Philipp Meyer - The Son

The girl and I were tied to the horses for the first time in days. To our left the southern bank of the Canadian was a sheer cliff and to the north it was shallow breaks and hills and buttes. We followed a small stream up into the trees and came on a procession of Indians, hundreds of them, all in their best bib and tucker, painted leggings and buckskin dresses, copper bracelets and earrings sparkling and jouncing. The younger boys were naked and they came shouting and dodging among the horses. We kept going and reached the main body; it was like the parade they had when my father returned from the war. Women were calling to men and neighbors calling to neighbors and a somber old grandmother was carrying a pole with scalps attached. Some of the braves tied their scalps to the pole. The children avoided me but the adults all pinched or slapped me as I rode past.

Then we reached the village. The tipis went on out of sight, swirling designs of warriors and horses, soldiers stuck with arrows, soldiers without heads, mountains and rising suns. The air smelled like green hides and drying flesh; there were racks standing everywhere with the flayed meat hanging in the sun like old clothes.

A group of angry-looking Indians pushed through the others. The women were wailing and keening and the men were thumping their lances in the dirt. They beat my legs and tried to pull me off my horse. Toshaway let this go on until one of the old women came at me with a knife. No one paid any attention to the German girl.

There was a long negotiation over my future, with the group of wailing women believing it should be settled with a knife or something worse. Toshaway was defending his property. I was sure it was the family of the man I’d shot, though Toshaway was the only person who could have known I was the culprit.

N uukaru later explained that the dead man’s family was expecting spoils from the raid, but what they got instead was news that their man had taken a ball in the chest. They asked for a white scalp only to hear that my mother’s and sister’s scalps had gone north with the Yap-Eaters, that my brother had not been scalped as he had died too bravely, and that I was innocent (a lie) and more important I was Toshaway’s property and he would not allow them to give me a haircut. They asked after the three scalps on his belt, but those had been taken from soldiers during such legendary combat that he could not be expected to part with them. He could offer them two rifles. An insult. A horse, then. Five horses would be an insult. In that case he could offer them nothing. They knew the risks and they would be well taken care of by the tribe. Fine. They would take a horse.

Meanwhile, as it was a big haul of guns, ponies, and other supplies, the village was preparing a party. Of the seventy-odd horses captured, Toshaway gave most away to the men who had gone on the raid, one to the family of the dead man, and a few to some poor families who had come to him directly. You could not refuse to give a gift if someone asked for it. He was left with two new horses and me. Stingier war chiefs might keep the entire haul for themselves, but Toshaway’s status was greatly improved.

After Toshaway settled with the dead man’s family, he and I and N uukaru rode to all the tipis. I stayed tied to the horse. At each place an old squaw would come over and pinch my leg to bruise it. There was frantic talking and laughing. After several hours I was hot and bored, stiff from being tied up; I could tell there were stories being told about me. Finally we arrived in Toshaway’s neighborhood. Everyone was standing waiting. There was a good-looking teenage boy and girl, who I gathered were Toshaway’s children, a woman in her late twenties, his wife, and a woman in her late thirties, his other wife.

When everyone finished catching up, three old men came over and untied me and told me to follow them. We were off just like that, between the tipis, around cookfires and staked-out hides, racks of drying meat, tools and weapons scattered everywhere. An old squaw came out of nowhere and slapped me between my legs. I was already sick from nervousness and the rotting meat and the flies swarming. Then a young brave came out of nowhere and hit me in the jaw. I turtled up as he kicked but then he stopped and had a talk with the old men. He had blue eyes and I knew he was white and after a few minutes he walked away as if nothing had happened.

The three old men found a place to sit near someone’s tipi. It was late in the afternoon and nice in the sun, the land was open and rolling, the forest was behind us, there were horse herds grazing in the distance, several thousand animals at least. I sat listening to the creek. I’d dozed off when two of them pinned my arms back and rolled me over. The oldermost squatted at my head, I could smell his reeking breechcloth; I was sure I would air my paunch, which bothered me more than the idea of dying, and then N uukaru came over and I relaxed.

The oldermost was doing something in the fire. When he came back he knelt next to me with a hot awl that he stuck through my ears a few times. N uukaru was sitting on top of me so I had no air to protest. They threaded strings of greased buckskin through the holes in my ears and let me up.

Then I was given some sumac lemonade and some meat was skewered on sticks that were poked into the ground over the fire. As we sat waiting, a young fat squaw came up and hugged me, slapped me, pushed me into the grass, and climbed on top of me, wrestling the way you might with a dog. I let her drag me around and sit on me and stick my face into a mud puddle that smelled like feet. She held my nose so I’d have to open my mouth to breathe in the mud. After a while she got bored. I went back to the fire. Someone passed me a gourd of water to wash up. Someone else was heating up a kind of sauce in a small metal pan, honey and lard, stirring it with the rib bone from a deer. Everything was smelling finer than cream gravy, but just when we began to eat, Toshaway’s son came over and said something. The old men clucked and shook their heads. I saw the family of the dead man making their way toward us and I knew they’d decided to dig up the hatchet.

N uukaru clapped me on the back for support, then everyone followed as I was led by the neck to an open area in the middle of the village. A big post had been driven into the ground. I was tied to it. From looking at the people gathered it was clear Judge Lynch was holding court and then three teenage Indians were pacing around me, pointing pistols at my head.

Their sap was up and I expected them to shoot but they were waiting for more people. Finally most of the village was there; children running in and out of the crowd, putting pieces of wood and brush around my legs until there was a pile to my waist.

The young Indians cocked their pistols and pressed them to my temple, into my mouth. My guts went loose. An old squaw came over with a skinning knife and I nearly released my innards, thinking I was about to be unshucked whole, but all she did was give me a few bleeders. Then I had to let some air out, which everyone found hilarious because they knew I was scared. Pakatsi tsa kuya?at u. Pakatsi tsa t u? uyat u!

N uukaru was standing at the front of the crowd, watching things; he was the same awkward age as my brother, tall and gangly, he would not be much help. The old woman walked away and one of the boys aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger. It pocked my face and singed my eyebrows but he hadn’t loaded a ball. The other two did the same. Then a kid ran up with a torch and feigned at lighting the pile of brush. I nodded at where I thought he ought to start the fire. I encouraged him and finally he lit the brush. The hair between my thighs began to sizzle and I was about to give up when Toshaway walked over and kicked away the burning sticks.