would do when one of them had fun poked at him.
Turns Back swallowed hard to keep down his anger at them and said, “That little boy … he is no longer a little boy, Waits-by-the-Water. He has grown up … and wears even bigger moccasins now!”
“I can see,” she told him, gazing down at his sizable feet. “This name of yours, Turns Back, is it a new name?”
“Yes,” the boy answered. “I was given the name last spring.”
Stiff Arm explained, “Turns Back got his name when he turned back into a buffalo herd on foot to kill one more cow for his family. All the older men, they said it was a brave thing to do for his family, that no one else had ever done such a thing—and on foot! Later that day, the old shaman, Real Bird, said it was just as he had seen it in a dream.”
“So you were very brave that day?” Titus asked the youngster.
“My uncles gave me the new name for my bravery, yes.”
Waits took a deep breath and rocked back in her saddle, wriggling there between the tall cantle and saddlehorn, both of them ornamented with long fringes and colorful porcupine quills. “I am glad to see you again, Turns Back, who is no longer a little boy with big feet. I am very much looking forward to seeing your mother again. I want to tell her how proud she should be that you remember your manners so well … when there are other young men who do not remember what their mothers tried to teach them.”
As she said these last few words, her eyes fell on the youngster called Don’t Mix. His eyes were promptly downcast, and a crestfallen look crossed his face. By all appearances, he was duly chastised by an older woman, the mother of a young and beautiful girl—right in front of that girl, no less!
“Tell me,” Bass inquired, “where is Yellow Belly’s village headed now? Are you still hunting for buffalo?”
Many of the others turned their eyes to look at Stiff Arm, but it was Three Iron who spoke up first.
“The One Who Used to Lead Us … he died night before last.”
“Y-Yellow Belly,” Titus stammered, forgetting the custom of not speaking the name of one who had passed on. “He’s dead?”
“Yes,” answered Stiff Arm. “The old ones met for a long time last night, but they did not decide on a new chief. So they went off to their beds and will meet again tonight.”
“He wasn’t killed?” Titus asked, astonished at the news.
“No, he fell sick many days ago while we were far to the north,” Three Iron stated. “He immediately ordered the camp to start south again for the Elk River.”*
“The One Who Used to Lead Us firmly believed that if he got back to the Elk River and could cross it to the south, touching once more the land where he was born,” Stiff Arm continued the story, “he would be healed.”
“But …” —and Three Iron paused—“he did not live to make it back to the river.”
Titus gazed at Waits a long moment, watching how the gravity of this news struck her too. When he finally looked back at these youngsters, all of them less than a third of his age, Scratch said quietly, “He was … your chief was younger than me. Healthy, and strong as a warhorse. I cannot believe that he would be brought down by anything but the hand of his enemies in battle.”
“Everyone thought the same thing,” Turns Back suddenly commented. “That is why the news caught every man in camp by surprise. Our chief was so strong and vigorous.”
“How did this happen?”
Three Iron explained, “He grew sick one day while we were out hunting buffalo—most of the men in our camp were on the hunt.”
“Who was with him?” Titus asked. “Any of you?”
They turned to look at Don’t Mix.
The brash youngster now said, “I was near him, watched him rein up his horse. By the time I got my head turned around to find out why he was stopping in the middle of the buffalo chase, he had both hands clawing at his chest … and he was slowly falling off his horse.”
“Did you go back for him?”
Don’t Mix nodded. “I called for help, from anyone in the sound of my voice. Those who were close enough to hear came running to help, but I don’t think there was anything any of us could do.”
Now Stiff Arm took up the story, “The older men called up one of the travois the women had brought out to the hill overlooking the buffalo herd. We loaded him on it and hurried him back to camp.”
“Real Bird was called to make ready his medicine,” Three Iron said. “Even before we got our chief back to camp.”
Titus asked, “Was he still alive when he reached the village?”
“Yes,” Stiff Arm replied. “He was breathing hard, like a man running uphill on foot. And sweating too, even though it was a very cool day.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
It was quiet a moment, then Three Iron said, “He did not speak until Real Bird was standing over the travois when it arrived in camp, when the healer started to pray. That was three nights ago.”
“What did he say to the old shaman?”
Three Iron looked at Titus, explaining, “Our chief wanted the healer to hurry him back to the Yellowstone as fast as the men could drag him on that travois. To start immediately and not stop until he was on the south bank.”
Stiff Arm continued. “He swore he did not want to die north of the Elk River.”
For a moment he studied their young faces, their averted eyes. These young men had something more to say than they were telling him. Finally Bass prodded them, “Why was your chief so afraid to die north of the river?”
When the rest would not speak, Turns Back admitted, “When our chief finally stopped breathing, Real Bird made his announcement to the camp … and said that he had always been afraid of dying so close to Blackfoot country.”
“Why was he afraid of that?” Titus asked. “Many a good Crow warrior has died
“It was the old seer, Real Bird, who made him afraid—many, many summers ago, when he was a young man like us,” Stiff Arm declared. “Back before he became a war chief, Real Bird told him that he had a vision that as long as He Who Is No Longer Here stayed close to the Elk River, he would live long as a leader of the people. But if he ever stayed too long north of the river, venturing too far into the land where the Blackfoot roamed … that the spirits would not be strong in him and he would be weakened, grow sick, and die.”
“Then your chief had every reason to be afraid,” Titus said. “The old healer had seen his end in a dream … and it came to pass.”
“And the same for you?” Three Iron asked. “Will it come to pass too? What Real Bird saw in a dream about your final day?”
Bass strove to wave off the old seer’s prophecy, saying, “Not every dream comes true.” He looked at Waits a moment, saw her eyes cloud with doubt.
“That old man has rarely been wrong,” Stiff Arm declared.
“For more winters than any of you have been alive, I have come and gone from Absaroka,” Titus explained to them. Just the saying of those words, made him suddenly feel all the older here before these youngsters. In those days among the hardwood forests of Boone County, he had been like them: their blood running hot like a potent sap through their veins—undeniable and unstoppable, with their whole lives ahead of them.
Sore from the long rides they had been making every day on this journey north, he flexed his sore back. Then Scratch responded, “Then—if old man Real Bird’s dreams are true it means I am destined to leave and return to the land of the Crow one more time. From that day on I must make sure I never leave my wife’s people again, so no trouble comes to all who are around me.”
Three Iron smiled, glancing quickly at Magpie when he said, “I think some of our young men truly would like it if your family never left the Crow at all!”
Gazing at his daughter, whose high cheekbones were blushed with the rose of embarrassment, her eyes fixed on the withers of her horse, Scratch said, “You be sure to tell all those who have ears that it will be a long time before Magpie’s father entertains a suitor for her. This is only her fourteenth winter, so they are wasting their time if they come scratching at our lodge door.”
Some of the older guards quickly turned their eyes on the younger members of their group. But instead of
