chance with your future wife, and future in-laws, by fooling around. A Cheyenne girl who got seduced got exposed publicly, and mocked, mocked almost unto death. No one would marry her—she was an outcast.
Mac heard people coming his way, a couple of female voices and a man’s—no, Calling Eagle’s strange, reedy voice. The women must be coming for water. Embarrassed for no reason, Mac sat still, hoping they wouldn’t see him.
The women came from the cottonwood shadows into the light by the stream, an old woman, Calling Eagle, and a little girl. The girl straddled some rocks and reached out into some swift water to fill her buffalo-stomach pouch. The old woman dipped her gourd and drank. Calling Eagle had a firkin, another sign of Strikes Foots’ prosperity. She hiked up her skirt and waded in knee-deep downstream of the girl to fill it. The little girl was afraid of losing her balance. The old woman stretched a hand out to help the child back. The girl wobbled and pulled the old woman off balance and they both fell in.
Whooping and laughing, soaked, the girl and old woman hurried back toward their lodge. Calling Eagle shooed them along with words. Then she started searching the edges of the creek—probably for small, flat stones, thought Mac. She made lovely bead necklaces accented’ with bone and such stones.
Evidently finding nothing, she set the firkin on the bank and stretched her arms. She walked to the trees without the firkin, pulled her skirt up, and—what?
She was holding something suspiciously like a penis in one hand. Piss was jetting out of it onto the cottonwood.
3
“Wagh!” grunted Skinhead. “I thought ye knowed, boy.”
Mac merely flushed with anger. Jim looked from one to the other with suppressed amusement. Mac was leading a pony around the rope corral, and Jim was sitting it bareback.
“This child told you she’s hemaneh .”
“How was I to know it meant queer?”
“She ain’t exactly queer, beaver.”
“You mean she and Strikes Foot don’t do it?” Mac challenged. He was thinking of the nights he lay in Strikes Foot’s lodge and heard sounds of sexual goings-on. He was hoping it had been Strikes Foot and Lame Deer.
“This child wouldn’t say that neither,” Skinhead proceeded calmly. “He didn’t rightly think as you’re ready to know about hemaneh .”
Mac turned back toward Skinhead and pulled the pony’s neck awkwardly. “Hey!” said Jim softly. Mac paid attention to his leading.
They were going to have to borrow horses from Strikes Foot to get to Fort Union, so they might as well get them green-broke for him. Now it was almost too dark to work.
“Don’t make no never mind to you, anyway,” ventured Skinhead.
The hell it doesn’t, Mac was thinking—I’m about to marry into this damn bunch.
“She ain’t interested in you.”
“He,” Mac said sharply.
Skinhead shook his head. “She. That’s important. She. You call her he and you’ll offend everyone. Cancel our welcome, you would.”
Jim slid off the pony and took the halter rope to give her some more leading.
Mac walked toward Skinhead. “Don’t make sense.”
“You don’t see the sense of it. Hemaneh means would-be woman. It’s one way.”
“Queer way,” muttered Mac.
Skinhead cocked an eye at him. “You worried about being husband to a Cheyenne now?”
Mac just looked at him.
“You got lots to learn,” Skinhead went on. “Wait till you see the squaws torturing some poor Blackfoot. And your squaw leading the way, cutting his balls off. They got the taste for torture, indeed they do. Maybe you oughta stay a few weeks, learn something about your new family.”
“Seems like being Cheyenne would be hard to take,” Mac admitted.
“Don’t think so.” Skinhead began opening his fold-over hunting shirt. Mac realized he had never seen his friend undressed.
On Skinhead’s chest, seeming to glare in the half dark, were pearly white vertical scars. “They put the medicine-lodge
Mac heard people coming his way, a couple of female voices and a man’s—no, Calling Eagle’s strange, reedy voice. The women must be coming for water. Embarrassed for no reason, Mac sat still, hoping they wouldn’t see him.
The women came from the cottonwood shadows into the light by the stream, an old woman, Calling Eagle, and a little girl. The girl straddled some rocks and reached out into some swift water to fill her buffalo-stomach pouch. The old woman dipped her gourd and drank. Calling Eagle had a firkin, another sign of Strikes Foots’ prosperity. She hiked up her skirt and waded in knee-deep downstream of the girl to fill it. The little girl was afraid of losing her balance. The old woman stretched a hand out to help the child back. The girl wobbled and pulled the old woman off balance and they both fell in.
Whooping and laughing, soaked, the girl and old woman hurried back toward their lodge. Calling Eagle shooed them along with words. Then she started searching the edges of the creek—probably for small, flat stones, thought Mac. She made lovely bead necklaces accented’ with bone and such stones.
Evidently finding nothing, she set the firkin on the bank and stretched her arms. She walked to the trees without the firkin, pulled her skirt up, and—what?
She was holding something suspiciously like a penis in one hand. Piss was jetting out of it onto the cottonwood.
3
“Wagh!” grunted Skinhead. “I thought ye knowed, boy.”
Mac merely flushed with anger. Jim looked from one to the other with suppressed amusement. Mac was leading a pony around the rope corral, and Jim was sitting it bareback.
“This child told you she’s hemaneh .”
“How was I to know it meant queer?”
“She ain’t exactly queer, beaver.”
“You mean she and Strikes Foot don’t do it?” Mac challenged. He was thinking of the nights he lay in Strikes Foot’s lodge and heard sounds of sexual goings-on. He was hoping it had been Strikes Foot and Lame Deer.
“This child wouldn’t say that neither,” Skinhead proceeded calmly. “He didn’t rightly think as you’re ready to know about hemaneh .”
Mac turned back toward Skinhead and pulled the pony’s neck awkwardly. “Hey!” said Jim softly. Mac paid attention to his leading.
They were going to have to borrow horses from Strikes Foot to get to Fort Union, so they might as well get them green-broke for him. Now it was almost too dark to work.
“Don’t make no never mind to you, anyway,” ventured Skinhead.
The hell it doesn’t, Mac was thinking—I’m about to marry into this damn bunch.
“She ain’t interested in you.”
“He,” Mac said sharply.
Skinhead shook his head. “She. That’s important. She. You call her he and you’ll offend everyone. Cancel our welcome, you would.”
Jim slid off the pony and took the halter rope to give her some more leading.
Mac walked toward Skinhead. “Don’t make sense.”
“You don’t see the sense of it. Hemaneh means would-be woman. It’s one way.”
“Queer way,” muttered Mac.
Skinhead cocked an eye at him. “You worried about being husband to a Cheyenne now?”
Mac just looked at him.
“You got lots to learn,” Skinhead went on. “Wait till you see the squaws torturing some poor Blackfoot. And your squaw leading the way, cutting his balls off. They got the taste for torture, indeed they do. Maybe you oughta stay a few weeks, learn something about your new family.”
“Seems like being Cheyenne would be hard to take,” Mac admitted.
“Don’t think so.” Skinhead began opening his fold-over hunting shirt. Mac realized he had never seen his friend undressed.
On Skinhead’s chest, seeming to glare in the half dark, were pearly white vertical scars. “They put the medicine-lodge
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