Buffalo Medicine by Don Coldsmith Page B

sunlight, and dull metallic sounds emanated from the rider as he moved.
    With a thrill of excitement, Owl saw that the men on horses, and many of those on the ground, did indeed have fur upon their faces. One man, riding directly behind the leader, glanced up, and the astonished Owl saw that he greatly resembled his father. Certainly closely enough to have been a relative. Perhaps, Owl pondered, the Hairface could even be my uncle! He could hardly wait for the coming confrontation.
    How could he contrive to present the most impressive scene? His mind raced ahead. He remembered well the techniques of White Buffalo, and how the old medicine man could milk the last drop of drama out of a situation.
    Owl had only a moment to plan his scene, however, The last of the procession passed below, and their captors motioned the prisoners to descend the ladder to the ground. They were shoved roughly forward in the direction the Hairfaces had taken.
    The horsemen had dismounted and were facing an open area, awaiting the approaching file of prisoners. The captives were led forward, and by sign language, one of the Mud Lodge people indicated that they were to kneel. The men on either side dropped woodenly to their knees. Now, thought Owl, now is the time. He drew himself to the full height of his young manhood, and addressed the leader of the group, using hand signs.

    â€œI am Owl,” he began, “son of Heads Off, chief of the Elk-dog band of the People. My father is a Hairface, of your tribe! I am of your people!”
    All eyes were on him, astonished at his revelation. Owl stood, smiling and expectant, waiting for the welcoming answer from the Hairface leader. He was still smiling when the whip struck across his bare shoulders, each of the metal-tipped lashes raking a thin strip of skin. Owl screamed, and dropped writhing to the ground, still crying out in pain. The Hairface leader smiled thinly.
    Three more times the whip hissed through the air, the burning cut of the multiple lashes searching, wrapping, stripping skin. Finally the punishment stopped, and there was silence for a moment, broken only by the delirious giggle of the demented Old Man.
    A couple of the Hairfaces moved among the prisoners, tying them together by means of a rope knotted around each left ankle. Their leader stalked over to his horse and stepped nimbly up. He reined the animal around, then turned and spoke to the man with the whip.
    â€œBring them along,” he said casually. He pointed with his quirt at the prostrate figure on the ground. “If the half-breed bastard makes trouble, give him another taste of the cat!”
    The tongue of the Hairfaces was completely foreign to Owl, but the meaning was clear. He glanced over at the man with the whip, intending to remember his appearance for future use. The stern glare he encountered made him drop his eyes again as he painfully rose with the others and shuffled after the riders.
    So these were men of his father’s tribe. No wonder he had left them to join the People.

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    During his previous captivity, Owl had attempted to adjust to the circumstances. Now his predicament was not to adjust, but to survive. Any slight deviation from the expected brought an instant shouted curse and a stroke of the whip.
    This instrument was several paces in length, and it became apparent that it could be used with great accuracy. For some reason which was obscure at first, it was called “ el gato ” in the language of the Hairfaces. It was learned that this phrase meant “the cat,” and the meaning became more apparent. A prisoner subjected to a stroke of the whip would exhibit a series of deep parallel cuts in the skin which resembled the claw marks of a giant cat.
    It did not take Owl long to recognize the origin of the odd crisscross scars on the back of the Old Man.
    The overseers ordinarily carried the whip coiled in the right hand, looking for all the world like a braided rope or
a great