Annisthyrienne
Drive-by mischief maker
- Joined
- Oct 17, 2010
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Southeastern Montana Territory– 1870 - Upper Yellowstone River valley – Apsaroke Crow Nation lands.
Washnepepiccewa (Wash-NAY-peh-PEECH-eh-wah) (Spotted Elk) struggled to pick her way through the camp from the riverbank, the heavy burden of the yoke on her shoulders making the walk more difficult. Suspended from each end of the yoke was a large buffalo stomach, preserved for use as a water skin. As she made her way to Black Wolf’s lodge where the prisoner was being kept, she reflected on the situation.
She had been scraping a buffalo hide with an elk bone scraper, preparing it for use in making a winter robe for White Buffalo, the man of the lodge she shared with Two Otters as a second woman. That meant that she did the majority of the work, except for the times when her medicine skills were needed, like now. White Buffalo had come, telling her to bring water and her medicine kit to tend to the strange white man that the warriors of the Red Hand Society had captured the day before.
Something must have changed in the way they thought of him, she mused. The warriors had brought him in after capturing him during a hunting trip. As usual, the women and children of the People had gathered around to whip at him with switches and taunt him with thrown rocks, insults, and horse dung. It was the way of the People, to treat their enemies in such a manner. It was a way to release some of the ever-growing tensions caused by the changes in their world that they couldn’t understand.
Where once their enemies had been the Shoshone, Lakota Sioux, Cheyenne, and even the Blackfeet, now even their enemies all agreed the biggest threat was from the whites. Even now, to the east, Red Cloud led the Sioux and some of the Northern Cheyenne against the whites in his war.
And so the women and children of the village acted out in the only way they could, the lone white man being a symbol of his entire race for them to lash out at. The warriors themselves would not strike at him, not until it was decided to kill him in whatever way the leader of the Red Hand Society would determine. Such a practice was unfit for warriors to engage in with an unarmed enemy; there was no honor in it. But they wouldn’t refuse the cruel sport pursued by the women and children.
Spotted Elk never participated in those practices herself. She remembered all too well the way she herself had been treated when she was captured from the Shoshone and brought back to be White Buffalo’s second woman. Two Otters had hated her in the beginning, but over time they came to an understanding, and now they got along well enough.
But if she was being called on to tend to his wounds; the fate of the white man must have changed. Everyone knew it could be bad medicine to kill a white man, depending on who he turned out to be and how important he was to his people. Such a thing was not done rashly, and she had overheard some of the warriors in council the night before when she brought them some food.
That this white man traveled alone in their territory, and was unafraid, spoke of the possibility that he had powerful spirits or medicine at his command. And that he came at this time, when they were preparing for the ceremony to ensure victory in their upcoming raid against the miners camped on the Bighorn, could be a sign of some kind. They would wait to find out more about him before they decided whether to kill him, and how to do it. They would wait for the return of Black Wolf, leader of the Red Hand Society. It would be his decision to make.
Spotted Elk made her way past the painted lodges of the camp, to the lodge erected beneath the spreading cottonwood tree. On her back she had her medicine pack strapped, just beneath the yoke across her shoulders. Her doeskin dress was decorated with elaborate quill work, and sported long fringes that brushed the ground when she walked. The dress was belted at the waist, and a sheathed knife was fastened at the small of her back. Around her neck she wore two necklaces of elk teeth and cobalt blue glass trade beads. Her feet were adorned by ankle high moccasins, with knee length leggings above, also ornately decorated with matching quillwork.
She was a natural beauty, with large dark doe like eyes that seemed perpetually to shine with a spark of intelligence and curiosity. Long natural lashes gave her a fetching look. Her long raven hair fell over each shoulder in two long braids. Her coppery skin stretched firmly over high cheekbones just below her slightly slanting eyes. She had a face that was ready to smile at a moment’s notice, despite the usual stoic expression that was common to the People, especially around strangers.
The lone warrior guarding the lodge opened the flap for her to sidle her way through the opening to the lodge, threading the heavy yoke through carefully so as not to spill the water that she had fetched so far from the river. Her eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the tipi, and she saw the white man lying on a pallet of furs at the far side of the lodge.
The guard from outside followed her inside and crossed to the side of the captive, cutting the rawhide thong that bound his hands, then went to stand just inside the opening, watching to make sure the captive didn’t try to escape while he was being tended to.
Spotted Elk lowered the yoke and water bladders carefully to the ground, then took a soft absorbent rabbit skin from her pouch and wet it. She knelt by the side of the man, reaching out to swab at the bruises and cuts on his face. At first, she saw the slightest flinch in his eyes as a hint of the pain he felt at her touch, just enough to make her treat him more tenderly. But as quickly as it appeared, he suppressed any more indication of his pain. It bespoke well of him, as a man and as a warrior of the whites.
She looked upon his features with open curiosity and some admiration for the bravery he was showing under the circumstances. Whatever his fate was to be, he intrigued her at the moment. She reached again for his battered face, more gently this time. When his eyes looked up to meet hers, she was struck by their color and for the briefest of moments, she forgot to lower her gaze demurely. Her lapse in manners brought the flush to her face, and her already coppery skin colored even darker and redder than before.
She mentally chided herself to keep her eyes on what she was doing as her ministrations spread to his neck. She could tell from this close that he had more wounds under his clothing. She turned to tell the warrior on guard that she needed the captive to take off his shirt.
To the captive’s surprise, he detected a familiarity to her accent. It sounded similar to the dialect of the Shoshone tribe he had spent time with years before. Her words were those of the language of the Crow, but the lilt of her accent made him wonder if he could remember enough to communicate with her.
Washnepepiccewa (Wash-NAY-peh-PEECH-eh-wah) (Spotted Elk) struggled to pick her way through the camp from the riverbank, the heavy burden of the yoke on her shoulders making the walk more difficult. Suspended from each end of the yoke was a large buffalo stomach, preserved for use as a water skin. As she made her way to Black Wolf’s lodge where the prisoner was being kept, she reflected on the situation.
She had been scraping a buffalo hide with an elk bone scraper, preparing it for use in making a winter robe for White Buffalo, the man of the lodge she shared with Two Otters as a second woman. That meant that she did the majority of the work, except for the times when her medicine skills were needed, like now. White Buffalo had come, telling her to bring water and her medicine kit to tend to the strange white man that the warriors of the Red Hand Society had captured the day before.
Something must have changed in the way they thought of him, she mused. The warriors had brought him in after capturing him during a hunting trip. As usual, the women and children of the People had gathered around to whip at him with switches and taunt him with thrown rocks, insults, and horse dung. It was the way of the People, to treat their enemies in such a manner. It was a way to release some of the ever-growing tensions caused by the changes in their world that they couldn’t understand.
Where once their enemies had been the Shoshone, Lakota Sioux, Cheyenne, and even the Blackfeet, now even their enemies all agreed the biggest threat was from the whites. Even now, to the east, Red Cloud led the Sioux and some of the Northern Cheyenne against the whites in his war.
And so the women and children of the village acted out in the only way they could, the lone white man being a symbol of his entire race for them to lash out at. The warriors themselves would not strike at him, not until it was decided to kill him in whatever way the leader of the Red Hand Society would determine. Such a practice was unfit for warriors to engage in with an unarmed enemy; there was no honor in it. But they wouldn’t refuse the cruel sport pursued by the women and children.
Spotted Elk never participated in those practices herself. She remembered all too well the way she herself had been treated when she was captured from the Shoshone and brought back to be White Buffalo’s second woman. Two Otters had hated her in the beginning, but over time they came to an understanding, and now they got along well enough.
But if she was being called on to tend to his wounds; the fate of the white man must have changed. Everyone knew it could be bad medicine to kill a white man, depending on who he turned out to be and how important he was to his people. Such a thing was not done rashly, and she had overheard some of the warriors in council the night before when she brought them some food.
That this white man traveled alone in their territory, and was unafraid, spoke of the possibility that he had powerful spirits or medicine at his command. And that he came at this time, when they were preparing for the ceremony to ensure victory in their upcoming raid against the miners camped on the Bighorn, could be a sign of some kind. They would wait to find out more about him before they decided whether to kill him, and how to do it. They would wait for the return of Black Wolf, leader of the Red Hand Society. It would be his decision to make.
Spotted Elk made her way past the painted lodges of the camp, to the lodge erected beneath the spreading cottonwood tree. On her back she had her medicine pack strapped, just beneath the yoke across her shoulders. Her doeskin dress was decorated with elaborate quill work, and sported long fringes that brushed the ground when she walked. The dress was belted at the waist, and a sheathed knife was fastened at the small of her back. Around her neck she wore two necklaces of elk teeth and cobalt blue glass trade beads. Her feet were adorned by ankle high moccasins, with knee length leggings above, also ornately decorated with matching quillwork.
She was a natural beauty, with large dark doe like eyes that seemed perpetually to shine with a spark of intelligence and curiosity. Long natural lashes gave her a fetching look. Her long raven hair fell over each shoulder in two long braids. Her coppery skin stretched firmly over high cheekbones just below her slightly slanting eyes. She had a face that was ready to smile at a moment’s notice, despite the usual stoic expression that was common to the People, especially around strangers.
The lone warrior guarding the lodge opened the flap for her to sidle her way through the opening to the lodge, threading the heavy yoke through carefully so as not to spill the water that she had fetched so far from the river. Her eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the tipi, and she saw the white man lying on a pallet of furs at the far side of the lodge.
The guard from outside followed her inside and crossed to the side of the captive, cutting the rawhide thong that bound his hands, then went to stand just inside the opening, watching to make sure the captive didn’t try to escape while he was being tended to.
Spotted Elk lowered the yoke and water bladders carefully to the ground, then took a soft absorbent rabbit skin from her pouch and wet it. She knelt by the side of the man, reaching out to swab at the bruises and cuts on his face. At first, she saw the slightest flinch in his eyes as a hint of the pain he felt at her touch, just enough to make her treat him more tenderly. But as quickly as it appeared, he suppressed any more indication of his pain. It bespoke well of him, as a man and as a warrior of the whites.
She looked upon his features with open curiosity and some admiration for the bravery he was showing under the circumstances. Whatever his fate was to be, he intrigued her at the moment. She reached again for his battered face, more gently this time. When his eyes looked up to meet hers, she was struck by their color and for the briefest of moments, she forgot to lower her gaze demurely. Her lapse in manners brought the flush to her face, and her already coppery skin colored even darker and redder than before.
She mentally chided herself to keep her eyes on what she was doing as her ministrations spread to his neck. She could tell from this close that he had more wounds under his clothing. She turned to tell the warrior on guard that she needed the captive to take off his shirt.
To the captive’s surprise, he detected a familiarity to her accent. It sounded similar to the dialect of the Shoshone tribe he had spent time with years before. Her words were those of the language of the Crow, but the lilt of her accent made him wonder if he could remember enough to communicate with her.