Buffalo Medicine by Don Coldsmith Page A

aside for his pacing.
    At first none would communicate at all. Finally the old man, who had first answered the hand signs, condescended to at least acknowledge Owl’s queries. This, however, was not much better than nothing. He soon realized that the man was deranged. The evil spirit in him would sometimes make him giggle senselessly, though at other times he seemed almost rational.
    It was during one of the more sensible periods that Owl managed to communicate at some length with him. The Old Man, as Owl thought of him, was apparently not so old, though his hair was white. He had no idea how long he had been a prisoner. Had he ever tried escape? Of course, at first.
    Owl could not understand the man’s attempts to tell him his tribe. It was one unfamiliar to the People.
    Owl was puzzled. Surely the man’s entire captivity had not been spent in this lodge. Efforts for further information on this point were fruitless, answered only by a vague hand gesture toward the southwest. Another puzzling circumstance bothered him even more. For what purpose would one hold another person in captivity? He attempted to question the Old Man.
    â€œWhat will be done with us next?” he signed.
    â€œThey will sell us,” came the quick answer, “to the Hairfaces.”
    A look of apprehension crept over the sallow face, and the man began to jabber quietly. The spirit was bothering him again, Owl saw, and ceased his questioning. The other wandered over against the wall, sank to a recumbent position, and curled up like a child, whimpering softly to himself.

    Owl was touched by the pitiable sight, but also had much to think about. “The Hairfaces!” What could be meant by that? The only man he had ever seen with fur upon his face was his father. Could it be possible that the people of whom the Old Man spoke with such dread were the tribe of Owl’s father? If so, he would undoubtedly be welcomed when he identified himself. He settled back against his own section of the wall, almost elated. This could be the solution to all his problems, to find his father’s people.
    Still, gnawing at the back of his mind, was the memory of the Old Man’s inordinate dread of these people. And what, he wondered uneasily, had turned his hair prematurely white?
    Owl’s natural optimism won out, and he decided that his own case was considerably different from that of the Old Man. Adding to his anticipation was another sign of good medicine. As the twilight deepened, he heard a coyote’s call from the far hilltop.
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    By the time of the arrival of the Hairfaces, Owl had managed to convince himself that this was to be an event of extreme good fortune. It was with actual anticipation that he climbed the ladder with the other prisoners and stood blinking in the unfamiliar sunlight.
    A glance toward the camp site near the creek showed him that the Head Splitters had long since departed. He felt a pang of loneliness. The tribe of his captors had been the last vestige of contact with his own people of the plains.
    The slight twinge of regret was immediately overshadowed by interest in that which was new. Below him in the path between the lodges were several men on horses, moving at a leisurely pace toward the center of the village.
    The man who appeared to be their leader sat on a magnificent black stallion. He wore strange bright-colored garments and headgear, and a medicine shirt that Owl
suddenly realized was exactly like one he had seen before. Over his parent’s sleeping robes in the lodge far away hung an unused chain-mail shirt. Owl had grown up knowing only that it represented a part of his father’s past heritage. It was considered strong medicine among the People, but Owl had never seen it worn.
    The man on the black stallion rode past the lodge, and Owl, looking down directly on him, saw that this shirt was indeed like his father’s. The slender curling strands shone glittering in the