yore laigs; what we does tonight may decide who owns this continent. If we puts it over it’ll be a big gain for the Americans.”
“And what’ll the Indians get out of it?” he ast.
“Don’t change the subjeck,” I says. “I see they’ve stacked buffler hides out at the council circle for the chiefs and guests to get on—and by the way, you be dern sure you gives me a higher stack to get on than Sir Wilmot gits. When nobody ain’t lookin’, you hide this keg clost to where I’m to set. If I had to send to yore lodge to git it, it’d take time and look fishy, too.”
“Well,” he begun reluctantly, but I flourished a fist under his nose and said with passion: “Dang it, do like I says! One more blat outa you and I busts the truce and yore snoot simultaneous!”
So he spread his hands kinda helpless, and said something about all white men being crazy, and anyway he reckoned he’d lived as long as the Great Spirit aimed for him to. But I give no heed, because I have not got no patience with them Injun superstitions. I started out of his lodge and dang near fell over one of them French trappers which they called Ondrey; t’other’n was named Franswaw.
“What the hell you doin’ here?” I demanded, but he merely give me a nasty look and snuck off. I started for the lodge where the Crows was, and the next man I met was old Shingis. I dunno what his real name is, we always call him old Shingis; I think he’s a Iowa or something. He’s so old he’s done forgot where he was born, and so ornery he jest lives around with first one tribe and then another till they git tired of him and kick him out.
He ast for some tobaccer and I give him a pipe-full, and then he squinted his eye at me and said: “The Red-Coat did not have to bring a man from the Mississippi to talk with Waukontonka. They say Shingis is heyoka. They say he is a friend of the Unktehi, the Evil Spirits.”
Well, nobody never said that but him, but that’s the way Injuns brag on theirselves; so I told him everybody knowed he was wakan, and went on to the lodge where the Crows was. Spotted Hawk ast me if it was the Red-Coats had burnt Washington and I told him not to believe everything a Red-Coat told him. Then I said: “Where’s this Red-Coat’s presents?”
Spotted Hawk made a wry face because that was a p’int which stuck in his mind, too, but he said: “The boat upset and the river took the gifts meant for the chiefs.”
“Then that means that the Unktehi air mad at him,” I says. “His medicine’s weak. Will you foller a man which his medicine is weak?”
“We will listen to what he has to say in council,” says Spotted Hawk, kind of uncertain, because a Injun is scairt of having anything to do with a man whose medicine is weak.
It was gitting dark by this time, and when I come out of the lodge I met Sir Wilmot, and he says: “Trying to traduce the Crows, eh? I’ll have the pleasure of watching my Sioux friends roast you yet! Wait till Striped Thunder talks to them from the medicine lodge tonight.”
“He who laughs last is a stitch in time,” I replied with dignerty, so tickled inside about the way I was going to put it over him I was reconciled to not cutting his throat. I then went on, ignoring his loud, rude laughter. Jest wait! thunk I, jest wait! Brains always wins in the end.
I passed by the place where the buffler hides had been piled in a circle, in front of a small tipi made out of white buffler skins. Nobody come nigh that place till the powwow opened, because it was wakan, as the Sioux say, meaning magic. But all of a sudden I seen old Shingis scooting through the tipis clostest to the circle, making a arful face. He grabbed a water bucket made out of a buffler’s stummick, and drunk about a gallon, then he shook his fists and talked to hisself energetic. I said: “Is my red brother’s heart pained?”
“#%&*@!” says old Shingis. “There is a man of black heart in this village! Let him beware! Shingis is the friend of the Unktehi!”
Then he lit out like a man with a purpose, and I went on to Fat Bear’s lodge. He was squatting on his robes looking at hisself in a mirrer he stole from the Northwest Fur Company three seasons ago.
“What you doin’?” I ast, reching into the meat pot.
“Trying to imagine how I’ll look after I’m scalped,” says he. “For the last time, that keg—”
“Air you tryin’ to bring that subjeck up agen?” I says, rising in wrath; and jest then a brave come to the door to say that everybody was ready to go set in council.
“See?” whispers Fat Bear to me. “I’m not even boss in my own village when Spotted Hawk and Biting Horse are here! They give the orders!”
We went to the powwow circle, which they had to hold outside because they warn’t a lodge big enough to hold all of ’em. The Arikaras sot on one side, the Crows on the other and the Sioux on the other. I sot beside Fat Bear, and Sir Wilmot and his Socs and Frenchmen sot opposite us. The medicine man sot cross-legged, with a heavy wolf-robe over his shoulders—though it was hot enough to fry a aig, even after the sun had went down. But that’s the way a heyoka man does. If it’d been snowing, likely he’d of went naked. The women and chillern got up on top of the lodges to watch us, and I whispered and ast Fat Bear where the keg was. He said under the robes right behind me. He then started humming his death-song under his breath.
I begun feeling for it, but before I found it, Sir Wilmot riz and said: “I will not worry my red brothers with empty words! Let the Big Knives sing like mosquitos in the ears of the people! The Master of Life shall speak through the lips of Striped Thunder. As for me, I bring no words, but a present to make your hearts glad!”
And I’m a Choctaw if he didn’t rech down under a pile of robes and drag out Fat Bear’s keg! I like to keeled over and I hear Fat Bear grunt like he’d been kicked in the belly. I seen Ondrey leering at me, and I instantly knowed he’d overheard us talking and had stole it out from amongst the hides after Fat Bear put it there for me. The way the braves’ eyes glistened I knowed the Red-Coats had won, and I was licked.
Well, I war so knocked all of a heap, all I could think of was to out with my knife and git as many as I could before they got me. I aimed to git Sir Wilmot, anyway; they warn’t enough men in the world to keep me from gutting him before I died. A Bearfield on his last rampage is wuss’n a cornered painter. You remember great-uncle Esau Bearfield. When the Creeks finally downed him, they warn’t enough of ’em left alive in that war party to sculp him, and he was eighty-seven.
I reched for my knife, but jest then Sir Wilmot says: “Presently the milk of the Red-Coats will make the hearts of the warriors sing. But now is the time for the manifestations of the Great Spirit, whom the Sioux call Waukontonka, and other tribes other names, but he is the Master of Life for all. Let him speak through the lips of Striped Thunder.”
So I thought I’d wait till everybody was watching the medicine lodge before I made my break. Striped Thunder went into the lodge and closed the flap, and the Socs lit fires in front of it and started dancing back and forth in front of ’em singing:
“Oh, Master of Life, enter the white skin lodge!
Possess him who sits within!
Speak through his mouth!”
I ain’t going to mention what they throwed on the fires, but they smoked something fierce so you couldn’t even see the lodge, and the Socs dancing back and forth looked like black ghosts. Then all to wunst they sounded a yell inside the lodge and a commotion like men fighting. The Injuns looked
