Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
Mahkwiyi Istikiop, or Wolf Creek
Montana Territory
Spring, 1850
Twelve-year-old Red Hawk awoke to the darkness of a new dawn.
After reaching out from his sleeping robes, he pulled up the edge of the tepee’s bottom, and with a quick motion, glanced outside.
As expected, the early hours were painted black, the only color discernible in a misty gray haze that hung over every organic and inorganic thing.
The air was still, dull and uninviting, seeming to urge one to slither back into bed.
But Red Hawk fought the impulse. There were chores to be done, responsibilities that were his alone to do.
He crawled out from under the tepee’s entrance flap and stood. The fog was heavy this day, lingering, as though it refused to give way to a new day. Striding forward into that mist, Red Hawk cut a glance upward.
It was eerie, but such things worried him not. In truth, days like this lifted his spirits. He breathed in deeply.
The dewy air felt refreshing, not gloomy, and he relished its wet touch on his lungs.
This was his favorite time of day, when life was awakening, when his heart was fresh and pure, when he was attuned to his environment.
It was also a time that allowed him to be alone, and he savored each instant…
for it was in the leisure of morning that he could dream, wish, hope and plan for a better day.
Aa, that things could be different, thought Red Hawk, for today was a special day. Not for him, never was it so for him. Instead, it was a time for the glory seekers, and perhaps for the old men and women too.
To be sure, this was the occasion when the elders would choose the defenders for their people. It would be now when another few boys would be selected from the last of the tribal bands. They would go out into the world to seek their duty to their clan.
If only he could be one of those boys picked. Haiya, the battles he would wage, the honor he would bring to his clan, which was the Yellow Shawl Band of his tribe.
“And why not me?” he uttered to no one in particular. “Why cannot I be the chosen one?”
Imagine, there he would be, venturing forth into a new world. Picking up a stick, he pretended it was his bow, and with several imaginary arrows, he staged a mock battle. Quickly, he shot arrow after arrow, each lodging into the Thunderer’s heart.
“I will seek you out, you terrible, murderous Thunder Being,” he mumbled. “We will engage in furious battle. A strike here, there a plunge with my spear, and out will pour your cold-hearted blood. And then there will be one less evil in the world.”
No doubt, the people would consider him a hero, as well.
His name would be revered by the women and children, and spoken of in adoration.
Songs would be sung to him in camp, praises sent up to the Creator.
And lastly, but most importantly, Red Hawk would discharge an obligation he held, a duty to his parents.
“One bad deed for another,” grumbled Red Hawk. “And who better to do it than I? Is it not because of you, Thunderer, that my life is in ruin? Is it not because of you that I have no parents? Is it not you, Thunderer, who is the cause of the women in camp calling me ‘Poor Orphan,’ a name I despise?”
Red Hawk thrust out his chest with pride and squared back his shoulders. “I will have my day with you, Thunderer. Be not deceived.”
The feeling of having accomplished great deeds was as fleeting as a scattered rain cloud across a desert sun, and Red Hawk slumped forward.
Alas, there was little chance of his dreams becoming a reality.
For, though Red Hawk, more than anyone else, might merit the right of revenge, it would never be.
Was he not an outsider here? Was it not true that by blood he didn’t even belong to this clan, let alone to any particular band in the tribe? All those years ago, it had simply been his parents’ bad luck to be visiting the Clan at the time when the people had made battle with the Thunderer.
His mother and father had been part of those killed in the Thunderer’s first sweep across the camp, leaving Red Hawk alone. His fate might have been dubious indeed, for Red Hawk had been practically a newborn, with great need of a mother.
As chance would have it, an old man had taken Red Hawk in, had found a means to engage a wet-nurse, and the boy had been raised by the man he now called Grandfather. True, Grandfather had adopted Red Hawk officially into this tribe, but this was not the same as being born to it.
Red Hawk knew the difference.
Impatiently, Red Hawk kicked out at a rock at his feet, his face alive with fury. He hated the Thunderer, hated him for all he had done, for all he did now. Make no mistake, given the chance, Red Hawk would kill the deity.
But enough. For now he would control his impulses, as Grandfather had so painstakingly taught him to do. He would channel his anger, take it out on his chores, as soon as his morning bath was finished.
Pretending now that the stick he carried was a spear, he swished it out in front of him, cutting through the air with it, imagining the Thunderer on the receiving end of his blow.
“Take that,” he said, while quietly jabbing the stick into nothing.
Serious now, Red Hawk skirted forward, one jump after another, his stance challenging, stick raised.
As he did so, he lifted his face and arms upward, and he swore, “I will best you, Thunderer. I promise. Be I champion or not, I will best you.”
But there was no answer in the sky, not even a rumble to validate the hopes of the youth.
At last Red Hawk lowered his arms. “I am tired of being called the orphan, the homeless boy, the poor boy,” he muttered to himself.
Raising his face toward the heavens, he said, “My name is Red Hawk. Remember it, Thunder Being. Red, for the color of war, for the blood shed by my parents. Hawk, for his power, his magnificence, and for his sharp eye. It is a good name, a family name. It is my name, not Poor Orphan.”
When no one rose to challenge him, Red Hawk assumed he was still alone, and he continued, “My father was a heroic man, a good man who died defending a people who were not even his own. Red Hawk was his name. Before he died, my father bestowed the name on me. And I accept it. Someday,” he uttered, looking over his shoulder, “everyone in this camp will sing praises to that name.”
Red Hawk made another pass with the stick, only to throw it down in disgust. What was he doing playing a child’s game? He was twelve winters in age, almost a man. He had best start acting like one. Pushing aside his emotions, Red Hawk took a step forward along his path to the river.
“Grandson.” A heavy hand fell to Red Hawk’s shoulder. Red Hawk jerked his chin up and turned to stare behind him. There stood his grandfather, the man’s whitened hair held in two braids at each side of his weathered face.
“Yes, Grandfather?” As was custom, and because he held the utmost respect for his elders, Red Hawk said no more, though he longed to know why his grandfather was up and about so early. Normally, his elder awoke with the rising of the sun, and that time was still far away.
“The council of the elders has already been held,” said Grandfather.
Red Hawk nodded. He knew what that meant, of course—champions had been chosen. His insides twisted. Yet Red Hawk pretended indifference. It had little to do with him.
Grandfather spoke. “It is important you learn what has been decided.”
Why? thought Red Hawk. Why should he desire to participate in some other boy’s glory? Wasn’t it enough that most of the other boys in camp chided him? Why should he celebrate their victory?
Still, he could not bring himself to put these questions to his grandfather. To do so would be the height of dishonor, since it would show disrespect to a man who had given Red Hawk nothing but love.
So the boy let Grandfather lead him to White Claw, the Clan’s wisest of men. After throwing back the flap of White Claw’s lodge, Red Hawk’s grandfather stepped into the tepee’s quiet interior, and Red Hawk followed.
White Claw was seated against his backrest, which was made of willow branches.
He looked perceptive, yet worried. Suspended from a tripod close to hand was White Claw’s medicine bundle as well as his quiver, decorated blue and white with porcupine quills.
Arrows, meticulously fashioned to be straight, filled that quiver.
A lining, painted red and yellow, skirted the entire circumference of the tepee. In the center of the lodge was the ever-present fire, though its embers at this early hour were low.
Once seated, Red Hawk covertly gazed around him, taking in those assembled here. Though no boy’s countenance showed the results of what had occurred only moments ago, it was plain that a council decision had already been made. Why was he here?
The boys from Red Hawk’s tribal band were Talks-straight and Shows-the-enemy. Both were seated near places of honor. Neither spared Red Hawk a glance.
Also present in the council was a boy, Runs-with-his-horse, from the Black Fire Band of the tribe. That one looked proud, distinguished. Not so Talks-straight or Shows-the-enemy.
At last White Claw picked up his great pipe, filling it with the sacred tobacco, a combination of not only ordinary tobacco, but also the inner bark of the red willow. He took a puff then passed the pipe to Red Hawk.
As soon as Red Hawk had smoked and delivered the pipe back to its owner, White Claw spoke. “You, Poor Orphan, have been chosen as champion for the Yellow Shawl Band.”
For the beat of a moment, Red Hawk forgot to breathe. He? Was this possible?
Though this news both shocked and excited him, as was the way of most American Indians, Red Hawk kept his emotions as carefully hidden as possible.