The Way. Story of Crazy Bear

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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