wrestled him once and got thrown, over and over. Strikes Foot couldn’t run fast on that hoof in a straight line, but he was quick as a prairie dog on it. And he got his name, Skinhead said, from learning how to kick the hoof into enemies’ chests. Skinhead said Strikes Foot was a good friend and a bad enemy. For Skinhead, that was the highest of compliments.
They ate. And ate. Jerked meat, first. Then cakes of cornmeal—Strikes Foot had been trading down at Fort Union. And at last boiled pup. Mac thought again that food was the greatest pleasure of life.
After eating, they lounged in the tipi with the lodge skirts up, the evening breeze making the July heat tolerable. Strikes Foot told about the trip to Fort Union in the moon when the ponies shed their coats, and leaving Annemarie and Lame Deer with her family for the summer. He said nothing about having taken a third wife—its significance was evident. Strikes Foot was a prosperous and respected Cheyenne.
Yellow Bird sat by her blankets, head down, working with her awl, like a proper woman. Calling Eagle, the sits-beside-him wife, joined in the talk just like a man, commenting, giggling, putting in every two-cents’ worth she had. She was the only Indian woman Mac had ever seen act like that. He watched her on the sly, trying again to get a feel for her oddness. She carried on as heartily as any man. Yet her gestures were soft, delicate, feminine until they were nearly a mockery of the female. And she gazed at Strikes Foot so meltingly it was embarrassing.
Skinhead told about their spring trapping season—“misuble”—and the trip to Fort Mackenzie. “Hear what happened at Mackenzie?” he asked Strikes Foot.
The warrior spoke two Cheyenne names that meant Francis Chardon and Alexander Harvey. The word was that they killed several Blackfeet near the fort, Strikes Foot said, killings that made no sense. Then they headed out for Fort Union as fast as they could, with all the crew and trade goods. They knew the Blackfeet would take hair for hair. Instead the Indians had to settle for burning the place down.
Mac thought he was hearing satisfaction in Strikes Foot’s voice.
“Guess the Blackfeet will trade at Fort Macleod now,” said Skinhead. Strikes Foot didn’t know.
Fort Macleod—Canada. The British, and their damned Hudson’s Bay Company. Mac had other ideas where the Blackfeet could take their trade, ideas he was keeping to himself.
When Skinhead started in on how Magpie robbed them, Mac got some bear grease from Calling Eagle in a cup, excused himself, and went outside. He headed across the village toward Porcupine Creek. He wanted to be alone, to think, to smoke his pipe. This was his need, his craving, to be alone for a while each day and be still. And he needed to think what to say to Strikes Foot about Annemarie.
2
Mac kept telling himself he was unduly nervous about getting Annemarie for a wife. The girl was interested in him, maybe even infatuated—she had flirted with him, bold behavior among the Cheyenne.
He took his feet out of the little eddy and checked them over. Four hundred miles of walking had taken their toll. Now that the blood was gone, he saw they were terribly chafed and cracked. He’d pushed them hard the last couple of days to get to the village—he hadn’t thought the feet had more than two days of travel in them without a long rest.
He spread the bear grease thick on them and rubbed it in. That would help. He massaged what was left into his face. In the mountains he always treated his fair Scots skin with fat as a precaution—until now he had never known how essential it was. The grease felt wonderful. He imagined Annemarie’s fingers massaging it in. And imagined his hands on Annemarie. He’d been fantasizing about finding out how far her flirting would go. Cheyenne mothers encased their teenage daughters in hide chastity belts. But hide did cut.
Still, Mac knew his fantasizing was idle. You didn’t ruin your
They ate. And ate. Jerked meat, first. Then cakes of cornmeal—Strikes Foot had been trading down at Fort Union. And at last boiled pup. Mac thought again that food was the greatest pleasure of life.
After eating, they lounged in the tipi with the lodge skirts up, the evening breeze making the July heat tolerable. Strikes Foot told about the trip to Fort Union in the moon when the ponies shed their coats, and leaving Annemarie and Lame Deer with her family for the summer. He said nothing about having taken a third wife—its significance was evident. Strikes Foot was a prosperous and respected Cheyenne.
Yellow Bird sat by her blankets, head down, working with her awl, like a proper woman. Calling Eagle, the sits-beside-him wife, joined in the talk just like a man, commenting, giggling, putting in every two-cents’ worth she had. She was the only Indian woman Mac had ever seen act like that. He watched her on the sly, trying again to get a feel for her oddness. She carried on as heartily as any man. Yet her gestures were soft, delicate, feminine until they were nearly a mockery of the female. And she gazed at Strikes Foot so meltingly it was embarrassing.
Skinhead told about their spring trapping season—“misuble”—and the trip to Fort Mackenzie. “Hear what happened at Mackenzie?” he asked Strikes Foot.
The warrior spoke two Cheyenne names that meant Francis Chardon and Alexander Harvey. The word was that they killed several Blackfeet near the fort, Strikes Foot said, killings that made no sense. Then they headed out for Fort Union as fast as they could, with all the crew and trade goods. They knew the Blackfeet would take hair for hair. Instead the Indians had to settle for burning the place down.
Mac thought he was hearing satisfaction in Strikes Foot’s voice.
“Guess the Blackfeet will trade at Fort Macleod now,” said Skinhead. Strikes Foot didn’t know.
Fort Macleod—Canada. The British, and their damned Hudson’s Bay Company. Mac had other ideas where the Blackfeet could take their trade, ideas he was keeping to himself.
When Skinhead started in on how Magpie robbed them, Mac got some bear grease from Calling Eagle in a cup, excused himself, and went outside. He headed across the village toward Porcupine Creek. He wanted to be alone, to think, to smoke his pipe. This was his need, his craving, to be alone for a while each day and be still. And he needed to think what to say to Strikes Foot about Annemarie.
2
Mac kept telling himself he was unduly nervous about getting Annemarie for a wife. The girl was interested in him, maybe even infatuated—she had flirted with him, bold behavior among the Cheyenne.
He took his feet out of the little eddy and checked them over. Four hundred miles of walking had taken their toll. Now that the blood was gone, he saw they were terribly chafed and cracked. He’d pushed them hard the last couple of days to get to the village—he hadn’t thought the feet had more than two days of travel in them without a long rest.
He spread the bear grease thick on them and rubbed it in. That would help. He massaged what was left into his face. In the mountains he always treated his fair Scots skin with fat as a precaution—until now he had never known how essential it was. The grease felt wonderful. He imagined Annemarie’s fingers massaging it in. And imagined his hands on Annemarie. He’d been fantasizing about finding out how far her flirting would go. Cheyenne mothers encased their teenage daughters in hide chastity belts. But hide did cut.
Still, Mac knew his fantasizing was idle. You didn’t ruin your
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