Author’s Notes:
Never was there a greater transformation than that of Newt becoming Call. This is a story that was almost never written. Indeed, the aftermath of Hannah's death is a very hard place for me to visit, and I avoided it for as long as I could. Following Call during this period feels like an intrusion. As Call himself said, “A man's pain is a personal thing.” I’m glad he finally agreed to let me tell his story.
OBLIVION
“The best thing you can do with death is ride on from it.”
Woodrow Call in Lonesome Dove: On The Trail
~~~
The man staggered and fell, grunting more from exhaustion than pain. He didn't remember falling from his horse. The relentless wind screamed in ferocity, and he knew that if he didn't keep moving, the cold would consume him.
Grabbing the mare's reins, he tried to pull himself up, but his strength was gone. His hands, numb with the cold, lost their grip and he lay back panting. Glancing down, he cursed the spreading stain in the snow. He closed his eyes and once again was overcome by the screams, the scorched smell in his nostrils, the hands that restrained him, and the face of his enemy.
He rested till his breathing slowed. He felt it all begin to ebb. Why not just let go? Forget about the pain, the agony that tore at his breast, making it hard to breathe, choking him in its intensity.
It was warmer now. His eyelids felt so heavy. Peace enveloped him as consciousness slipped away.
As the blizzard intensified, the mare stood her ground, tail to the howling wind, the man at her feet slowly disappearing in the deepening drifts.
As the storm passed, the wind fractured the clouds, allowing streams of watery sunlight to filter down.
A young Lakota woman emerged from the trees, leading a paint horse by a rope bridle. She went from tree well to tree well, breaking off dead lower branches and piling them on the travois behind her horse.
She would have missed the mare if she hadn't seen her move--the horse was almost the color of the snow. Approaching her cautiously, she picked up the reins.
Then she saw something else, something dark under the snow.
Dropping to her knees, she began to dig, hesitantly at first and then with increasing urgency, until she found an arm and then a face, a man's face, nearly blue with cold. Frantically, she scooped the snow away. She put her ear to his chest. He was still alive.
Quickly, she fetched the paint. Dumping the firewood, she struggled with the man's dead weight until she managed to drag him onto the travois. Her camp was nearby, and she mounted up and urged her horse through the snow, turning frequently to make sure the man did not roll off the makeshift conveyance. The mare followed them unbidden.
Outside her tipi, the woman dismounted. She motioned for help, and two young boys helped her carry the still-unconscious man inside and lay him on a pile of robes near the fire. They stood looking down at his still, fair features until she nodded towards the door flap; then they quietly withdrew.
The woman knew that it was of utmost importance to warm him quickly, and she peeled off his wet clothing and tried to rub some warmth back into his frozen limbs. She unwrapped the sodden leg bandage. The cold had staunched the bleeding, but she knew it would worsen as his body temperature rose.
She left him momentarily, returning with a handful of dried herbs. Gently, she pressed them into the wound and wrapped a thin strip of rawhide around his leg. Then she removed her own clothing and lay down next to him, pulling a buffalo robe over them both.
As night fell around them, she pressed close to the man in his restless sleep.
Something tugged at Newt's mind -- a sense of urgency -- a need to be somewhere. But where? A voice called to him. Why couldn't they leave him alone and let him sleep? He was so tired. So tired. He dreamed he was floating in a deep river, struggling to keep his head above water. He was suffocating, and it was so dark. He thrashed about, gasping. It was all the woman could do to keep him covered through the long, cold night.
In the morning the woman rose and dressed herself. The man was no longer cold. Now he burned with fever, and she bathed his brow with melted snow.
Newt tried to push back the fog that filled his mind. Voices came from far away, echoing loudly, then fading away. He willed his eyes to open. The lodge was cool and dim and he saw a man, wrinkled and full of years, crouching over the fire. He wore the head and pelt of an animal over his head and shoulders. The creature's eye sockets were sunken, its teeth bared in the grimace of death.
Newt saw the old man toss something on the flames, and they flared briefly as the smoke spiraled upward and hung in blue, hazy layers near the hole at the top of the tipi. He lit some dried weeds in the fire and then waved the smoke over Newt. He shook a rattle and spoke in a sing song voice, unintelligible words that Newt could not understand.
But his was not the only voice he heard. There were angry voices too. There were other movements, other shadows that came and went. But Newt could make sense of none of it. His head throbbed, and he closed his eyes and slept.
For two days the woman tended him. bathing his leg and changing the dressing on his wound. When he stirred, she supported his head and poured water between his parched lips. From time to time he would open his eyes, and she pondered their color -- like the sky. She tried to speak to him during these times, but he only stared past her, unseeing. “Hannah! Hannah!” he called out over and over as he tried to rise. With great effort, she restrained him, for she knew that he was not right in his mind.
Early on the third day his fever left him; his brow was cool to her touch. And only then Blue Water knew that he would live.
~~
Newt awoke with a start. Where was he? He looked wildly about, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. A slight movement caught his eye. A woman with long, dark hair was squatting a short distance away. Who was she? He stared dumbly at her as she placed some wood on the fire. He heard the snap of the flames and smelled the smoke from it.
Smoke. The stench of it caught in his nostrils, sickening him. The memory came crashing back. He gasped. Hannah! No! It had to be a dream. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be! He sat up suddenly, flinging off the buffalo robe. He had to get to her. He had to save her. Maybe it wasn't too late.
Blue Water stood up, regarding him with large eyes as he snatched up his trousers and tried to struggle into them. The pain and stiffness in his wounded leg stopped him, and like a knife in his chest came the realization that it was already too late. She was gone. Truly, irretrievably gone. “No, Hannah, no,” he moaned. He hid his face in his hands as dry sobs wracked him.
Blue Water came to him, placing a cool hand on his forehead, but he flung her arm away.
“Don't touch me! Leave me alone. Why'd you have to bring me here? You should have left me out there to die.”
It would have been so much easier to die. Why should he keep breathing when Hannah wasn't? How could he be a part of a world without her in it? How could he ever go on without her? Why would he want to?
The young Indian woman stood over him for a few moments and then returned to her work. She placed some dried roots in a shallow bowl and picking up a smooth stone, ground them with quick, deft strokes. She mixed a handful of fat into the coarse meal, then emptied it into a pot suspended over the fire.
Rising to her feet, she turned to find him watching her. He seemed calmer now, but she kept her distance. She smiled shyly at him, then picked up a buffalo robe and threw it over her shoulders. She crawled through the door to the outside, dropping the flap shut behind her.
Newt sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Once more he surveyed his surroundings. He pushed the robe away and buttoned his pants. He put on his shirt, then reached for his boots, sweat beading his brow as he struggled to pull them on.
Fully dressed, he looked around for his weapons. He found his pistol still in the holster, and snapped it open checking for bullets. It was fully loaded. He strapped it on and was just reaching for his coat when Blue Water returned.
She shook her head at his appearance, and dropping the armload of firewood she was carrying, took him by the arm and led him back to his palette. “No. En-a-on. You stay. Wo-te. Eat.”
Newt didn't protest. He realized that he hadn't eaten in several days, and he felt very weak.
Blue Water removed her robe and shook away the snow. Newt watched her fill a bowl for him, and he took it from her hands and ate. He didn't know what it was, but it was hot and savory and good, and he scraped the bowl clean. After he had finished, he handed her the bowl and got to his feet once more. He cleared his throat. “Look, I'm sorry about before -- goin' off on you like that. It's just . . .” He shuddered, unable to find the words. “Anyways, I want to thank you for all you done -- my leg and all.” He reached for his coat. “But I gotta be on my way now, is all.”
Blue Water rose, taking his arm and shaking her head. “No. En-a-non.”
Newt pulled his arm away. “Like I was sayin', I'll be goin' now. Is my horse outside?” She nodded, and he stepped through the flap into the swirling snow.
Blue Water followed him out and stood, arms wrapped tightly across her chest, squinting into the biting wind as her hair whipped across her face.
Newt held his hand up in front of his eyes, struggling to see through the storm. It was a whiteout. He realized that he wouldn't be going anywhere; he couldn't see ten feet in front of him. Cursing, he turned and followed Blue Water back inside and helped her secure the door flap against the wind's fury.
Newt threw down his coat in disgust, pacing in the cramped confines of the tipi. He felt trapped and desperate to be on his way, even though he had no clear picture of where he had been headed before the storm. Aw hell, he might as well be honest with himself. The only place he'd been headed was away from Curtis Wells -- away from Josiah's heartbroken tears -- away from the blame in his eyes. He couldn't bear to see it, couldn't bear to be the cause of it. The enormity of it was more than he could bear. And so he'd run. And he was still running.
How long was he going to be trapped here? He glanced at the woman who had busied herself cleaning up the remnants of their meal. It wasn't fitting that he should stay with her, though she seemed perfectly content with the arrangement.
“Look, is there anyplace else I can stay, like a men's tipi?”
Blue Water looked up at him, uncomprehending.
How could he make her understand? “Where do the men sleep? I should go there. It's not right my stayin' here with you. You and I, we're strangers.”
Suddenly, he realized why she didn't understand. The woman had been caring for him all this time. She had dressed his wound, cleaned his clothes and his body. She had seen him naked! He flushed a deep crimson under her steady gaze. “Oh, my Lord.”
He walked away, then turned to face her once more. “Where am I, anyways?”
She looked up at him. “In the camp of my people.”
“Who're your people?”
“We are Lak-ho-ta.”
Newt was familiar with the small bands of Indians who wintered off the reservations, preferring to hunt game in their former territory, rather than starve on meager government rations. He'd seen only eight or ten tipis outside. He figured this might be a family group with women in each lodge. He knew he would have to remain where he was for the time being. Maybe he would be able to leave in another day or so.
The pain from his leg reminded him that he was far from sound, and wearily he dropped down on the buffalo robe. He watched the woman as she continued her work near the fire. “What's your name,” he asked her after a time.
“My people call me To Mni To. It means Blue Water.” She rose and came to him, kneeling beside him on the robe. “What do your people call you?”
“Newt.”
“Noo-oot, Noo-oot, “ she struggled to pronounce the unfamiliar sounds.
“Never mind. You can just call me Call,” he told her.
“Call,” she repeated easily. She touched his leg, and glancing down he saw that his pants were dark with blood. Blue Water left him and returned with a fresh poultice. She reached to unbutton his pants, but he brushed her fingers aside and undid them himself. He slipped them off, and Blue Water unwrapped his leg bandage. He winced when she pulled it free of the oozing wound.
“You feel much pain?”
“Nothin' I can't handle.”
.
“It was a bullet?”
His face darkened. “Yes.”
Blue Water left him briefly, returning with a bottle that she handed to him, and he uncorked it and took a tentative sniff of the contents. Cheap rye whiskey. The Indians must have traded for it. It wasn't much, but he was grateful for it, and he leaned back on one elbow and took a swig, watching Blue water as she finished dressing his wound. He took a few more deep pulls on the bottle, enjoying the warm, contented feeling that began to steal over him, melting away his pain.
Blue Water finished with his leg and went to put her medicines away, and Call lay back and closed his eyes.
Several hours later he awoke to flickering firelight and Blue Water asleep nearby. He lay listening to her steady breathing. She sighed softly in her dreams and rolled over on her palette, her hand brushing against his arm. He gazed at her peaceful face, her dark hair fanned out the way Hannah's used to in their bed, and his heart contracted in bitterness. It was so unfair -- they'd had so little time. And their last moments together had been filled with accusation and uncertainty.
He sighed. It was forever too late to change that now, to tell Hannah he forgave her, that what had happened between her and Mosby didn't matter. Call's jaw tightened in anger. He forgave Hannah, yes, but he'd be damned if he'd ever forgive that bastard, Mosby. When he would have run into the burning mercantile to save Hannah or die trying, Mosby had held him back. “Why?” he said under his breath. Why? So what if the man had been trying to save his life? He didn't thank him for it.
But even in his anger he realized that it wasn't all Mosby's fault.
No, one fact was agonizingly clear, and that fact tore him to pieces with its irrefutability. He was to blame. He was the one who had brought Tavish and his gang into Curtis Wells. Therefore, he was the one responsible for Hannah's death. And he would never forgive himself.
Call tossed and turned for what seemed like hours, his thoughts a turmoil of pain, recrimination and regret, calling him back to a past he could never reach.
At last he slept, but his mind was still troubled. He dreamed of wild horses in a restless, milling herd. In the center, Hannah's horse, Sunny, the little palomino mare they'd hoped would be the foundation of their own herd, pawed and stamped, seeking escape from the others. But they surrounded her in a dark whirl, the dust from their hooves rising in smoky clouds, obscuring her from his view. And when the air finally cleared, Sunny was gone.
~~
The blizzard raged through the next day and night as the fierce wind screamed about the tipi, threatening to tear it from its moorings. For Call, time passed in a blur of sleep and troubled dreams. He ate when Blue Water offered him food, but he had no real appetite, and afterwards he could not have said what he had eaten or how it tasted. He spoke little, lost in his own thoughts, as numbness gave way to overwhelming grief and a depression so deep that breathing in and breathing out was almost too much effort.
He had no future. Nothing ahead of him. No plans to make. Nowhere to go. He used the liquor Blue Water brought him more and more frequently, preferring the fuzzy edge of consciousness to cold, stark reality. He felt his old self slipping away, being replaced by someone he didn't recognize, and he was powerless to resist.
But Blue Water didn't mind his sullenness. She seemed glad of his company and went about the business of fashioning some new buckskin breeches to replace his torn trousers. When she was finished, she gave them to him and indicated that he should try them on. He was surprised at how warm and comfortable they were, and he hoped she knew how grateful he was.
On the second morning, Call awoke to silence. The blizzard was over. He had risen and dressed himself by the time Blue Water came in through the door flap. Call watched her set about preparing their breakfast. She didn't speak or look at him as she set a pot on the fire and stirred it thoughtfully.
“Is somethin' the matter?”
Blue Water glanced up at him. “My brother does not want you here.”
“Why not?”
“White men bring trouble. He says you must go.”
Blue Water left the fire and came to stand before him, taking his hand in hers. “I do not want you to go.”
“Your brother's right. I've been here too long already.” Call pulled his hand away. “Look. I've been meaning to ask you. Why are you livin' here like this? Why are you alone? You should have a man. Maybe some children.”
Blue Water's eyes were sad as she slowly turned and went to her pallet. She squatted on it, hugging her knees as she rocked back and forth.
“Dead,” she said quietly.
Call's face registered his surprise. “Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I mean, I didn't realized you’d been . . .” He cast about in confusion for something to say. He went to her robes and sat beside her.
Blue Water continued to rock, her eyes troubled and distant.
“Was he a good man, your husband?”
She nodded, meeting his gaze at last. “His name was Proud Eagle.”
Call waited for her to continue, and after a time she did.
“It was in the Moon of the Falling Leaves when the soldiers came to the reservation. They said Proud Eagle stole horses from some white men. Proud Eagle told them did not steal them, but they would not listen. They took him away, and they put him in their white man's jail. One day they came back to the reservation. They brought a dead man tied on the back of a horse. They cut the ropes that held him, and he fell to the ground. It was Proud Eagle. They said he tried to escape from the jail, and they shot him.”
Call had heard many such stories. “I'm sorry.”
Blue Water continued, “Tama, my brother, he loved Proud Eagle. They were like brothers. Tama says he will kill the white soldiers for what they did to Proud Eagle.”
Call cleared his throat. “I guess I don't blame him.”
“Tama says that when one white man comes, many will follow. He hates all whites. Tama says he wants to kill you.”
Call turned away from her searching gaze. “I'll save him the trouble. You can tell your brother I'll be leaving today.”
Crawling out through the flap, Call was confronted by a world dazzling in its whiteness. In the storm's aftermath, the sun reflected on the new snow, nearly blinding him after days confined in the dim interior of the tipi.
Stands of winter-barren cottonwood lined the river that flowed past the Indian camp, and Call made his way carefully down the icy bank, holding onto brush and low branches to keep from falling. He stood quietly, filling his lungs with the cold, pure air as he looked out over the glistening water. A raven called noisily from the far bank, and smaller birds twittered in the bushes.
Call turned his face to the warmth of the sun. Closing his eyes, he let the song of the river birds and the sweet murmur of moving water minister to him for a time. But the relief it afforded was short-lived. The beauty of his surroundings faded away as the blackened ruins of his past reared up in all their ugliness, threatening to suck him down into despair darker than the deep water before him.
He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, knowing he could never wipe away that one moment -- the moment when his whole world had exploded. With it had gone every dream he had ever had. He sighed deeply as the oppressive weight settled on him once more. He'd best get the Hell Bitch saddled and be on his way.
As he made his way back up the bank, he looked around for the little Kiowa mare. The tribe's small herd milled about not far from the camp, pawing in the snow for forage, but he saw no gray among them. His whistle brought no answering whinny, though two small faces peered out curiously at him from under the door flap of one of the nearer tipis, then giggling, disappeared back inside.
With increasing concern, Call headed towards the herd.
The ponies threw up their heads at his approach. They divided as he moved among them, snorting and watching him warily, and at the far side of the herd Call found what he was searching for. The Hell Bitch stood with her back to him. Call whistled, but she remained motionless with her head down.
“C'mon, girl, we best get a move on before we wear out our welcome around here.”
Call slid his hand along her back, then came to an abrupt halt when he saw the bloody snow at her feet. As he rounded her head, he was horrified to see the shaft of an arrow protruding from her chest. How long had she been like this? Anger surged through him. It wasn't hard to imagine who had done this. But retribution would come later. He would have to act quickly to save his horse. He was not going to let her die. She was all that he had left.
From out of nowhere Blue Water appeared beside him, her face mirroring the shock and outrage that Call felt.
“Your brother do this? First my horse. Then me. Is that it?”
Blue Water didn't answer as she watched Call snap off the end of the arrow and hurl it away from him. “The point of the arrow's lodged against bone; I can't push it through. I'll have to cut it out,” he told her. He motioned to her to help him and began hurriedly breaking off brush and dead weeds that showed above the snow.
He piled their sticks together and searched for more while Blue Water returned to camp. When she brought back a pot of hot coals, he cleared the snow from a small area with his boot, and she dumped the coals on the ground and piled the brush on top of them. After a moment, the smaller twigs caught and as the flames licked upward, Call removed his knife from its sheath and held it over them, turning it back and forth until it was heated through.
It was all Blue Water could do to hold the mare's head as Call made a deep cut and probed for the point of the arrow. He was able to draw it out at last, and he returned the knife blade to the fire “Easy, girl, easy,” he soothed the mare. The Hell Bitch rolled her eyes and snorted, then screamed in agony as Call cauterized the wound.
When it was all over, he quieted her as best he could, and at last the mare stopped trembling under his hands.
Call knew he'd have to move the horse into camp. In her weakened condition she'd be easy pickings for any wolf or cougar that happened along. “Come on, girl, that's it. Easy now. You can do it,” he soothed, pulling firmly on her rope. The mare grunted in pain as she tried to shift her weight, but at last they got her moving and made halting progress, stopping only when they neared Blue Water's tipi.
The Indian woman went inside, returning with a pot of dark colored salve that she proceeded to smear thickly on the horse's wound.
Call waited for her to finish before questioning her. “Where's your brother? Take me to him. I got a score to settle with him.”
When Blue Water hesitated, Call insisted. “I said, tell me where he is!”
Blue Water started to answer, but then fell silent again.
“Never mind. I'll find him myself.”
Call headed to the next tipi with Blue Water at his heels. He flung the hide covering from the door and poked his head inside. The two children who had giggled at him before stared back at him with wide eyes, while their mother scolded him in words he could not understand. He backed away, dropping the hide across the door once more.
Blue Water touched his arm, and he whirled to face her. “What's it going to be? Are you going to tell me where Tama is, or am I going to have to search every tipi until I find him?” He tuned away from her, and she followed him to the next tipi. It was empty.
At last Blue Water spoke. “Tama is in the lodge of my grandfather. Grandfather is waka -- holy. He brought you back when you were at the door to the spirit world. His medicine is great. You cannot enter his lodge.”
“Then Tama had better come outside.”
Blue Water led Call to a tipi set a bit apart from the others, well back from the riverbank. “I will ask Tama to come out.” She motioned for Call to wait and disappeared inside.
He could hear voices raised inside the tipi. He kicked furiously at the snow. It was all he could do to keep from dashing in after her and dragging Tama out.
At last Blue Water emerged. A young boy of ten or eleven years stuck his head through the flap and followed her out. He stood staring at Call.
“Is your brother afraid to come out here and face me like a man?” Call asked Blue Water angrily. “Where is he?”
Blue Water indicated the child beside her. “This is Tama.”
Call stared incredulously at the young Indian. “This is your brother? The one who wants to kill all white men? Why, he ain't even dry behind the ears yet.” He advanced on Tama. “You almost killed my horse.” He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him. “What were you thinkin'? My father would have skinned me alive for a stunt like that.”
The boy's eyes flicked briefly to the knife sheath on Call's belt, but otherwise he remained impassive, his arms folded across his chest.
Call released him roughly. “You need a damn good whippin'. If your father won't give you one, I'll be happy to oblige.”
Blue Water looked helplessly from Call to her brother as an older man emerged from the tipi.
“Hau.” He held up his hand in greeting to Call.
Call recognized the wizened face he had seen in Blue Water's tipi. The man still wore the animal skin draped over his head and shoulders. In the light of day Call recognized it as a wolf pelt.
“His father is dead,” the old man said. “The boy lives with me. He will be punished for what he has done.”
Call choked down his anger. “I better never catch him near my horse again, or there'll be hell to pay.”
The Indian holy man nodded. “You may take another horse from the herd and go.”
Call stared at him in disbelief. “I'm not leavin' without the mare. Looks like I'll be stayin' here till she's fit to travel.”
“It will be as you say.” The old man turned and reentered his lodge, Tama following closely on his heels.
Call stood rooted to the spot, staring at the tipi. Finally, he turned and stalked away. Blue Water followed him.
They had only gone a few paces when the child's voice rang out. “Wa-si-cu i-yi-ya! Wa-si-cu! I-yi-ya!”
Call spun on his heel.
Tama was standing outside the tipi.
“What did he say?” Call asked Blue Water furiously.
Blue Water hesitated before answering him. “He said, “White man go. You do not belong here.”
Call started back to where the boy stood, but Blue Water placed her hand on his shoulder, and he stopped. Tama had disappeared inside the tipi once more.
“I should have wailed the tar outta him. I still might. It's not too late.”
Blue Water shook her head. “It is not up to you. His punishment will be up to my grandfather.”
“I catch him anywheres near my horse again, and his punishment will be up to me.” And with that, Call headed back to the Hell Bitch, to do anything he could to make her more comfortable through the long night ahead.
Call spent a restless night, rising every hour or so to check on his mare. It was bitter cold, and he had heard wolves howling somewhere close to camp. When dawn's chill light slipped quietly into the valley at last, he drifted into an uneasy sleep. He awoke shortly after sunrise to voices outside the tipi, and he rose and went outside. What he saw astonished him.
“Hey! Get away from there! I thought I told you not to touch that horse!”
Tama backed away from the Hell Bitch.
Call turned on Blue Water. “What's he doin' here? How could you let him near her after what he did?”
He grabbed his mare's rope, soothing her as he checked her over.
Blue Water spoke at last. “He is doing what Grandfather told him.”
Call glanced at the youth and noticed that he was holding some strips of cottonwood bark.
“What do you mean? I thought I made it clear . . .”
“To care for the horse is his punishment. It is what Grandfather has decided.”
“I don't want him near her; you understand? I'll take care of her myself.”
Tama approached cautiously, holding out the feed to the Hell Bitch, who snorted softly against his hand and then accepted the bark. She chewed contentedly, the strip dangling out the side of her mouth while Tama stroked her neck and shoulder. He didn't look at Call.
“Well, I'll be damned. She don't know no better than to like you.” Call watched the youth feeding the horse, secretly rejoicing that she was eating.
“He is good with horses,” Blue Water said. “He had anger for you, not the horse. And it is Grandfather's wish that he care for her. While you are here, you must do as he says.”
As he stood watching the boy, Call noticed that one of the youth’s arms dangled uselessly at his side as he deftly fed and groomed the mare with the other hand. “What happened to him?” he questioned Blue Water.
Blue Water frowned. “When Tama was a baby, the soldiers came to our camp. They killed many of my people -- struck them down with their swords. They killed my mother. One of them tried to kill Tama. For many days we thought that Tama would die, but he did not. Tama is like a bird with a broken wing, but he is strong.”
Call remained for a while, watching the boy. Finally Blue Water touched his shoulder, and he turned reluctantly away. He would have to trust Blue Water and her grandfather for now.
~~
As the days passed, the routine of life in the village brought Call a small measure of peace. Blue Water’s people rose early and spent most of their time gathering and preparing food. Weather permitting, the men hunted while the women pounded dried camas root and chokecherries into a coarse meal, mixed it with grease, and baked cakes in the fire. The boys set fish traps in the river, checking them several times daily for trout. Call kept mostly to himself, hunting alone, trying his best to supplement the tribe's meager food supplies.
Tama’s resentment of Call lessened over time as they tended the Hell Bitch together. Occasionally he would turn to see the boy close by, watching him at his work. As long as he pretended not to notice him, Tama would stay. But if he smiled or spoke to him, the boy would beat a hasty retreat.
Call noticed that Tama also stood apart from the other boys, watching them work and play with the wistful expression that accompanied the knowledge that he was not really one of them. His deformity made it impossible for him to join in their activities.
One late afternoon when the daylight was almost spent, Tama stood outside his grandfather’s tipi, watching the other boys playing a game of stickball. Their excited shouts as they knocked the crude wad of rawhide along the icy ground drew him closer and closer until at last he could stand it no longer, and he picked up a stick and ran after the ball. But it seemed to Call that the others purposefully kept it just out of Tama’s reach. And time and again his uncoordinated swings missed their mark as the others laughed at him and pantomimed his awkward attempts. Call saw Tama’s determination waver until finally he threw down his stick in frustration.
Just then the ball, slammed by one of the larger boys, skittered out onto an ice shelf that had formed along the river’s edge and stopped just short of falling into the water. With groans of disappointment, the youths dropped their sticks and turned away.
Tama stood staring at the river for a moment. Then to Call’s alarm, he ran down to the water’s edge and stepped gingerly out onto the ice.
“Tama!” Blue Water dropped the pile of hides she was carrying and rushed down the bank. She scolded Tama to come back, but he was determined. He had dropped to his knees and was inching out onto the ice, stretching his good arm out for the rawhide ball. Other members of the tribe gathered along the bank, shouting and holding Blue Water back as she reached for him. Call pushed his way through to her just as the ice broke, and Tama disappeared into the dark water.
He knew there was no time to lose. As Tama bobbed to the surface, Call saw the panic in his eyes as he struggled against the current that was rapidly sweeping him downstream. He threw off his coat and plunged in after the boy, gasping as the paralyzing cold shot needles of pain into his very marrow. Tama had disappeared, and Call gulped as much air as his lungs could hold and dove beneath the surface. Underwater, he could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he cast about blindly, desperately hoping to locate Tama before it was too late. His lungs felt ready to burst as he forced his way to the top, but there was still no sign of the boy. With his strength nearly gone, Call dove once more, realizing that if he didn’t find Tama this time, he would have to abandon the search or die. Still nothing. Then through the murky depths, he thought he saw a dark shape near the shore, under the ice shelf that extended out from the bank. He swam towards it. It was Tama. The boy was already unconscious when Call heaved him up onto the bank and into the arms of his waiting relatives.
~~
Call woke in a blind panic. He fought his way out of the pile of robes that covered him. “Tama!”
Blue Water appeared beside him. “He is safe. Look.” She indicated another pallet of robes, and to Call’s relief, he saw the boy looking back at him. Slowly, Tama’s face broke into a grin. It was the first time Call had ever seen him smile.
~~
From that time on, Tama followed Call everywhere he went. Blue Water told him it was the way of the People to repay a life for a life. “He wants to save your life because you saved his.”
Most of the time Call didn’t mind as Tama shadowed him about the camp, but he drew the line when he went hunting. Each time Call made ready to leave, Tama was right there ready to go with him, and each time Call refused to take him. “Look, son, it’s too dangerous,” he would tell the boy. And Tama would cross his arms and stand glowering after him as he rode away. But Call noticed that he was always over his pout by the time he returned to camp, dancing around the horse and eager to help with the butchering.
Whitetail deer were abundant in the area, and once Call brought down a cow elk. The meat it provided was cause for great celebration in the village that night. The women roasted great hunks of it over open fires, and for once, everyone ate until they were full.
After the feasting, the celebration continued with songs and storytelling. Blue Water sat with some other young women near the fire, and Call found a seat further back. He turned his attention to the storyteller.
The fat, jolly-faced squaw soon had her appreciative audience screaming with laughter at her animated tale. At first Call tried to follow along, but his command of the Sioux language was sketchy, and at last he gave up and watched Blue Water instead as the young woman laughed and clapped her hands, obviously enjoying the story and the company of her friends. From time to time, she caught his gaze across the fire and smiled at him.
“My granddaughter is very beautiful.”
Call hadn't seen the old man smoking in the shadows. Blue Water had told him about Little Wolf. The venerated Sioux healer's medicine was very powerful. It was widely believed that he could cure not only the body, but the spirit sickness as well. Call flushed under his gaze, realizing that he had been staring at Blue Water.
“It is not good that she is alone.”
Call cleared his throat. “Why doesn't she take another husband?”
Little Wolf puffed his pipe silently for a time before answering. “Where would she find one?”
Call looked around at the men. Most of them were related to Blue Water in some way -- uncles and some younger cousins. It was true -- there was no one suitable here. “Surely, back on the reservation . . . ,” he began.
“There it is the same. Our young men do not come back from war with the white man. And many have died of his sicknesses.”
“Surely there are some . . .”
Little Wolf’s expression softened. “My granddaughter is not easy to please. She would not have those who asked for her.”
Call pondered this information as the squaw finished her tale. It was time for the music and dancing to begin. Out came skin drums, reed flutes, bone whistles, and rattles made from deer hooves. The people sang and danced to the familiar rhythms. Some songs were short, sung through once and not repeated, while others seemed to go on and on.
Call watched Blue Water as she danced, her lithe body moving to the beating drums, her blue-black hair tumbling loosely about her shoulders while her dark eyes shone in the firelight.
Little Wolf said no more, and Call glanced at the old man, wondering if he had fallen asleep, but his eyes were bright and alert, and Call had the feeling that nothing happened in the camp that the medicine man didn't know about.
As the evening wore on, Call watched the pale moon climb high in the sky and cast its rippling reflection in the river below the camp. As he gazed into the firelight, his thoughts took him far away to another night such as this one and a fire that burned with such intensity that he put his hands over his face, remembering. Hannah.
He did not know Blue Water was there until he felt her warm hand touch his cheek. Taking his arm, she pulled him to his feet and motioned for him to accompany her. They followed the river through cottonwoods ghostly in the moonlight. Blue Water didn’t speak, and when he tried to ask her where they were going, she only smiled mysteriously and pulled him along behind her. Ahead he saw clouds of steam where a hot springs entered the river. At the water’s edge Blue Water stopped, and with her back to him, she dropped her robe, pulled her dress over her head, kicked off her leggings, and waded in. She looked back over her shoulder, waiting for him to join her in the warm water.
Self-consciously, Call disrobed. He avoided her eyes as he stepped into the pool.
Blue Water came to him, her beautiful dark eyes searching his face. He reached out and touched her hair, her face, his hand trailing down her shoulder, her breast. He pulled her to him and they kissed, tentatively at first and then deeply. Call’s senses were full of her. He forgot where he was, who he was, everything except the willing woman in his arms. He lost himself in her. And their lovemaking was sweet.
Later, when they were alone in her tipi, Call reached for a lock of Blue Water's hair and twined his fingers in it. She smiled at him, and this time he smiled back.
“Your woman. She was a good woman?” she asked him.
Call dropped her hair and swallowed hard against the bitter pain that rose in his throat at the mere mention of Hannah. “Yes,” he said quietly, “She was a good woman.”
He turned away from her and lay down on his palette. He could scarcely imagine what Hannah would say if she could see him now. He was sure she would not recognize the man he had become. He wasn't sure he recognized himself.
He heard the sounds of Blue Water preparing for the night and then her gentle, rhythmic breathing. But it was many hours before sleep found him.
The next morning, Blue Water was not sure what had awakened her. She sensed Call's eyes upon her, and she turned to meet his clear blue gaze. He watched her silently for a few moments before he brought his mouth down to hers hungrily. They made love, and he clung to her, his savage need matching her own.
When it was over, a shadow passed over his face, and he rose abruptly, dressed, and went out.
She sat up when he had gone, thinking him over. He was so restless. She sensed that he would not stay with her.
Outside, Call saw Tama feeding the Hell Bitch. The mare was nosing interestedly at a large pile of bark and dried grass Tama had piled at her feet.
“Looks like she's gettin' her appetite back, Call said. “She gonna get away with all that?”
Tama nodded. He looked up at Call through thick, dark lashes, a knowing smile on his face. “Blue Water wants you for her husband.”
Call was taken aback. “How do you know that?”
Tama smiled. “I know.” He held a handful of grass out for the Hell Bitch, and she munched it contentedly.
Call glanced at the tipi. “You know more'n I do then.”
Tama shrugged.
“She tell you that?”
Tama shook his head.
“Now look here. Your sister's real nice and all, but I'm not lookin' for . . . I don't want no one. No one could ever . . . I just can't, is all. You have to understand that.”
Tama was looking at the tipi, and Call followed his gaze. Blue Water was standing at the flap. How much had she heard? How much did she understand?
Call stared at her for a moment and then kicked at the ground angrily as he stalked off. He stood at the river's edge, watching the slow, cold dawn mist rising from the river into the frosty trees. How had he allowed things to go this far? He didn't want to hurt the woman who had been so kind to him, but it could never be. They belonged in separate worlds. The longer he stayed, the more complicated things would become. He'd best be on his way. The Hell Bitch was ready, and it was turning out to be a beautiful morning. There was no time like the present.
Blue Water was not inside when Call returned to the tipi to fetch his things. He tucked some pemmican into his saddlebag. Whatever else he needed he figured he would find on the way.
Outside, he filled his canteen at the river's edge, expecting Blue Water to show at any moment. But he was relieved when she didn't appear. It was better this way. He really didn't know how to say goodbye. He didn't belong here; he didn't belong anywhere. He was just beginning to grasp that.
Hurriedly, he saddled the Hell Bitch. She seemed impatient to go after her long confinement. Call mounted up, more eager than she to be on his way.
As he rode away from the camp, he saw Tama following him, running and calling. But Call could not understand his words. He concentrated on the sounds of the Hell Bitch’s hoof beats and the wind rushing past his ears. Distance was all that mattered. It didn’t pay to get too close to anyone. He should have known better. He should have realized.
He glanced back as he crested the ridge and saw that Tama had stopped following him. The boy stood silently, his good arm raised in salute.
Call rode on.
The landscape was barren. He was heading further out onto the vast prairie, but the starkness and the silence were welcome. One solitary raven called raucously as it circled overhead. The Lakota considered ravens good luck, and seeing a flock before battle was a good omen. But a solitary bird meant defeat. It was strangely disquieting.
Call had been riding for about an hour when he saw the fresh tracks. He dismounted and studied the snow. Three shod horses, maybe more, heading in the direction of the Indian camp. His stomach tightened. Hurriedly, he remounted and urged the Hell Bitch into a gallop.
He heard the gunfire before he reached the camp. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears as the mare covered the last quarter mile.
Dismounting in thick brush, colt at the ready, Call crept out and up behind the line of tipis. As he edged toward the center of camp, he came upon the first bodies sprawled in the snow. Call recognized Blue Water’s cousin Makya, his sightless eyes staring heavenward. There was a dead soldier nearby. One down. How many more to go?
He was nearing Blue Water’s tent when he heard her scream. Ripping open the tent flap, he shot the man on top of her. Blue Water rolled the dead soldier off her. Sobbing, she grabbed a knife and plunged it into his lifeless body again and again.
Call’s heart ached for her, but he couldn’t stay to help her when there might be more soldiers in the camp. He wrapped a blanket around her and wiped the tears from her cheeks before he went back outside.
Across the clearing, he saw Little Wolf holding Tama by the shoulders. Tama gave a shout when he saw Call and broke free from his grandfather. He ran toward Call, calling out his name.
Too late, Call saw the soldier step out from behind a tipi, raise his rifle, and fire. Blood spurted from Tama’s mouth as he fell. Call kept firing long after he was sure the soldier was dead.
~~
The dead soldiers were burned and their remains dumped in the river. Their horses would feed the people through the rest of the winter. The squaws prepared their dead to be carried back to the Lakota ancestral burial grounds. Blue Water prepared Tama’s body herself. She sat with him through the long night, her keening echoing through the silent camp.
The next morning, heavy snow gave way to clear skies. Though the sun shone brightly, there was no warmth in it. Call lingered. He would like to have helped, but he had learned enough to know that Blue Water would despise him for doing a squaw's work.
Instead, he sought out Little Wolf, who sat with his grandson’s wrapped body.
“He was too young,” Little Wolf said. “In him was my hope for the future. Now I do not know if any of my people will survive. The white man has consumed us the way the fire consumes the prairie grass.”
Call did not know how to comfort him.
When the tipi poles were lowered, and the hides and other provisions loaded for the trip, Blue Water found Call by the river’s edge. He rose and followed her. Heavy-laden branches released their shimmering load in crystalline cascades, and the snow scattered like broken glass where they walked.
Blue Water knew that he would not go with her. Though he did not speak, she saw confirmation in his eyes when he looked at her.
When they reached his mare, Call took up the reins. He kissed Blue Water gently on the forehead. He mounted up and rode to the edge of the first rise, then turned and looked back at her.
A sudden gust of wind blew snow into Blue Water’s eyes, stinging them, and she turned her head. When she looked again, he was only a distant shadow. The wind picked up in intensity, the blowing snow obliterating both the tracks and the man.
The End
3/2006
