The Way. Story of Crazy Bear

Two Humps dashed outside, crouching and looking around for other scouts. Bear hurried after him, grabbing the knife given to him by Bear Bull, and shouted loudly, overflowing with excitement. His emotions were spilling over, and the boy couldn’t contain them. His war cry wasn’t very impressive, but Two Humps supported his son, letting out a blood-curdling shriek that stirred the entire village. It seemed even the lazy fog stretching over the sleepy earth shuddered from the war cry of the skilled warrior.

A little ways off, Bear noticed two other painted figures. They rose from the ground and started running away from the camp.

– Father! – exclaimed Bear.

– I see them, son, – threw Two Humps and sent an arrow after them, but both figures disappeared into the fog.

Sleepy people appeared from everywhere. Men ran with axes and bows in their hands, women fearfully stuck their heads out of the tents but dared not come out fully, not understanding what had happened.

Two Humps explained in a few words to the comrades who had run up what had occurred, and five young men rushed to their horses to chase the fugitives.

– Who is it? – asked Bear, squatting near the shot horse thief and tugging the tip of the arrow protruding from under his rib.

– Psaloka. Look at his moccasins, son, he’s a man from the Crow Nation. Touch him. This will be your first touch of an enemy.

The boy confidently placed his palm on the Psaloka and felt the rough surface of the clay with his hand.

– I have killed an enemy! – shouted Two Humps in a pleased voice. – My son Bear was the first to touch the fallen Psaloka! My son has done a great deed! People, today we will celebrate this event! I offer the meat of the antelope I killed yesterday.

– There are blood trails over there, – Otter Tail approached, pointing over his shoulder with his hand. – It seems, Two Humps, you wounded another Psaloka. Perhaps the young men will catch him outside the settlement.

Otter Tail turned over the body of the killed enemy and peered into his face. Women were already crowding around. One of them pushed through the gathered people, holding a long knife in her hand, and without a word, quickly raised her arm above her head. The blade struck the dead man’s shoulder and deeply cut the flesh. Blood splattered in all directions.

– This is for your people killing my son last summer! – the Indian woman cried out and spat several times on the corpse.

After this, a whole hail of merciless blows from clubs and axes fell upon the dead man. Within minutes, the Psaloka’s body was turned into a bloody pile of meat, only vaguely resembling a human shape by its general outline.

– Look at your son, Grass-From-Water, – Two Humps said to his wife who had run up, – he just touched the Psaloka I killed.

– Was it a war party? – she asked.

– No, – Two Humps reassured her, – they came for the horses. But their expedition was not successful. Several of our young men rode after them; they will return soon and tell us if they found a large party and if it’s worth pursuing. If our men are lucky, they’ll take down someone else…

Some time later, Otter Tail and his friends came galloping into the village, shouting cheerfully and waving war clubs bristling with sharp metal blades. Behind the horses, two corpses dragged along the ground, tied with ropes. Every time the dead men hit stones, their outstretched arms twitched limply, and blood spilled from their shattered skulls, spreading thickly in the dust.

That evening, the camp filled with the sound of drums and piercing songs. Grass-From-Water, Bear’s mother, danced, her chin held high importantly, before the fire built in the center of the camp; in one hand she held a pole above her head with the scalp of the killed Psaloka tied to it, in the other – her husband’s bow and shield. Behind her, two very young girls danced with similar bloody trophies attached to spears. Other women followed, shaking the severed legs and arms of the Psalokas attached to sticks. The procession was closed by a little girl with huge black eyes and a wide white smile on her open face; she merrily hopped from foot to foot and clutched with both small hands a long strip of human skin with the genitals of one of the killed enemies, caked with dried blood.

Two Humps, dressed in a long shirt of deerskin embroidered with porcupine quills on the shoulders and adorned along the sleeves with tufts of enemy hair, gave a speech in honor of his son.

– On this significant occasion, I give one horse to the poorest person in our settlement, – he concluded, and these words were met with cries of approval from his tribesmen.

Bear also took part in the dance around the fire, his face painted scarlet.

– When you go on a raid, I want to go with you, – he said to his father when the celebration ended.

– I think I will raise a party in two days. The young warriors are eager to show the Psalokas that the Lakota are more skillful at stealing horses.

– I will go with you, – Bear said firmly.

– Now you are considered a warrior, as you have touched an enemy. I have no right to forbid you. If you are ready, if you are determined, then I will include you in the party. But don’t forget, you need to prepare well. Check your arrows and bow, see if the points are secure, if the string holds well. Don’t forget to take spare moccasins from your sister for the journey. I saw she finished two more pairs for you; they will come in handy.

Late at night, when the noise in the camp had died down and only the occasional snarling of dogs could be heard from outside the tent walls, Bear still couldn’t sleep. To his right, his father and mother were breathing heavily, vigorously copulating under the buffalo robe. Sometimes the dark covering slipped, and the boy’s view was presented with his mother’s naked thighs, between which his father’s buttocks moved; the skin, greased with raccoon fat, gleamed in the dim light of the half-dead fire. The boy smiled quietly. It gladdened him to see his parents happy and without a trace of sadness on their faces. He liked to listen to the sounds of their union and inhale their smell – the smell of possible future life. Bear knew that soon he himself would grow old enough to be with pretty girls. But to make them accessible, he needed to attract their attention with his outstanding deeds. He needed exploits, as many as possible.

The thought of the horse raid into the enemy camp kept him awake until morning. Only near dawn did he fall into a deep sleep.

The next day passed in a flurry. Friends, having learned that Bear would go on the raid with the older warriors, came to encourage him. Some openly expressed envy.

And then the long-awaited morning arrived, the night before which Bear had again spent in impatient and exhausting insomnia.

With the first glimmers of light, Two Humps raised his son.

– It’s time, – he whispered, trying not to wake the others, but Grass-From-Water woke up anyway and, without a word, rushed to her husband, hugging him and pressing her face against his muscular chest.

– Don’t be afraid, – Two Humps said, – everything will be fine.

She nodded in reply and silently followed her husband out of the tent. Near the entrance, a tall pole stuck out of the ground, bearing the scalp with which Grass-From-Water had danced. In the gray pre-dawn air, the outlines of twenty slender, long-haired men loomed. Each held leather bags and weapons.

– Is everyone gathered? – asked Two Humps.

The Indians nodded.

– Then let’s go.

They left the village with quick steps. Here and there, figures of women could be seen near the tents, watching the departing party with anxiety. Everyone hoped for a successful outcome of the raid, but everyone knew the great risk of dying near the hostile camp. They went on foot, following the long-standing Lakota tradition of not taking horses if the goal of the expedition was to return home on captured horses.

Bear turned around. The village was left behind. The cones of the tents, bristling with poles at the top, were half-submerged in the creeping fog; between the poles, sticking out like the whiskers of giant insects, even streams of smoke rose peacefully. The boy felt something like sadness. Goodbye, childhood! Farewell, boyish games! Whatever the outcome of this raid, there would be no way back to the world of children. From this day on, Bear would belong to the world of warriors…

The endless plain, covered with thin stems of tall yellow grass, now looked completely different to Bear. Birds habitually flew into the sky from the grass, coyote ears slipped through here and there, but now the steppe filled the boy with tense anticipation.

For two days the party moved calmly, not particularly hiding. On the third day, Two Humps sat the warriors in a circle and lit a pipe.

– We have entered enemy territory. The Psalokas could be anywhere. Starting today, we will post sentries around our campsites. We make no fires. We sleep during the day, we move at night…

But they didn’t have to go far.

That very evening, Wolf Killer returned to the campsite with hurried but silent steps from his observation post and reported the approach of enemies.

– Who are they?

– They look like Psalokas. There are twice as many as us, – said Wolf Killer.

– It could be the very ones who came to us. Someone must be in a hurry to avenge that horse thief I shot, – suggested Two Humps. – We need to find out where they stop.

– You want us to take their horses? – asked Wolf Killer.

– Why look for their camp when they’ve brought the horses to us? Tonight we will do what we must do.

At sunset, the warriors began preparing for the night’s actions, braiding their hair and painting themselves appropriately. All who wore eagle feathers removed them so their white color wouldn’t attract the enemy’s attention in the night’s blue. Scouts covered in wolf skins went to watch the Psalokas. Bear adjusted the pouch with the sacred mixture on his belt – the powder made from the dried liver and heart of the killed Šakhéhąska (probably the bear) and sagebrush, as Bear Bull had instructed him to make.

– Prepare the paint, – Two Humps said to him.

Sitting beside his father, Bear took out a leather box with buffalo fat, scooped some with one palm, and poured black powder on top. Mixing them thoroughly, he got a thick black mass. Two Humps, slowly dipping his fingers into the greasy paint, applied it to his face, thickly smearing his cheeks, nose, and chin. He never painted his forehead when going to battle or for horses, but if he managed to kill an enemy, he would cover his forehead with the dead man’s blood.

Bear smeared the remainder of the paint from his palm onto his face, not too concerned about how he would look. He was more worried about the position of the sacred pouch on his belt, the necklace of bear claws, and the gifted knife.

The scouts appeared suddenly. Their faces looked out from under the wolf masks, excited and stern, their eyes burning.

– The horses are standing in that hollow over there, – one of the scouts pointed his hand into the murky blue of the evening, – and the Psálokas themselves are settled a bit higher on the slope.

– So, – concluded Two Humps, – we must cut them off from the herd. If we do it quietly, the Psalokas won’t even wake up. How many sentries do they have posted?

– Two are sitting near the horses. We didn’t see others.

– As soon as the moon goes behind those clouds, we will sneak up on them. Yellow Finger, did you prepare the shirt? – Two Humps turned to a tall youth sitting to his right.

– Yes, here it is.

– Put it on. The time has come.

– What kind of shirt is that? – Bear whispered curiously.

– This shirt Yellow Finger once stole from a Psaloka camp. He always takes it when going to the Crow Nation for horses. It smells like Psalokas. Neither dogs nor horses pay him any mind, thinking Yellow Finger is a Psaloka. And the enemies, even if they have a very sharp sense of smell, won’t be able to catch the scent of a foreign tribe…

Two Humps gave a sign, and everyone moved toward the enemy camp. Although the Psalokas were on their own territory, they were being cautious; their fire was not visible. But Bear smelled the smoke and smiled at this smell – fire can be hidden from the eyes, but not from the sensitive nostrils of the Lakota.

The countless world of insects filled the air with chirping. The thick bushes near the hill where the Psalokas were settled rustled anxiously under a soft gust of the steppe wind. Bear looked at his father; he was pressed to the ground and completely invisible in his stillness. A large owl flew low over him, almost touching his head with its wide wing, but Two Humps paid the bird no attention. His piercing eyes stared fixedly ahead. It seemed to Bear that his father had even stopped breathing; the boy had never seen him like this, and for a moment he truly admired his father, completely forgetting where he was and why.

Somewhere to the side, a deer snorted briefly, and a whole chorus of distant wolf voices answered it. The bushes rustled again. Ahead, a horse snorted loudly. Two Humps raised his hand with the knife and signaled to someone. To the left, the silent shadow of Yellow Finger slipped, followed by someone in a wolf skin. Another horse snort was heard. The boy slowly crawled forward, carefully moving his body over the loose stones. His father looked at him and with signs told Bear to stay put and receive the horses that the warriors would start leading out. The boy nodded understandingly.

After some time, Bear was left completely alone. Dozens of steps away, enemies sat on the hillside; he heard their quiet voices, someone chuckled, telling some story. And then the boy felt the sacred pouch hanging on his belt noticeably grow heavier, as if a couple of heavy stones had been thrown into it at once. Bear’s heart beat ten times stronger, the hot throbbing transmitted to his head, and his mouth instantly went dry. Danger was somewhere nearby. Somewhere very close…

A shadow emerged from the bushes. In the light of the moon, which had rolled out from behind the cloud again, Bear made out an unfamiliar man with bangs combed over his forehead, thickly greased. A Psaloka. An enemy. It could be one of the sentries who had been sitting near the horses, or one of the men who had come down from above, suspecting something was wrong. The Psaloka pulled a war club with a round stone head from his belt and crouched down, peering into the darkness where the horses were milling. No more than two steps separated him from the boy. Bear could clearly see the fringe on the enemy’s loose shirt, his bent knee, the sole of his moccasin, the wolf tail sewn onto his shoulder, the tenacious fingers on the club’s handle…

The Psaloka didn’t notice him and took half a step forward. Bear rose up, gripping the handle of the large knife, and with his eyes marked the spot for the strike – between the shoulder blades, right at the base of the neck, on the very edge of the porcupine-quill-embroidered collar.

The wind blew again, and the bush branches rustled noisily. Their rustle allowed Bear to rise to his feet without the Psaloka hearing him. The boy gathered himself, pushed off with his tensed legs, and, biting his lip to keep from screaming from fear and the sudden surge of rage, rushed at the enemy. The knife easily went in where Bear had aimed, severing the spine; the muscular body under the boy immediately went limp and thudded headfirst into the ground. Bear shuddered from the conflicting feelings boiling within him, pressed his chest against the motionless enemy, and for good measure struck the Psaloka under the left shoulder blade a couple more times. The enemy, a strong, battle-hardened enemy who had threatened the entire Lakota party, was dead.

Ahead in the darkness, Yellow Finger appeared with two horses. Seeing Bear lying on the dead body, the warrior scanned the surrounding area and with a nod ordered the boy to get up. Bear pointed the blade at the Psaloka’s head and made a motion indicating hair cut from the back of the head. Yellow Finger nodded. Two Humps appeared behind him, a predatory smile flashing on his blackened face.

One by one, the Lakota emerged from the thick blue of the hollow, each leading two horses. On the belt of one warrior, Bear noticed long hair from which blood dripped onto his leather leggings. A little later, he saw a second taken scalp – on another youth.

– Cut the Psáloka’s hair, – Two Humps gestured.

The boy bent over the corpse, and at that second one of the horses suddenly neighed loudly, pawing the ground with its front hooves. Voices came from the hillside, clearly puzzled that the neighing came from a direction other than where the herd should be. A questioning shout was heard, but the Lakota did not answer. Two Humps ordered them not to linger and to mount up.

Leaping onto the horses, the Lakota drove the remaining herd away. Noise erupted on the hill, branches crunched under the feet of running people.

Bear, who hadn’t managed to take the enemy’s scalp, looked back. He didn’t want to miss such an opportunity, but the danger was too close. Making his horse circle on the spot, he looked once more at the white shirt of the dead Psaloka gleaming in the darkness. The killed man drew the boy to him, and Bear couldn’t resist.

He jumped off the horse and bent over the sprawled body. The pouch on his belt grew noticeably heavier, but the boy paid no attention. Grabbing the Psaloka by the back of the head, he lifted his head and slashed with the knife, almost cutting his own fingers. The movement was too sharp and slanted; the blade cut a piece of skin with hair, but much smaller than needed for a full scalp.

– Go, – someone said in Bear’s head.

Bear felt for the hairline on the dead man’s forehead and pried it with the knife. Trying to suppress the nervous tremor in his hands, he carefully cut the skin along the entire contour of the hair and pulled hard, using the sharp blade to tear the blood vessels under the skin, feeling the hot blood on his hands.

Another moment passed, and very close by, pebbles scattered under someone’s quick feet. Bear dashed toward his horse, but it shied away. He managed to grab its tail, pulled it toward himself, and jumped onto the back of the stubborn steed. Kicking the horse with his heels, Bear let out a victory cry and raised the heavy, bloody, hairy trophy above his head. The next second, the hard shaft of an arrow struck the boy in the buttock. He cried out in surprise and urged his horse into a full gallop. Curses pierced the air behind him.

– Ha! We really gave those Psalokas a hard time! – exclaimed Two Humps when they made their first stop.

Riding up to his son, he took him by the elbow:

– What’s wrong? You can barely stay on…

– The arrow…

They quickly helped him off the horse and laid him on his stomach in the tall grass.

– It’s nothing serious, – said Spinning Raccoon, – the arrow hit him at the end of its flight. Of course, he lost a lot of blood, as the point tore the muscle during the gallop. But I can handle this wound.

– Don’t lose the scalp, – Bear whispered over his shoulder, unable to lift his head, – my first scalp, a very important scalp…

Mato Witko

His Own Words

I am very old now, but I remember my first warpath as if it were yesterday. I killed a warrior of the Crow Nation and decided to take his hair. I was so excited that I did not cut it from the back of the head, as was customary, but took it all, even the long braids were on that scalp. I had skinned the entire head of that Psaloka – from the eyebrows to the neck. It was a rich scalp, a beautiful one. A long eagle feather was tied to the hair at the back; it remained in place, though the tip had broken off when I killed the Psaloka and fell on him with my body.

I never again cut hair in such a way. I was hit by an arrow because I lingered too long by the dead man. When we stopped after a long ride, I collapsed from exhaustion. The arrowhead had torn the wound open, and I had lost much blood.

As I lay there, I saw a dragonfly hover before my face. It said:

“You must pay attention to the voice. If you ignore it, neither strength nor agility will help you. There must be measure in all things…”

Raccoon-That-Turns had treated my wound well, and it healed quickly. I stopped limping after a few days. However, I completed the rest of the journey to our village on a travois they had made specially for me.

We were very pleased with that expedition. The celebration for the successful raid lasted several days. I was honored as no one else had ever been honored in my memory. It is easy to understand. I performed deed after deed, and I was only thirteen winters old.

The scalp of the Psaloka hung at the entrance of our lodge for a very long time…

I went on raids often, for I could not resist the temptation to gain new honors. I was young and hot-blooded. I was consumed by a thirst for glory, a desire to stand out among my people. I enjoyed dancing under the gaze of the young women, but their attention was never enough; I was always left unsatisfied by the praise and honors my friends bestowed upon me. I was waiting for something greater.

Today, I take no pleasure in remembering my war deeds. What was I doing then? I was stealing horses and killing enemies. I killed as many as I could. I had taken so many lives that there was no more room to hang the scalps of the slain enemies. In front of my lodge stood ten poles, thickly covered with human hair. From the abundance of scalps, these poles began to resemble strange animals. Then I stopped cutting the hair of my enemies. It gave me nothing.

Once, I led a party on another horse-raiding raid. We crept right up to the enemy camp. And suddenly I heard a rustle: someone was very close to me.

My sacred bundle, my wotawe, had always warned me of danger; I was used to it guiding me, and I acted with confidence in all situations. This time, it did not grow heavy at all, so I boldly stepped forward, my knife ready. Someone rose quickly from the tall grass. A single strike was enough for me to kill the person. It turned out to be a woman with a child in her arms. Her dress was pulled up to her hips, and I understood she had been relieving herself. I would have taken her child for myself, but the baby died instantly, hitting its head on the ground.

From that time on, I stopped taking scalps.

I simply told my companions that I had killed a woman with an infant. They were pleased and counted her among the total number of enemies killed by our party. During raids, any slain foe, be it a man, woman, or child, was considered worthy of counting for glory. But something in my heart changed that day. I lost interest in such deeds. There was no courage in them. I do not know why I had not thought of it before that day. I do not know…

I never again took a head. If I had to take a life, it was only in open battle. I left the dead untouched. Any of my warriors could take the hair or the entire head of an enemy I had struck down as a trophy. But I myself took nothing, except for a weapon if I liked it.

And yet, I loved to fight, for I was testing my strength against an opponent. I could not resist the opportunity to demonstrate my skill and prove my superiority over all. It saddens me to think of it now, but so it was.

Once, I dressed in a woman’s dress, let down my hair, and entered an enemy camp in the evening. On my back, I carried a bundle of firewood. It never occurred to any of them that right under their noses was I – the foremost warrior of the Ptarmigan clan! It was very amusing to watch the enemies.

It was getting dark. I dropped the firewood near a lodge and headed for the horses. I had picked out the most beautiful ones tied near the entrances. When the camp grew quiet, I calmly untied five horses and led them away. No one paid me any mind. Only one man suspected something was wrong. Perhaps one of those horses belonged to him, for he walked towards me with quick steps. How his face lengthened when he discovered that I was not a woman at all, but a man from a foreign tribe! He wanted to call his friends, but he did not have time. I drove my knife into his throat and immediately jumped on a horse. The dead man must not have been found immediately, for the pursuit started on my trail too late, and I managed to ride very far away.