The young men talked long into the night about the route they would take to the Pawnee village, though the route was familiar to all of them. Teetonkah, as organizer and leader, scratched a map into the earthen floor and promised to leave his uncle a drawing on buckskin of their exact route, indicating which rivers and hills they expected to cross or climb, so that they could be found at any time by others in the tribe. In acceptance of Teetonkah’s plan, they smoked the pipe he proffered, and left the village on horseback early the next morning. There was no grand farewell as they rode out south. There would be time for celebration if and when they returned victorious. With horses. With women.
Teetonkah was carrying several pairs of moccasins, and a wooden bowl attached to his belt with a leather thong; on the warpath each man ate and drank from his own dish. He carried, too, a leather pouch of vermilion paint and grease, with which to decorate himself and his horse before he rode into battle. A wolfskin was draped over his left shoulder, the animal’s nostrils threaded with the leather thong at the end of Teetonkah’s war whistle. A medicine bag was tied to his horse’s bridle. There were herbs in this leather pouch that could be ingested by horse and man alike to cure toothache or lameness, stomach trouble or pains of the heart. None of the four who rode out that morning had any intention of meeting with the white man or engaging him in battle. They were off to steal Pawnee horses and Pawnee women; this was the only war they expected to make.
“A wagon alone,” Otaktay said.
The others looked at him.
“Alone,” he repeated.
“It is a trick,” Teetonkah said.
“I saw nothing else wherever I looked. If there are others, they are hidden better than I can find them.”
“Yes but it is a trick,” Teetonkah said, and then immediately asked, “How many are there in the party?”
“Five that I could see.”
“And how divided?”
“Two men and three women.”
“Horses?”
“None. But two mules drawing the wagon.”
“We are far from home,” one of the others said. His name was Enapay, and he had been named for his courage. “Were we to attack the white man, we would have to abandon our plan against the Pawnee.”
“Why do you say that?” Teetonkah asked.
“We would have captives,” Enapay said. “We would take the women captive, would we not?”
“Yes,” Teetonkah said.
“Then we would have them with us when we rode against the Pawnee.”
“No,” Teetonkah said. “We would ride home with them first. Then later—”
“While others in the village—”
“—ride against the Pawnee.”
“While others in the village enjoy what we have risked our lives for,” Enapay said.
“There are those we trust,” Teetonkah said.
“I trust no one where it comes to a woman’s belly,” Enapay said. “White women secrete a musk that can be smelled even by horses. I have seen horses pawing at lodges where white women were kept bound within.”
Teetonkah laughed.
“It is true,” Enapay said.
“It will be safe to take them to the village. My uncle will guard them.”
“The way he guarded his own Pawnee woman,” Enapay said sourly. “If there is one in the village who has not had her, I will gift him with however many horses I capture from the Pawnee.” He scowled into the fire, and then said, “If ever we ride out again.”
“We will do this with the white man first. And when we have taken the three women home, we will ride out again.”
“That was not our plan,” Enapay said. “I do not like changing plans.”
“But the wagon is alone,” Teetonkah said simply.
“There are two men,” Enapay said.
“Who do not know we are here.”
Enapay considered this. It was true that four surprising a smaller number of men could be thought of as eight or even ten. But the white men had rifles, and in this war party there were none. He mentioned this now. “There are rifles,” he said. “Otaktay, are there not rifles?”
“Yes, there are rifles.”
“And we have none.”
“We will have rifles later this night,” Teetonkah said.
“The women, all three, have hair of a yellow color,” Otaktay said.
“The women are sometimes fierce,” Enapay said darkly.
“More the reason to take them,” Teetonkah said, and grinned.
On the ground near the fire, the wolfskin he had earlier worn on his shoulder was spread with the head pointing toward what had been their destination: the Pawnee village. He lifted the skin now, and placed it on the ground again so that the wolf’s nose was pointed toward where Otaktay said he had seen the solitary wagon.
“Is there any here who has dreamed of a wolf?” he asked.
Howahkan, who had been silent till now, said, “I.” He was the youngest among them. His face looked troubled. Two of his brothers had been slain in encounters with the white man, and though he was eager to avenge their murders, he was also somewhat afraid. He accepted from Teetonkah the pipe he offered, and holding the bowl in his left hand, the stem in his right, said in the strange rasping voice for which he had been named, “Wakang’tangka, behold this pipe, behold it. I ask you to smoke it. We want to get horses. I ask you to help us. That is why I speak to you with this pipe.” He reversed the position of the pipe now, holding the bowl in his right hand and the stem in his left, pointing up toward his left shoulder. “Now, wolf,” he said, “behold this pipe. Smoke it and bring us horses.”
“There are no horses,” Otaktay said.
“I know that,” Howahkan replied.
“Then do not pray for horses when we know there are only mules.”
“Pray for help in capturing the women, too,” Teetonkah said.
“I would have you do the pipe,” Howahkan said, insulted, and started to hand the pipe back to Teetonkah.
“It is you who dreamt of the wolf,” Teetonkah said.
Howahkan nodded sullenly, put the unlighted pipe in his mouth, and said, “Wakang’tangka, I will now smoke this pipe in your honor. I ask that no harm come to us in battle. I ask that we may get many horses.”
“Again the horses!” Otaktay said. “He knows there are only mules.”
“And many women,” Howahkan said, looking to Teetonkah for approval. He lit the pipe and puffed on it then, holding the bowl in both hands. “Behold this pipe,” he said, “and behold us. We have shed much blood. We have lost brothers and friends in battle. I ask you to protect us from shedding more blood, and to give us long lives.” He puffed on the pipe again, and then passed it to Teetonkah. Teetonkah smoked the pipe solemnly and silently, and then passed it to Otaktay, who puffed on it and handed it to Enapay, who still seemed doubtful. He accepted the pipe, but before he smoked it, he said again, “I do not like changing plans. The plan was for the Pawnee.” He put the stem between his teeth then, and drew on the pipe and let out a puff of smoke.
There was no medicine man among them, who would have sprinkled water on the wolfskin and sung a song and prayed to Wakang’tangka for rain to hide them when they attacked. But Howahkan had dreamt the night before of the warrior wolf, and they asked him now to sing a song for rain. He was not a medicine man; he knew no songs for rain. So he sang a song he thought applied to the attack they would make as soon as it was dark. They stood about him as he sang hoarsely in the gathering dusk; beside him, Enapay imitated the sound of an owl.
“Someone like this,” Howahkan sang.