribe disappear among the trees, now looking back at the river shrouded in bluish smoke.

Arrival

Standing among the passengers aboard the wheeled steamer Assiniboine, Randall Scott watched the approaching shore with visible impatience. The palisade and bastions grew before his eyes, and the faces of the people crowding the dock became distinct. Once again, a cannon boomed a welcome, eliciting reverent awe from the numerous savages scurrying near the water’s edge. The excitement was incredible, both on the steamboat and on land.

Randall Scott squared his shoulders.

Here it was, the long-awaited destination – Fort Union, one of the main trading posts of the American Fur Company, where many came to sell or receive goods. Seventy-five days of travel from St. Louis aboard this floating vessel – no joke!

Randall walked down the creaking gangplank, listening with pleasure as it sagged under his weight. Finally! He was entering a world where no one knew him, where, true, everything was new, but this did not frighten Randall in the least. On the other hand, his bad reputation, enormous debts, and strained relations with the law were left far behind, beyond the countless bends of the swift river. Henceforth, nothing held power over him except for Mister Great Chance. And Randall Scott would not let it turn its back on him…

Scott dropped the heavy bag from his shoulder, brushed the dust from his coat, and automatically checked for the pistol behind his belt and the purse in his breast pocket. People bustled around: hunters, traders, clerks, mere onlookers. A motley array of clothing flashed by: blue woolen suits walked arm-in-arm with fringed buckskin jackets; behind soft fringe and leather laces shone polished brass buttons on black flannel; among beaded moccasins, one frequently encountered shoes that seemed lacquered, worn specially for this celebratory day of June 24, 1833—the long-awaited day of the wheeled steamer’s arrival at Fort Union. The crowd formed picturesque clusters everywhere, the most varied faces appearing before Randall. Here were all the types the human mind could conceive. The only thing missing was women.

Inside the fort were all sorts of offices, shops, and warehouses. Near the stable and the barn, people in shirts dark with sweat shouted loudly and cheerfully, a lone hammer rang out clearly. In the center of the fort stood a flagpole, next to it were three conical tents, whose owners had obviously gone to the shore to gawk at the steamer and share in the general excitement. Randall dragged his bag over to the cannon standing in front of the tents (its barrel aimed towards the main gate) and stretched sweetly.

“Hello, life!” he sang, and saw the enchanting azure expanse high above. “My heart now seems as generous and vast as the sky overhead…”

No, he was not one of the romantics; it was not the hypnotic beauty of mountains and lakes that had lured him to the Far West, but Randall Scott, this hardened thirty-five-year-old cynic, could not help but feel the charm of the world surrounding him.

The people he saw after disembarking and leaving behind the monotonous hiss of the engines immediately struck him as beings of a special sort. On one hand, they smiled broadly, and their smiles held frank cordiality. On the other hand, their faces remained severe, every feature expressing an unshakable determination to break the back of anyone who dared to stand in their way.

In the evening, the vast majority of the fort’s population headed for the shops and bars selling liquor. It must be said that the main drinking establishments there were simply canvas awnings with a couple of roughly knocked-together tables beneath them. But even there, kerosene lamps shone cozily, laughter was heard, and midges hummed. And from the doors of the only real saloon, where prices were slightly higher and gamblers usually gathered, came the squeaking of two fiddles accompanied by a harmonica.

Randall managed to buy a handsome black stallion from a long-haired half-breed and from the same métis bought himself lodging in an Indian tent piled with fragrant hides intended for sale. The Indian camp around Fort Union was incredibly vast. It started right from the bank of the Missouri and stretched far out onto the plains. In any case, the encampment numbered no less than a hundred and fifty dwellings. The cones of the tents glowed from within with a red-yellow fire and, stretching into the distance, resembled stars scattered on the ground. Indian singing to the monotonous beat of a drum could be heard.

Randall sat down at a card table and inhaled the thick tobacco smoke floating around his head. The card table instantly awakened the spirit of the cardsharp in him, which had been sleeping during the voyage after a long flight from justice. Randall cracked his knuckles. He saw the cunning squint of his gaming partners, their cracked lips, powerful hands with prominent veins. And he also felt the air, the foreign air of an unfamiliar country stretching beyond the fort walls. Randall understood that he had to play honestly, at least for today… But he cheated, and was immediately grabbed by the hand – they were sharp-eyed people, playing for pleasure, not for deceit…

“What do I see?” a thick bass voice sounded with a French accent.

Randall instinctively jerked, trying to free his hand, jumped sharply to his feet, and saw a shadow flash before him, which momentarily blocked the light of the kerosene lamp and with a ringing blow to the cheekbone sent him flat on his back. Falling, he caught the table with his legs and overturned it. The scattered cards flared up like white moths under the lamp.

And then a shot rang out. Randall heard it from somewhere beneath him, not yet realizing that he himself had pulled the Collier from his belt and pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed under the ceiling, and the room filled with acrid smoke.

Later, Randall vaguely remembered how some force carried him out of the saloon into the darkness of the night, leaving the bluish powder clouds behind. There was rough shouting, stomping feet, chairs clattering. Within seconds, he was outside the fort among the Indian dwellings. Moving swiftly on half-bent legs and looking back, he reached his lodging, nimbly grabbed his bag, and, taking his horse by the bridle, led it away from the palisade at a run.

“Whizzed right past my ear!” voices carried. “What a skunk hide!”

“Who is he? From the steamer?”

“I’ll be damned if I don’t make him eat his own shit!”

“In the morning, I’ll get to that pig and strangle him! Nail him like the rat whose head I chopped off in the shed today.”

“Rats again?”

“Big ones! Not rats, more like buffaloes, damn them…”

Several Indians sitting near the palisade, illuminated by the fire’s glow, watched Randall go with raised eyebrows but remained seated, legs crossed. The shouts and commotion behind him gradually died down, but Randall Scott did not stop.

The Indian camp near the fort turned out to be incredibly huge. Randall Scott walked through it as through a real city. Incomprehensible speech was heard from everywhere, drums beat here and there. Suddenly, several Indians and a bearded white man in a worn-out leather jacket blocked his path. They were full of calm and were smoking a long pipe. At Randall’s appearance, they looked at him indifferently but did not move. He slowed his pace and went around them, not taking his eyes off the bearded man. He was a broad-faced man, very old and very strong, which was evident from his huge, sinewy neck rising from a greasy collar like a gnarled tree trunk.

“If it was you making that noise in the fort,” the bearded man suddenly said without turning his head, “I’ve no business with it. You need fear neither my fists nor my rifle. As long as you don’t step on my corns, I won’t touch you. If you want a bite, sit down here.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know who you are or where you’re heading,” continued the bearded man, expressively flaring his nostrils, “but I know for sure that on a moonless night like this, it’s better to stay among people. If you join our pipe, stranger, it will assure me you don’t intend any mischief sitting by our fire…”

“I had no such thought…”

“The pipe will convince me more strongly,” the bearded man grinned.

“Which way should I head tomorrow?” Randall hurried to ask after the first puff.

“Any. Depends on where you need to go.”

“I don’t need to go anywhere.”

“Then stay here.”

Randall glanced back doubtfully at the fort walls and shook his head.

“Did you fill anyone full of lead in there?” the bearded man inquired in an almost indifferent tone.

“Seems not. But they chased me.”

“Everyone here is chasing someone. A petty scrape, a squabble like that isn’t worth a trifling conversation. Ha-ha! I remember when I first came to the Missouri some thirty years ago, I managed to shoot a chief on the very first day, in the village where I found shelter. Now that was a fix! And even then I wriggled out, as you see. By the way, this fellow here,” the bearded man nodded his shaggy head towards a thin Indian with a tattooed chin sitting to his right, “is my son and the grandson of that chief I laid low. And a couple of years later, I took the chief’s orphaned daughter as my wife, and she bore me a son, a daughter, then three more sons. This is the youngest. Ha-ha! Such are the winding paths here, friend…”

“Where is your wife?”

“Died,” the bearded man spread his hands. “Everyone dies sometime. And in the open, it happens especially often. There are many claws, fangs, knives, and other dangerous rubbish here…”

Randall Scott
From the Diary

June 25, 1833

My lack of restraint will be the death of me someday. Yesterday, I almost shot a card sharp at the gaming table. Absurd and stupid!

I am homeless again. Pursuers may appear behind me, although the old man I spoke with last night assured me that I am threatened by precisely nothing, save perhaps a couple of good cuffs. Still, I decided to flee, as I clearly heard the words of one of those who chased me. He said he would cut off my head like a stinking rat. An unpleasant prospect, even if the words about the rat were a common local joke…

June 26

Today I met a strange-looking man in a large wagon. He introduced himself as Keith Melbraid. He looks about forty. Shortish, reddish-haired. Dressed in an old canvas shirt, long faded, and leather leggings in the Indian style (that is, only the legs are covered, and the rear and private parts are covered by a crumpled breechcloth, meaning the buttocks remain bare and gleam in the sun). His head is adorned by a heavily soiled top hat. A long leather strap, beaded, is attached to the back of the hat; it falls almost to the middle of his back – a pointless and inconvenient thing, in my opinion, like any other decorations, for that matter.

Keith Melbraid calls himself a trader. His wagon is indeed full of all sorts of junk. There’s powder, lead, flint strikers, axes, knives, bright fabrics, fishhooks, mirrors, beads, and even a box with feathers from an ordinary domestic rooster. He says he’s been bartering furs from the savages for these goods for about three years now. There are many tribes here, and I’ve never heard of any of them before. Keith can speak a little in some dialects but more often uses the language of signs, as he calls it.

Today we crossed to the opposite bank on a ferry. Keith believes a trader like him has no business on the side where Fort Union stands because the redskins from that shore can easily get to the white men’s goods themselves. Melbraid is interested in remote tribes whom the French traders once called the Sioux. Everyone has called these savages that ever since, though no one knows what it means. From him, I learned that trade on Indian lands can only be conducted with the government’s permission, and the sale of liquor is forbidden altogether. Of course, strong drink still finds its way to the Indians, thanks to “free” traders who seek places where government agents won’t catch them. Keith Melbraid is one of those.

I wonder what awaits me ahead? It seems a quiet life is not in sight, with redskins prowling everywhere.

June 30, 1833

We passed through an abandoned Indian village. On the ground, the circular traces where dwellings once stood were clearly visible. I approached the single remaining frame of an Indian dwelling. Many poles lashed together formed a cone, which was about half-covered with oak bark. The bark was teeming with fleas. In the center of this wigwam, as in other spots where tents had stood, blackened a fire pit surrounded by stones. Keith called it a hearth.

Behind this conical skeleton rose three platforms about ten feet high, on which stood crooked boxes made of tree bark. Countless ants streamed up and down the logs supporting the platforms. Melbraid said that dead bodies lay in the boxes. Between these burial structures stood a tall, bent pole with a large leather bundle at the top. A bunch of grass stuck out of it, and on long threads hung small, incomprehensible objects that swayed at the slightest breath of wind and knocked against each other. Near the pole on the ground lay several red-colored arrows in a semicircle and the skeleton of a dog.

The cemetery made a gloomy impression on me. What was incomprehensible and therefore mysterious affected me most strongly – the strange bundle and the trinkets near it. A sense of danger crept up. I realized that this is an alien world, that its laws are unknown to me, that I would not be able to negotiate (if necessary) with people about whom I have not the slightest idea.

I feel very uneasy now. I should have stayed in the fort and somehow settled the misunderstanding in the saloon, even if I had to pay all my money as a fine for disturbing the peace and give up card playing for a month, even a year.

July 2

Again we passed by burial platforms on which human bones were visible. Probably the burials are very old, the flesh and clothing have decomposed or been pecked away by birds. At the base of the poles lay yellowish bones, possibly human, that had fallen from the burial bier, but they could also be animal remains, as I saw several large skulls, seemingly equine. Keith assures me that the savages often slaughter their horses and hang their heads on the platform. Keith also claims that the redskins often bury the dead waist-deep in the ground, facing east, and leave them like that until decomposition. Terrible savagery!

One gets the impression that this country is overflowing with graves.

July 10

Saw buffalo. They wandered over distant hills and looked like black dots splattered on the slopes; these dots merged into spots, and the spots into a single dark mass. I never imagined herds could be so numerous. I suggested to Keith that we hunt, but he grumpily refused, not wanting to unhitch his mules for the task, and said we had plenty of meat from the antelope shot yesterday. He thinks it’s better to reach our destination early and hunt there with the savages if I want to so badly.

He must be right. I’m just overcome with impatience. I never thought I’d want to touch everything I see here with my hands. Take the buffalo, for example. I firmly know I will see the hunt for these giants more than once and will take part in it myself. But the local expanses, the boundlessness, the freedom – it all instills in my heart delight and a thirst for activity. That’s why I want to chase the bulls, experience the thrill of a primitive hunter in a primitive country.

It’s amazing how closeness to nature can change one’s perception of the world! Just yesterday I was an inveterate gambler, the space of the gaming table filled me completely. I saw and desired to see nothing but cards. I was filled only with cards. It wasn’t the winning that interested me, but the game, exclusively the game, the anticipation of success or failure, the constant tension, the thrill. And now, a few days on the spacious breast of the prairie have etched out this love for cards, turned it to dust, and the ceaseless local wind has scattered it! I can’t believe it, but it’s true! The thirst to play has vanished.

Though, no, it hasn’t vanished. One must be honest with oneself. It’s just that I am ready to play at something else, completely new to me. Henceforth, my gaming table is the prairie. But what game is shaping up here?

July 11

The day dawned magnificently today. A cool breeze blew, the grass swayed peacefully. Somehow, all the discomforts of the journey over rough hills and wooded valleys were immediately forgotten. Yesterday towards evening we reached a creek, which we couldn’t cross for a long time, moving along its bed. The horses moved with great effort, pulling their hooves from the root-tangled bottom. In the end, we crossed to this side and immediately made camp.

It must be noted that the Great Plains look quite different now than they seemed from the steamboat. Then I saw much greenery, which is natural, since I was traveling upriver. Now the prairies are a continuous yellow carpet. The tall grass is mercilessly scorched by the sun. A solitary poplar or a small grove immediately catches the eye, their green crowns perfectly visible against the yellow grass.

Keith, as usual, rose before me and was already making coffee. He makes coffee, as is customary here, that is, he roasts it haphazardly in a pan and brews it with river or rainwater in our only kettle. That is, he has another six or more kettles in his wagon. But he doesn’t touch them, saving these shiny vessels for trading with the savages.

The fight

The Indians dismounted and dropped into the tall grass, each laying out bags containing headdresses, paint in pouches, and sheathed weapons nearby… A few minutes earlier, the scouts sent ahead had returned and reported a small enemy party. The Ptarmigan people estimated when the enemy would be within immediate reach and began preparing for battle without haste. Hands scooped up paint. Now their faces would lose their own features, and the evil spirits would not be able to recognize them if any of the warriors died and tried to drag the fallen to the underworld. Many covered their faces completely with a thick layer: some blue, some yellow, some white. Some painted their faces in halves with different colors. Each had his own principle, corresponding to his inner voice. Chests, bellies, arms, and legs were also covered with patterns, according to the command of their guardian spirit. The paint was meant not only to frighten the enemy. Each new face, laid over the real one, necessarily held a hidden power that protected the warrior from enemy arrows.

Bear put on the mask of his protector, its fangs hanging low over his eyebrows. Two hawk feathers were attached to the left bear’s ear. Bear’s face was entirely covered in blue, except for his nose, lips, and lower jaw…

Unexpectedly for all, Beak raised his hand and said:

“I will die today. Our enemies have more power than we do. They carry the flying iron of the white men. Do not strive to overcome them, but I must strike down their leader. Now I will sing my death song, and you will smoke me with the smoke of sweetgrass.”

“Why do you think they have flying iron?” asked Three Fingers, surprised.

“I know, I had a vision,” Beak said quietly, without opening his eyes or raising his head. “Only Bear can take part in this fight. He never looked back once during our journey, so no cunning spirit could latch onto his gaze and follow him. He slept only under his own blanket, and no evil spirit seeped unnoticed into his body at night to bring him a foreign weakness that exists in each of us. And some of you used a common blanket. And also… Bear has a strong protector. I do not know who it is, but a rare fighter receives such protection. Bear can take part in this fight. The rest should only frighten the enemy…”

Less than half an hour passed, and the Indians, holding their ponies back, rode up the hill in a single line. The enemy party should have been approaching the opposite slope by now. Beak let out a guttural cry, and the riders, covered in bright paint, surged over the hillcrest together. About a hundred meters away, the Psaloka – the Crow People – were riding at a leisurely pace. Like the Ptarmigan, there were ten of them, all stoutly built, confident after a successful raid on someone’s camp. They were dressed in ceremonial attire and had painted their faces black. Ahead of them moved a herd of about fifty horses, and these very horses prevented Beak’s party from launching a lightning attack. The herd milled in place, frightened by the loud cries of the attackers.

Beak furiously beat away the strange horses darting around him and pushed towards a rider in a magnificent headdress, whose long train slithered almost on the ground with every sharp movement of his horse. This rider raised both hands above his head with a loud cry, and a polished long-barreled rifle flashed in the sun. From behind the leader, a warrior shot out, rearing his spirited horse; on his head sat a stuffed falcon with spread wings. He already held his rifle aimed at the Ptarmigan, and a second later a shot rang out loudly, spreading waves of bluish smoke around the savage. Someone to Beak’s right gasped and leaned heavily, barely staying in the saddle. Beak glanced briefly at the wounded tribesman and turned his gaze back to the enemy in the huge headdress. Before his eyes were hands covered in black paint, greasy marks imprinting the shiny rifle barrel as the Indian brought the stock to his shoulder. A moment stretched into eternity. Now the bottomless muzzle of the barrel leveled with Beak’s eyes, then by inertia dropped slightly lower. And then the world went mad again, hooves pounding the ground deafeningly. Fire sprayed into Beak’s face. A close-range shot slammed into his ears. In a fraction of a second, the panorama was shrouded in thick smoke. Beak felt as if a part of his body had detached from him, as if lost. Then it became hot right under his throat. From the outside, he saw himself sitting on his horse very crookedly, leaning far back and looking up. And then Beak screamed piercingly. With this insane cry, he dragged himself back from the abyss of death like with a rope, clenched a club with three blades at the end in his hand, and, bursting through the powder smoke, found himself right next to the Psaloka leader. The raised sharp weapon descended swiftly upon the enemy, and its three steel teeth sank into the hot flesh.

Bear saw Beak plunge the mighty club into the back of the rider with the rifle and, falling from his horse, drag the enemy with a broken spine down with him.

From the rising dust emerged a slender man of black color. The horned buffalo scalp fitted to his head stretched its hair down his back, seeming to grow into the man’s skin. The rider sat easily on a glossy jet-black stallion and pranced before Bear. In his hand was a long spear with locks of hair dangling near the tip and many small skins tied along the shaft. The rider looked back; on his entirely black face, eyes flashed and a snow-white grin of teeth appeared.

Bear directed his horse towards him, and Bear Bull – for it was he – nodded his head approvingly, as a real bear sometimes does, opening its mouth and nodding its shaggy muzzle. Then the rider burst into motion, becoming a blurry shadow. He tilted his horned head so low that it merged with the head of the black horse, and for a moment, to Bear – the only person on the battlefield who could see the black rider – it seemed that his protector had turned into a huge bull.

The Indian raised his bow, placed an arrow on the string, clenched three more in his teeth to save time searching in the quiver, and raced after the shadow-rider. He saw him jab the nearest Psaloka with his long spear and gallop on. Bear let fly an arrow and knocked down the enemy Bear Bull had marked for him. And Bear Bull stopped near Beak’s dead body and waited. Bear reined in his horse right where the ghostly horse had been trampling the grass. Easily lifting the old man’s body, he laid it in front of himself and started to ride towards his party. But the black shadow performed its mysterious dance before him again. A rifle from a dead Psaloka gleamed in the grass, and Bear had to take it. He scooped up the weapon without stopping his galloping horse, leaning out far and holding Beak’s body with his hand. A warning shout came from behind him. Bear turned and saw a broad-shouldered warrior on a spotted pony, its neck and rump covered entirely with red handprints, very close. The warrior held a spear in one hand and in the other a small pole decorated along its length with hawk feathers and a stuffed owl on the top end.

Bear drew the bowstring and barely released the arrow when the thick shadow of Bear Bull struck the heart of the rider with the staff, and the arrow loosed by the Ptarmigan warrior pierced the same spot.

Continuing their fearsome cries, the parties drew apart. Bear, straining his throat with all his might, spewed curses at his enemies and threateningly raised the picked-up rifle above his head.

Another shot cracked from the Psaloka side, and the Lakota galloped away.

Mato Witko
His Own Words

The Crow. This bird was revered by many tribes. Our friends, the Cheyennes, gave the names of these birds to a people who lived north of us, in a beautiful country with many snowy mountains. There was indeed something bird-like in these people. The Crow people called themselves Absaroka. We called this tribe – Psaloka.

We had been enemies with the Crow Nation for a long time. And in those years, war with them was our main business, because we penetrated deeper into their country every year. There were many more of us, Lakotas, than Psaloka, and we needed new pastures for our huge herds. Their warriors fought bravely against us if our parties did not outnumber them too greatly. They were worthy opponents.

But when the Lakotas first appeared in the country of the Psaloka, which was a very, very long time ago, all of our people died. Thirty men from the Crazy Dog society remained lying in a foreign land. Then many of our parties gathered together – the They-Sow-Beside-the-Water, the Scattered Ones, the Twice-Boiling – and went to the country of the Psaloka. I heard in my childhood from the old men that there was a fierce battle. Our people managed to destroy an entire Psaloka camp and took many prisoners. Since then, there has been constant war between us…

Yes, they were skilled fighters, and we remembered all the fights with them. This may seem strange to you white people, but we often counted the years precisely by the importance we gave to one or another military clash with the Psaloka. That summer remained in our memory as the Year-When-Beak-Bravely-Cut-Down-the-War-Chief-of-the-Psaloka. Other tribal groups had their own reckoning of time, they celebrated their victories and mourned their losses. But events important for our entire people, for all Lakotas, did occur. Then much more serious cases entered the tribal calendar. Thus appeared the Year-When-Many-People-Died-in-Convulsions, or the Winter-When-the-Stars-Fell, or the Winter-When-the-Snake-Village-Was-Destroyed. This was remembered by many, it shook many.

Today, nothing happens around me. One by one, those with whom I spent a long life are dying, and I must put them in the ground, as the white bosses at the agency command me. I cannot place the dead high on a platform so that the wind, sun, and rain turn the dead flesh to nothing. And I too, when my half-blind eyes close for the last time, will be nailed into a wooden box, lowered into a hole, and crushed with a stone. And I can do nothing about it. I am old and weak. But before, I was filled with strength. I was ready to fight without rest.

On the day of Beak’s death, we were all seized with sorrow, our hearts constricted with despair.

Beak had been a mentor to many youths in our party, so they stubbornly insisted that we take the body of the fallen to our village. If Beak had died in camp, the relatives would certainly have dressed him in a richly embroidered shirt, wrapped him in hides, and suspended him on high poles. But those killed in battle, if the journey home was not short, were customarily buried where they died. Therefore, Lame Wolf and Red Marten, as the eldest among us, decided to leave him here. We only moved his body to a steep, wooded mountainside and there built a small platform of branches, securing it to a spreading tree whose mighty trunk overhung a rocky gully. We thickly painted Beak’s face and hands with red ochre. On the platform, on both sides of the body, we laid all his weapons. We secured his shield near his head. At the base of the tree, we set up a small shelter where relatives could sit when they came to mourn him. After that, we cut the throat of the horse Beak had ridden during the fight and laid it on the ground right beneath the platform. I scooped up the pooled blood and smeared it on the roots of the tree. Three Fingers sprinkled tobacco around the tree.

Then we rode away. Laughs-Silently moved last, keeping an eye on Blue Arm, whom we had placed on a travois because a bullet had pierced his thigh during the fight.

The sun rose twice after that, and suddenly we saw a large wagon with two white men sitting high atop some sacks and boxes. The few Pale-faces who appeared in our lands usually used packhorses. A wagon was a novelty to us.

Yes, we rarely encountered the Light-Eyed in those years. We heard more about them. But once I saw white traders when I traveled south to our relatives who roamed near the Shell River. Where its waters flowed into the Turbulent River, there stood a log fort where the Lakotas sometimes came to trade.

Now people with white skin had appeared in our country. We were surprised seeing those two. Our blood boiled immediately. We had never had the chance to fight white people because they did not interfere with us. But this time, we grabbed our bows and clubs. We thirsted for revenge. Beak had forbidden us to fight those Psaloka, but no one had said we couldn’t kill the Light-Eyed.

My friends worked themselves into a frenzy with loud cries, making their horses spin in place, transmitting their excitement to them. Lame Wolf raised his hands to the clouds floating above us and began a brave man’s song.

I raised my palm to the long fangs of my bear mask and pierced the skin on the back of my hand.

“Oh, my brother Bear, make it so the flying iron of the Light-Eyed does not harm us. We have lost a good man. We can no longer call ourselves victors when we return to the village. Help us, my brother!” Such were the words I spoke while the bear’s fangs tore my hand.

Then Three Fingers rushed forward. He crouched low to his horse’s neck, and the white men could not hit him. But they immediately shot his pony. It seemed to me they did not want to fight; they looked confused. One of them wore a tall hat with a long, beautiful ribbon behind it; he was shouting something at us. But we had already started the fight. We were already flying side by side with the Spirit of Death.

Red Marten rode in from the side and with three arrows killed the man in the tall hat. The second Pale-face was doing something with his weapon at that time. I stopped right in front of him and had already drawn my bowstring, but the white man was suddenly blocked by the black, horned shadow of Bear Bull.

“Stop! You must save this Light-Eyed one!” my protector shouted to me.

The stranger

The rider closest to the wagon was clad in a feathered headdress, resembling a swaying crown. The round shield on his arm had a red border made of cloth bought or stolen somewhere, and it fluttered with the eagle feathers attached to it. Beside him rode an Indian with a bear’s head resting on his own, its fangs hanging right over the savage’s eyes. Behind them, other long-haired horsemen fanned out. Randall Scott had time to notice that some had fox skins draped from their shoulders to their chests, their paws brightly painted, with tufts of crow feathers dangling from the foxes’ muzzles.

“Don’t shoot!” shouted Keith Malbraid, glancing quickly at Randall, and threw both hands up, showing the redskins his empty palms. “It’s the Fox Warriors… better to handle this peacefully…”

At that same moment, with a frightening whistle, two arrows slipped past just above Randall’s head. A second later, another thudded loudly into the wagon’s side. Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw it quivering, its sharp tip buried in the dusty board. The savages’ intentions left no room for doubt, and there was no time for thought. So Randall shot at the nearest rider, who was leaning to the side of his painted, maned mare, hiding from bullets. The horse tumbled, stretching its neck as it fell and breaking it, let out a terrible snort, and kicked its legs in the air. In the thick clouds of yellow dust kicked up by the thrashing horse, the Indian nimbly scrambled away on all fours, dropping his feathered headdress as he ran.

Then, from somewhere behind, a rider emerged, thickly covered in greasy white paint, shrieked something, and lightning-fast, released three arrows into the bewildered Keith. They stuck in a row along his spine, one under the other, like in a circus act.

The rising wall of dust, pierced by sunlight, filled with frantic shadows of men and horses. The paint on the savages’ bodies and their colorful ornaments merged into one huge, solid brushstroke. From this flickering bright mass, the figure with the bear’s head on its shoulders suddenly emerged. For a split second, it seemed to Randall that a real bear had appeared before him, drawing a taut bow. The arrowhead froze a few dozen centimeters from the white man’s chest.

Randall felt the arrow’s shaft rip through the air and strike him hard in the chest… He staggered but stayed on his feet… Something had happened… The arrow remained on the bowstring… The momentary vision of his own death receded; the deafness that had plugged his ears turned into a whistle and then back into the familiar noise – horses stomping, people shouting incredibly loudly… The bear mask held the bow drawn but did not release the arrow… Something was happening. It seemed the savage was confused. He was as if listening to someone and couldn’t believe what he was hearing…

Behind him and on both sides of the wagon, his excited tribesmen crowded, waving clubs and shields. The bear mask suddenly sharply lowered the bow and turned to them. In an irritated voice, this Indian shouted at the others and began waving his arm, as if shooing the riders away. They answered with indignant shouts. Someone raised a spear with a bundle of hair near its tip. But the man in the bear mask reared his horse and decisively moved against the indignant warriors.

“Hia! Hia!” he repeated, throwing burning glances over his shoulder at the white man.

The Indian whose mare Randall had shot had already taken the horses from the wagon and, clearly displeased with the bear mask’s behavior, bent over Keith Malbraid’s body. Two swings of a heavy club with sharp blades embedded in it were enough for him to sever the corpse’s head. With a triumphant cry, the Indian grabbed it by its red locks and, riding up close to Scott, shook the terrible trophy viciously. Blood ran down the savage’s raised arm and dripped from his dust-covered elbow onto his muscular chest, gleaming with grease.

Several savages were already rummaging in the boxes stacked in the wagon, throwing out colorful rags, sorting through glass beads, constantly uttering cries of delight.

Randall closed his eyes…

Suddenly, the Indians galloped away. One of them was sporting Keith’s tall hat with its dangling, bead-embroidered ribbon. The last to ride off was the man in the bear mask. Before disappearing behind a hill, he stopped and looked at Randall for a long time. His pony impatiently pawed the ground, raising lazy dust. Then he spurred away and was gone.

Randall collapsed weakly onto the slashed-open sacks. Consciousness was ready to leave him. The sky swelled above him, now sucking the snow-white clouds into some kind of funnel, now lowering them right to Scott’s face. At times, the sky became impenetrably black, and then the whiteness of the clouds became blinding, but after a few seconds, the azure returned and the world became familiar again. The settling dust smelled of horses.

That night, he covered Keith Malbrad’s headless body with dry earth and settled down under a blanket near the wagon wheel. Quite close to him, a steep cliff rose like a huge shadow, emanating a grave-like chill. Randall couldn’t sleep, the tension was too great. So he took a thick, leather-bound notebook from his duffel bag, undid the clasp on the thin strap, and began frantically recounting the events of the previous day. The reddish glimmers of the weak campfire floated over his tired face.

Closer to dawn, a distant shadow of a rider appeared in the murky gray air. On his head was the mighty muzzle of a bear. Seeing the terrible guest, Randall tensed his whole body. What could the strange savage’s return mean?

Randall Scott closed the notebook and stood up.

“What do you want?” he exclaimed, stretching out his hand holding the notebook in front of him.

The savage grew wary. The paleface was pointing his mysterious object at him and seemed to be shouting incantations. Perhaps it was a small square shield? Every shield carries protective power, and every warrior’s shield is different. The Light-Eyed One’s shield is strange, but special power lives in incomprehensible things – even the most experienced shamans are often powerless against it. The Light-Eyed One’s shield is strange. Its magic has roots in the unknown, which is why, perhaps, Bear Bull intervened for the white man.

The Indian shook his head. He would take the Light-Eyed One’s protective object, and then there would be no need to kill the foreigner – he would die on his own without his amulet. Having reached this conclusion, Bear raised his hands to the lightening sky and, without taking a weapon, urged his horse toward Randall Scott.

“I am not afraid of you! Look! I am not afraid of you!” he shouted in his own language, approaching the Paleface. His palms were demonstratively turned to the sides. Riding up close to Randall and circling him twice, Bear suddenly leaned down and snatched the notebook from Scott’s fingers. The next instant, he spurred his horse and galloped back, still with his arms spread, but now one hand clutched the Light-Eyed One’s mysterious thing.

Randall burst into curses. The savage’s behavior made no sense to him. He was ready to fight, ready to die, ready to have a long, tedious conversation using signs. But he did not intend to be an object of ridicule for painted natives.

“Damn you, you stinking scarecrow!” Scott bellowed. “If I ever catch you again, I’ll shove a rifle up your ass! I’ll feed you your own shit! I’ll pull a sack over your head instead of that bear face and hang you from the nearest tree!”

He stood alone in the middle of an endless, mountainous region through which he now had to walk on foot, walk to who knows where. He was a stranger, knew nothing, and now feared everything. He could have begged the Creator for protection, but he did not believe in God; he was used to relying only on himself, on his own strength. God remained a beautiful fiction to him, while the world around him always felt very real and often painfully so.

“And all this just because my damned hands can’t hold back in time! I just had to cheat at cards!” Randall desperately kicked the ground with the toe of his boot, raising a fountain of dust. He imagined himself in the midst of a noisy crowd on a town square, where shopkeepers chattered cozily and women’s heels clicked. Yes, a man cannot know where fate might throw him…

On the third day of his journey, dragging a huge bundle of provisions on his back, Randall realized his strength was exhausted. He had to pour out most of the contents of the sack, but even the little that remained at its dusty bottom pulled him toward the ground. At first, he tried to follow the tracks of the wagon he had arrived in with Keith. But the wheel tracks were lost by the evening of the first day. Now he wandered aimlessly. His feet constantly caught on stones and roots, the hot air wove complex patterns before his eyes, his dried-out throat felt swollen and stuck together.

In the evening, collapsing onto the ground, he discovered two motionless bodies about half a meter away from him, each with several long arrows sticking out. Small items were scattered around: pouches, bags, pieces of leather, wooden bowls, spoons. A little further away, Randall made out a large dog in the grass with its skull smashed.

“Devilry!” He winced, feeling nausea rising. The blood on the dismembered flesh and on the ground around had already dried, but it was clear the murder had happened very recently. A few crows hopped nearby, but vultures had not yet descended to begin their feast.

Scott rose heavily, literally hearing his tired legs hum and feeling fire stream through them in finest threads.

“Need to get away from here…”

With enormous effort, he hobbled to a dark pine forest on the slope of a long green hill and fell onto the grass in the dying evening shadow of giant pines, whose dense tops swam majestically in the orange paint of a cloudless sunset.

During the night, he dreamed of quiet voices and muffled hoofbeats, but fatigue prevented him from lifting his head to check if it was a dream. In the morning, he saw fresh hoofprints on the damp bank of a thin stream babbling a few dozen meters from his sleeping place.

“So, not a dream… Lucky you, Mr. Randall Scott… Or maybe not lucky at all? Strike me dead if falling under the knife of the red-skinned brutes right now isn’t the worst way out of my situation. At least I wouldn’t have to suffer and worry about the unknown anymore…”

He bent over the transparent water, and a coolness wafted over him. The stream was so clear that the water was almost invisible; only an occasional twig sliding over the shallow sandy bottom slightly rippled the surface, causing ghostly light spots to form around its floating shadow. Randall plunged his whole head into the water and relished its icy touch.

“No, it’s still a damn pleasant thing – life. And I bet I’ll agree to wander a bit more through these godforsaken wastelands!” He stuffed a bland biscuit into his mouth and began chewing it with relish.

And at that moment, as bliss spread through his entire being, something seemed to push Randall. He turned sharply and was stunned. About a mile away from him, down a hillside sparsely covered with trees, a line of about fifteen riders was descending. And they were not Indians. They wore rough leather clothing. All held long rifles, resting the butts on their knees or saddles. Packhorses walked alongside the riders on leads.

“White men!” burst from Randall, and he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“White men!” the echo spread through the crystal-clear air.

They were quite surprised by the appearance of a man without a horse in such remote places.

“Keith Malbraid?” the hunters asked, shaking their thick beards. “No, don’t know him… Not one of ours… Lots of people… Country’s huge…”

“Which way are you headed now?” inquired Scott Randall, having calmed down.

“The same way we were headed before, friend. You won’t throw us off our path. Ha-ha! We’ve got a full load of furs, so our road leads straight to the trading post.”

The fort

At Fort McKenzie, where the trappers had brought him, Randall was stuck for good. He wasn’t a cowardly man, but his short journey with Malbraid had killed any desire in him to wander a country that had already shown itself to be so inhospitable. Besides, he had never felt any urge to travel, so, having some savings, he was quite content to spend his time at the fort.

For the first few days, he tried not to burden himself with anything, showing the inhabitants of the wooden stockade that he was terribly tired from the recent bloody adventures, which, without a doubt, had not been pleasant for him. Soon, however, he began to take on some work so he wouldn’t be classified as a lazybones, a type nobody favored.

Within two months, he had grown accustomed to life at the fortified post. The land around him gradually ceased to seem deserted and frightening. Small animals scurried everywhere, birds flapped their wings, skinny coyotes kept popping out from behind bushes, deer swayed their antlers majestically in the distance, and the backs and ears of wolves flashed in the tall grass. But the most impressive sight was the huge herd of buffalo he once witnessed. Randall had seen bulls many times from the steamboat when they tried to swim across the river or came down to drink, and he’d seen a large herd while riding in Keith Malbraid’s wagon. But he couldn’t have imagined buffalo could be so numerous. They lazily flowed over the hills like an endless dark-brown carpet, swamping all the space around the fort. The sight of this endless avalanche of hump-backed animals took Randall’s breath away.

There also turned out to be far more Indians around than he had previously thought. The places weren’t deserted at all. Small groups of natives regularly arrived at the fort walls, and many tents were constantly pitched near the log walls of the fortified trading post.

As autumn approached, the savages began to disperse little by little, having finished trading with the white merchants. No more than twenty Blackfoot tents remained near the stockade walls, but three to five miles from the fort, large villages were still standing, hidden by sheer cliffs and dense forest.

Randall woke up very early that day. The air was gray and murky, like frosted glass. Scooping cold water from a wooden barrel, Randall Scott rinsed his face and, snorting, wiped his neck. Near the wall, bales of furs covered with tarpaulin were stacked on top of each other. Beyond the stockade, the tops of Indian tents were visible, the poles sticking up like giant whiskers, splayed at an angle, forming the frames for the dwellings. In the pre-dawn gloom, the forest on the surrounding hills seemed impenetrable. Bluish smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin behind Randall.

Suddenly, into the silence, which seemed nothing would dare disturb, a sound spread forth, unlike anything else. For a few seconds, it hung almost motionless, like a drawn-out, monotonous howl, then it wavered and suddenly transformed all at once into an infinite multitude of voices that poured into the valley like an avalanche.

Randall rushed to a loophole cut in the wall and saw distant figures of riders. There were several hundred of them. Their bouncing outlines grew clearer with each moment. A Métis nicknamed Tom-Badger, who had run up to the next loophole, gave a crooked grin.

“Assiniboine!” he exclaimed and hurried off to get his pistols.

“Levez-vous, il faut nous battre! Get up, we’ll have to fight!” another trapper shouted, beating his hand against the window frame.

A man of about fifty, wearing incredibly worn-out and dirty pants, ran out of a log building with a shaggy hide stretched over its door and spun his head around.

“Baron, the redskins are here!” Tom-Badger yelled in his face. “You’ll get your fill of fighting today!”

The Blackfeet began running out of their tents, looking around in confusion. They weren’t fully awake yet, and their movements were sluggish. They had spent the entire previous evening in noisy drunkenness, having bought a considerable amount of liquor from the traders. They had danced until late at night, depicting military clashes with enemies in their dances and counting their ‘coups’ (touchings of the enemy). Now, a real battle had suddenly descended upon them.

After a brief moment of thought, the Blackfeet dived back into their dwellings for weapons. They were too few to resist the attackers, but there was no other choice. The Assiniboine were noisily approaching. The most agile among them had already reached the Blackfoot camp and were now darting between the large conical dwellings, shooting arrows into the soft walls. Two Assiniboine briskly jumped off their horses and attacked one of the tents as if it were a living being, stabbing their knife blades into the stretched hide. Hunters with rifles at the ready hurried from the log houses to the walls of the fort. After the first shots, the scene of the battle was shrouded in thick smoke.

“Listen, they’re not attacking us, only the Blackfeet!” shouted Mitchel, lowering his long rifle. “Stop shooting!”

“If only we knew what they’ll think of next minute.”

“We ought to let the Blackfeet inside, or they’ll all be slaughtered…”

“Like hell! Then there’ll be no salvation from that horde. Look how many there are! About three hundred men…”

The wind carried the gunpowder smoke away, and the motionless bodies of five women and several children became visible among the tents. Lavishly feathered riders raced in circles around the dead, dodging arrows shot at them. The Blackfeet ran up to the stockade, calling for the white men’s help.

“I’ll go lend a hand,” old John Emerson wheezed, slowly putting on his moccasins and tossing bullets into a spacious leather bag, while the younger men crouched under the log walls.

“Let’s give them some pepper now,” said Baron Braunschweig with a strong German accent, smirking as he stepped to the stockade and pressed the rifle butt to his shoulder.

A shot rang out, and the weapon, jerking hard, threw him back two steps.

“Mais je te trouve fatigué et un peu pâle, mon ami! I find you looking tired and a bit pale, my friend!” a bearded Canadian laughed merrily behind the fallen baron.

“Seems I put in a double charge of powder,” Braunschweig lisped.

“Don’t get involved, friends, this isn’t our fight,” Mitchel said disapprovingly. He stood with his legs wide apart, hands on his hips, elbows out, like a master of the house.

But ten hunters still slipped through the partly opened gate, ran to the edge of the Indian camp, formed a semicircle, and fired a volley at the fidgety Assiniboine. They fell back, many leaning heavily from their horses, wounded. The appearance of white men armed with carbines on the battlefield disconcerted the attackers. The Blackfeet let out a triumphant cry and visibly cheered up. After two or three volleys at the savages, the trappers scattered throughout the Blackfoot camp. Their rough, grease-stained, sweat-soaked leather jackets with long fringe moved like brown spots among the naked figures of the Indians. The Assiniboine retreated a few hundred meters and from there shouted curses. Many of them rode forward and, at full gallop, picked up the bodies of their dead tribesmen from the ground.

A golden sunbeam cut through the blueness of the morning air, breaking through the tree crowns, and fell on the pointed tops of the Indian tents. The day had taken hold. A minute later, the entire solar disc appeared above the forest, flooding the cold space between two distant cliffs with radiance.

Randall took a carbine and left the fortress. The gates were now open, and frightened Indian women hurried to take shelter behind the wooden walls. Blood flowed through the torn dresses of some.

“There’s the reinforcements,” someone coughed, pointing to the left.

A small party of Blackfeet was galloping from the foot of the mountain, from the camp on the other side of the river. A little later, another group emerged from the wall of forest, having heard the sounds of shooting.

“Alright, issue them the rifles,” Mitchel ordered, “let them fight properly… Just don’t forget to take them back after the battle…”

“Try and take a rifle away from them afterwards…”

The first three Blackfeet grabbed the long-barreled carbines and with delighted cries ran between the tents, waving the weapons over their heads. Randall saw how they found the body of a dead enemy near the farthest tent, one the Assiniboine hadn’t managed to take with them, and stopped over it. They emptied their carbines into the corpse, reloaded, and shot the body again. Fired at point-blank range, the bullets tore the body badly, which clearly delighted the Indians.

Randall snorted and strode towards where the figures of the hunters were visible. Mingling with the Blackfeet, they advanced towards the hill where the Assiniboine scurried like ants. At times they rode forward, releasing a cloud of arrows, but immediately hurried back upon seeing the raised rifle barrels. New parties of Blackfeet arrived from neighboring camps, quickly crossing the level ground between the hills, flooded with the slanting rays of the sun. The eagle feathers in their hair glowed.

By noon, the Assiniboine had retreated beyond the ridge. The Blackfeet would ride after them, then return. Randall caught an Indian pony, its mane woven with strips of some fur and crow feathers, and returned to the fort on horseback. He had fired only a couple of shots and quickly lost interest in the battle. He had long noticed about himself that he couldn’t fight if he didn’t feel excitement. It’s like a fire can’t start without a spark.

People crowded near the stockade, excitedly discussing the details of the battle. Randall walked to the far wall of the fort, where deer antlers hung from a tall tripod over a fire. A pot dangled from one of their hooked points, sending forth aromatic steam. Jack-Dog was stirring it with a long wooden spoon.

“I said right away it was a boring fight,” Jack smiled with his overgrown face, which had earned him the nickname “Dog’ from the Indians, and adjusted the dirty collar of his embroidered jacket. “These Assiniboine are like all the other Sioux. They surely had a grudge against the Blackfeet, and had no business with us. I saw one of them shouting at our men to get out of his way because he meant us no harm. Redskins generally don’t much like attacking whites. Though, I won’t argue, a sizable pack descended today. But there are plenty of Blackfeet around too.”

“You knew they would retreat?”

“Yep. I looked at them and saw they were dressed well, painted up nicely. But they rode as if they didn’t know what they wanted. Maybe they weren’t even looking for Blackfeet specifically, but just anyone… It happens… Or maybe they’d already had their fill of fighting before this. I don’t know. A redskin is no simple bird…” Jack-Dog brought the spoon to his mouth and tasted the stew. He was about sixty, but his voice, though with an old man’s hoarseness, was loud, and his hands with dry, wrinkled skin moved easily.

“It seems to me,” Scott said, “that you sympathize with the savages.”

“I’ve been wearing out moccasins on these trails for many years, friend. Many times my worthless life has hung by a thread. And not just redskins were to blame. No, old-timer. I’ve been trampled by buffalo, chewed by wolves, and drowned by rivers. But I love life exactly as I have it here. I’ve grown old in this land. I have plenty of kin here.”

“From where?” Scott was surprised. “What kin?”

“Indians. I’ve managed to become related to them more than once.” Seeing the bewilderment on his companion’s face, Jack-Dog laughed. “I’ve had Indian wives. The squaws here are a special kind. They’re hardy, deft, excellent housekeepers, but being a roaming hunter, I didn’t always take a wife with me. Hunting requires agility. No point dragging a tipi around. Hunting is a man’s society. And what do I need from a squaw when I return from a trip that lasted two months? I need her only to be a woman, so I can have my fill of her… Everything’s fine with an Indian wife, but there are too many relatives. They, you see, are all happy to come visit you whenever they please, so sometimes they descend in crowds. And it’s really bad when someone comes visiting from another village, then they might settle in for a month or two… I’ve had three wives already. One was from the Snakes, I gave ten horses for her, and that’s a lot. But she died in the mountains, fell with her horse from a pass. The second was a Sioux, a wonderful housekeeper, but I returned her to her father because she was too quarrelsome, though she sewed excellent moccasins; I’ve never worn better footwear. Had to bring her papa all sorts of gifts when I brought her back. And the third was from the Bannocks. The Utes chopped her down… The best, in my view, are Lakota women. Remarkably sweet. Though mine had a bad temper… Well, it happens… I’ve seen many people, but no one attracts me like the savages. These red-skinned devils are much more to my liking than any smiling fur buyer in a trading post. The trappers here say that nothing caresses the ear like the howling wind in the mountains and the babbling of a stream. But there’s one more thing I adore. It’s the Sioux language. I’ll tell you what: no violin in a saloon during the merriest celebration can compare with the ordinary speech of the Lakota. You can’t imagine, friend, what they do with words!”

“Do you speak their language well, Jack?”

“Like my native Gaelic. I think I even think in their manner. Lakota kin shunka Jack kagapi. Jack-Dog was made by the Indians. A man becomes what surrounds him, if he accepts that surroundings. Had I not left Scotland, I’d be herding sheep like my ancestors, would be a sheep myself…”

They were silent for a while. Scott looked at the Blackfeet who had settled everywhere.

“There are all sorts of people here… Take our baron, for example,” Jack nodded towards Baron Braunschweig, who was pacing along the fortress wall, now going out the gate, now returning, “He’s just gawking here. He’s not with us. Maybe he’s not a bad fellow, this traveler, but he’s not one of us. They say he made it to general during the war in Europe. But that won’t help him become a mountain hunter. He looks differently. He breathes differently… If you’re like him, you’ll roll out of here quickly, having had your fill of looking at us or gotten scared of something. But if you stay on this land for at least a year, you’ll remain here and nothing will make you leave this country. The mountains and the prairie won’t let you go. You’ll get used to laughing in the rain and the blizzard, you’ll consider the sky your roof, and the pine forest your walls, and an ordinary house with the comforts valued in big cities will seem like a stuffy prison to you. Believe me, I know. I already tried to leave here for the States, but I almost died of boredom there. I’ve known others who found life here too harsh at first and hurried back to their cozy little cages, but quickly returned. Jimmy Wallace, for instance, in the basement of his stone house, would light a fire from wood chips in the evenings and cry. He told me himself. Then he gave up on everything, explained nothing to anyone, not even his wife, and raced back here. That was ten years ago. Last year, a grizzly tore off his leg and crushed his chest. And Jimmy died with a smile… I don’t know what real poetry is, but it seems to me that the very air here is saturated with songs…”

Woman

A year had passed since the Bear had taken possession of the white man’s notebook. Sometimes the Indian would take it out of the bag where he kept his most valued possessions and flip through the pages covered in small, intricate symbols. After that skirmish, people had started calling him Mato Toke – Strange Bear. No one understood his actions, why he had not killed the Light-Eyed one himself and had not allowed others to do it. At first, the warriors thought he had decided to take the foreigner captive and bring him to the village for torture, but they soon saw that was not the case. The white man was simply granted his life. He had shown no skill in battle, no miracle, yet the Bear had spared him. It was strange. But then, he often surprised the Grouse band…

One day, two families from the Red Water clan joined their roaming camp. They had left their group after a dispute with the community leader and had lived apart from everyone for almost a month. But such an existence rarely lasted long – the risk of falling into the hands of an enemy war party was far too great.

Among the newcomers, the Bear immediately noticed a young woman named Walking Fox, the wife of Young Wolf. This Indian had two wives. The elder was called The-Bird-Who-Guards-Her-Nest, and Walking Fox was her sister. Young Wolf had taken her as his wife after their father was trampled by bulls during a hunt. Their mother had then given her home to be torn apart by her tribespeople, symbolically handing them knives and axes, after which the crowd cut the tent hides to pieces, forever destroying the roof over her head. The old woman then sat for several days by her husband’s grave, crying and speaking softly to his invisible shadow, and there she died of overwhelming sorrow. According to tribal traditions, Walking Fox, left without a provider, came to her sister’s house and became Young Wolf’s second wife.

Any warrior could have as many wives as he could feed. Young Wolf had two. Strange Bear had none. People whispered about it, but no one said a word to him. Even his father did not speak of marriage. Strange Bear communed with the spirits, and people had little advice to offer him.

More than once, Strange Bear stopped near Young Wolf’s lodge and watched as Walking Fox scraped a bison hide stretched on a wooden frame with a bone scraper. She worked without fuss, but deftly. Strange Bear enjoyed following the young woman with his eyes, admiring the slenderness and strength of her build as she walked with a firm step to the river for water. Sometimes he caught the glance of her shining eyes, but she immediately averted her gaze and turned her beautiful head away.

He never spoke to her, as such behavior was considered improper, but one day he decided to attract her attention without crossing reasonable boundaries. He dressed in a long ceremonial shirt, painted with small symbols and figures that told of his battle exploits, adorned his hair with feathers and colored rods listing his wounds, took his flute, and for a while walked around Young Wolf’s lodge, playing a piercing melody he had composed specially for the occasion. Walking Fox came out of the dwelling and watched the Bear for a long time, then sat down near the entrance and began to embroider a piece of soft leather with red beads, not raising her eyes to the man with the flute again. She did not utter a word and did not respond to the Bear’s musical courtship, but he was satisfied. The woman had seen him. He walked away slowly, continuing to play the flute. Some of the people passing by smiled, looking at him.

“Strange Bear’s behavior is becoming less strange,” he heard behind his back.

“Let’s wait and see how Young Wolf likes this behavior,” replied another voice. “I’ve heard he has an overly hot heart.”

The Bear did not approach Walking Fox with his flute again. One love song was quite enough for a woman to understand a warrior’s feelings, if she had sufficient sense and intuition.

A couple of times, the camp held communal dances to celebrate successful horse-raiding expeditions into enemy lands. The Bear loved such festivities, loved the noise of merriment. Catching sight of Walking Fox in the crowd of onlookers, he would quickly apply his paint and join the dancers, trying to move as gracefully as possible and dance closer to where the Fox stood. He would glance at her sideways, twirling his war club in his hand and fanning himself with an eagle-wing fan, and note with satisfaction that the woman liked his dancing. This meant that she liked the Bear himself.

It happened that the Bear would sit for a long time far from the village near the yellowed skull of a bear and ponder something. A little ways off, closer to a narrow strip of a stream, stood the frame of a low, rounded lodge, where Strange Bear and his close companions usually conducted Inipi – the Rite of Purification. Above this place, clinging to a steep mountainside, hung a crooked dwarf pine tree, its branches laden with many pouches containing gifts to the All-Powerful Spirit of Life. Sometimes, a large white wolf would emerge from the bushes, its head lowered to the ground, and look expectantly at Strange Bear. The man would also gaze at it and not move. And so they would sit in silence, looking at each other. It seemed that the presence of one quite suited the other. Yet, neither relaxed; each was a predator and saw a predator in the other.

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