Almost Complete Short Fiction, page 24
Big Head and Nine Killer stared at him. “Eee,” Big Head said finally. “Why would anybody do that?”
“And how?” Nine Killer asked. “Otter wouldn’t just let himself be carried around, like a baby, and then lie there and let somebody stick a knife in him.” He looked down at the body again. “Maybe he was tied?” he said doubtfully.
“Unh-tla,” Smoke said, and pointed. “No marks on his arms or legs. Besides, tied or not, he’d have struggled. And the sand under him isn’t disturbed at all.”
A voice said, “I can tell you that part.”
All three men turned as a short, stocky young man came through the crowd and stepped out onto the sand. He was dressed in ragged, rather dirty white-style shirt and trousers. His face was a bad color and he moved slowly, as if in pain.
“Yellow Bird,” Nine Killer said. “What can you tell us?”
Yellow Bird started toward them, stumbling a little, walking right across the line of footprints. Nine Killer started to speak, but Smoke said quietly, “It’s all right. The tracks have told us all they’re going to.”
“Otter was drunk,” Yellow Bird said as he came near. His voice was thick and dry. “We got drunk last night, Otter and me, out at Fenn’s place.”
The three older men looked at one another. Jack Fenn was a half-breed, the son of a white trader—killed, some years ago, by a Creek raiding party—and a Deer Clan woman. He lived just outside of town in a big house his father had built, like a white man’s home; there he sold the usual trade goods—powder, beads, cloth, metal pots, knives, whatever the People wanted—in exchange for furs and deerskins.
All of which was fine, but he also sold whiskey and rum; he even kept a room where people could buy the stuff by the drink. Fenn’s place had been the scene of many fights and other troubles, and the liquor he sold had caused endless problems among the people of the town. There had been talk of running him off; but he was still one of the People—even if he didn’t act like it—and under the protection of the powerful Deer Clan.
“We got drunk,” Yellow Bird repeated. His eyes were red, and his face looked swollen. “We got a jug and we came back this way and we sat down under a tree, up by the river trail, and drank some more, and finally we went to sleep on the ground. Anybody could have picked Otter up and carried him off,” Yellow Bird said. “The shape he was in, he wouldn’t have known it.”
Nine Killer was looking disgusted. “And you didn’t see or hear anything?”
“I was as drunk as he was,” Yellow Bird confessed. “Whoever did it could have done the same to me if he wanted.”
He looked down at the body. “Can I see that knife?”
Smoke said, “Sure,” and bent down and pulled the knife from Otter’s body, feeling the back edge of the blade grate slightly on bone. The handle was covered with sticky drying blood, and he didn’t like the thought that he was getting it on his hand, but he’d have to smoke himself clean after this anyway.
The knife was an ordinary butcher knife, of the kind sold by traders throughout the First Nations, with a wide curving blade and a plain wooden handle. The edge had been resharpened in the usual way, so that the bevel was all on one side, for skinning—or for scalping, which after all was basically a skinning job.
There was nothing unusual about it except the rawhide wrapping around the handle. But Yellow Bird said, “That’s Otter’s own knife. I remember when he put that rawhide on, after he dropped it on some rocks and broke a piece off the handle.”
“Huh.” Smoke looked at the knife a moment longer and then turned and spun the bloody weapon out across the river, where it skipped a couple of times before disappearing beneath the cool green water. Nobody objected.
“Could it have been an enemy raid?” Big Head mused. “No, they’d have scalped him. White men, maybe?”
“No white men could have come through here without our knowing it,” Smoke told him. “Anyway, those tracks were made by moccasins. No, it wasn’t an outsider. Whoever did it is right here in this town.”
Turning back to Yellow Bird, he said, “Did anything happen out at Fenn’s place? A fight, maybe?”
Yellow Bird rubbed his eyes with both hands, like a sleepy child. “There was something,” he mumbled. “Some trouble between Otter and Fenn. I don’t remember much, though. It’s all like a fog inside my head.”
“What’s inside your head,” Nine Killer said angrily, “is that buzzard piss you got from Jack Fenn. If you—”
He stopped suddenly, looking back up the sandbar. “Panther Shooter,” he said in a different voice. “I was wondering when he would show up.”
A big, heavyset man was walking down the bar toward them with slow, deliberate steps. His upper body was wrapped in a red trade blanket, though his muscular legs were bare. His head was down as he studied the footprints in the sand. There would be no need to explain their meaning to him; as the town’s most successful hunter, Panther Shooter could read sign as well as any man alive.
He was also Otter’s mother’s eldest brother, and the leading warrior of the Wolf Clan. Now, Smoke thought, the trouble begins.
Sure enough, Panther Shooter’s first words to Nine Killer were, “Who did this?”
“We don’t know yet,” the headman said.
“He was drunk,” Yellow Bird put in stupidly.
Panther Shooter gave the younger man a look that would have withered a whole cornfield. “With you, I guess? Drinking Fenn’s whiskey again?” He spat on the sand. “No matter,” he said, speaking to Nine Killer again. “He was a worthless fool but he was the Wolf Clan’s worthless fool. We will do the right thing. We will cover Otter’s bones with blood.”
“Yes,” Smoke told him, “but whose blood? That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
Nine Killer began walking back up the sandbar, toward the still-growing crowd of onlookers. The other men followed close behind.
“Listen,” he cried, “we want to know what happened here! Does anybody know anything about it?”
From the back of the crowd a strong, deep voice said, “I can tell you a little.”
The crowd parted, with a certain amount of jostling, and a lean, handsome-faced young man came striding through. He wore the old-fashioned buckskin breechclout and leggings. That was no surprise; Little Dog was one of the conservative faction among the People, opposed to the growing tendency to adopt white ways, and he made a point of dressing in traditional style.
“I was at Fenn’s place last night,” he said. “I saw what happened there.”
“You?” Nine Killer said. “At Fenn’s? Why?”
Little Dog looked away. “My sister,” he said, and everyone sighed in understanding. Little Dog’s sister Walela had been Otter’s wife; still was, strictly speaking, but just barely, because a couple of moons ago she had taken up with Jack Fenn.
Cherokee marriages tended to be pretty loose and short-lived; there was no penalty for adultery, and either spouse could call it quits at any time, for any reason or none. Walela, however, had been particularly shameless, ever since she first tasted whiskey, first lying with any man who would get her a drink, then going right to the source. Nowadays it was common knowledge that she spent more nights at Fenn’s than at home.
“I went to Fenn’s to see if she was all right,” Little Dog said, “and to try to get her to stop shaming the family. She wouldn’t listen. She was already pretty drunk herself.”
“And Otter was there?” Smoke asked.
“No. He came in just as I was about to leave. Yellow Bird was with him,” Little Dog said “They were drunk, too. Otter wanted Walela to come home with him. She said no, and he grabbed her arm and started to pull her toward the door. Fenn told him to stop it, and he let go Walela’s arm and pulled out his knife.”
Several people sucked in their breath and exchanged looks. Nine Killer said, “He went after Fenn with a knife?”
“Not really. He just waved it around, made a lot of talk, said he was going to kill Fenn. You know how he was when he was drinking.” Little Dog’s voice was level and without expression, but his face showed profound contempt. “Then he picked up a jug of whiskey and said he was taking that in payment for Walela lying with Fenn.” His voice did waver a little now. “He said,” Little Dog added with obvious difficulty, “that Fenn had to pay for riding his mare.”
Little Dog paused; you could see him pulling himself together. “And then,” he went on, “when Otter and Yellow Bird were going out the door, Fenn said, ‘Someday somebody’s going to take that knife away from you and kill you with it.’ ”
He looked past Nine Killer and Smoke, at the body lying on the sandbar. “And it looks like somebody did.”
“Fenn.” Panther Shooter’s voice was low and harsh, like the growl of an angry bear. “That’s who did it. Good. I was afraid it would be somebody I wouldn’t enjoy killing.”
“Wait, wait,” Smoke protested. “We don’t know that yet.”
“Good enough for me,” Panther Shooter said impatiently. “Otter threatened Fenn. Fenn followed him and killed him when he was too drunk to fight back. Everybody knows what a coward Fenn is.”
A murmur ran through the crowd, getting louder. But Smoke said again, “Wait,” and held up both hands. “This is wrong. It’s not fitting to be arguing like this in the presence of the dead.”
“Smoke is right,” Nine Killer said decisively. “We’ll talk this out in the proper way, tonight in the council house.”
He looked at Panther Shooter. “You will wait until then before you do anything?”
Panther Shooter didn’t look happy about it, but after a moment he took a deep breath and let it out. “All right. Tonight.”
“I didn’t do it,” Jack Fenn insisted. “I didn’t kill him.”
Evening now, and everybody was gathered in the council house, each clan sitting together in its section around the big seven-sided building: elders in front, everyone else to the rear. Nine Killer sat on his bench in the center, and for this occasion, Smoke sat to his right.
Jack Fenn stood in front of the Deer Clan’s section, facing Nine Killer and Smoke. “Why would I kill him?” he asked. “To get his wife? I already had her. Because he insulted me? I pay no attention to the barking of a scabby dog.”
He was a short, wiry man, about thirty summers of age, dressed in white-style clothing—ruffled white shirt and dark trousers—though his feet were shod in center-seam Cherokee moccasins and copper ornaments dangled from his earlobes. His hair was a dark reddish brown rather than the glossy black of a full-blood; his skin was on the light side, too, and his features were small like those of a white man. But his eyes were the dark brown eyes of the People, and just now they showed desperation and fear. As well they might; here and now he was safe—it was absolutely forbidden to bring weapons into the council house, or to commit any sort of violence in its sacred space—but if the decision went against him, he was a dead man as soon as he walked out the door.
Panther Shooter said, “Otter told you he was going to kill you. You saw a chance and killed him first.”
Sitting to the rear, among the women of the Paint Clan, Otter’s wife, Walela, spoke up. “He didn’t do it,” she said. She had once been a pretty woman, but drink had aged her badly. “He was with me all night.”
Panther Shooter snorted loudly. “You would say black was white for this half-yoneg,” he said scornfully. “Besides, you were probably too drunk yourself to know anything.”
Nine Killer said sharply, “None of that kind of talk inside the council house. Panther Shooter, you know better than that.”
He looked at Jack Fenn. “Little Dog says you talked about killing Otter with his own knife.”
“That’s right,” Yellow Bird put in. He looked a little better than he had that morning but not much. “I remember now,” he said.
Fenn swung around to face Yellow Bird. “And how do we know you didn’t kill him?”
“Me?” Yellow Bird looked shocked. “He was my friend.”
Smoke cleared his throat. “Whiskey has led more than one man to kill a friend,” he said pointedly. “But Yellow Bird was very drunk. And those footprints were not made by a staggering man.”
“Locust, then,” Fenn said, and gestured toward a broad-shouldered young man who sat in the middle of the Blue Clan’s section. “He could have done it. He and Otter were enemies, ever since that business with the horse.”
Everyone fell silent for a moment, considering this. It was true that there was bad blood between Otter and the man named Locust. A favorite horse of Locust’s had disappeared one night and had later turned up in the possession of a white settler, who refused to give it up. The white man hadn’t known the name of the Cherokee who had sold the horse to him, but his description had sounded a lot like Otter; and Otter had vanished the same night as the horse, and had returned to town many days later, dressed in fancy new clothes—somewhat the worse for wear—and showing signs of having been on a long drunk.
Locust had accused Otter to his face of stealing the horse and selling it to the white man; Otter had laughed and told Locust a man shouldn’t have a horse if he couldn’t hold on to it. Locust had said that the same thing ought to apply to wives, and the two men had scuffled in the town street before being separated by Nine Killer and others.
Locust rose to his feet in the middle of the Blue Clan’s section. “It’s true I hated Otter,” he said calmly. “And I say right now that his death is no loss. But”—he raised his voice over the general muttering—“I didn’t kill him last night. If I had wanted to kill him, I would have done it in the open, for everybody to see, and then admitted it like a man.”
He sat back down. There was an uncertain pause. Fenn’s eyes were those of a trapped animal, flickering now here, now there. He seemed about to speak.
But then Black Fox stood up beside Jack Fenn. A husky, middle-aged full-blood, he was the brother of Fenn’s dead mother and therefore Fenn’s closest clan kin.
“I speak for the Deer Clan,” he said. “We are not satisfied that our brother here is guilty of killing Otter. We have heard no one say they saw him do it. We have heard only a lot of guessing, like the gossip of old women.”
He looked straight at Panther Shooter. “We do not accept our brother’s guilt. If his life is taken, or that of any other of the Ani-awi, we will take a life in turn.”
Before Panther Shooter could reply, old Drowning Bear of the Blue Clan said, “We say the same, with regard to our brother Locust.”
It was a bad moment. All about the big council house people were looking this way and that, and their faces, in the flickering light of the torches and the central fire, were not good to see. Violence and blood were in the air, held in check only by the sanctity of the council house.
But Nine Killer had risen from his split-log seat. “Gusdi idadaduhni!” he shouted. “Stop this!”
When quiet had been more or less restored, he added, “People, this will not do. This is not right.”
He turned slowly, looking at all of them in turn. “In all my life,” he said, “I have never heard of such a thing, that one of the Principal People should kill another in secret. Or that any man should fail to step forward and accept the consequences of his acts. I think it must always have been unknown among us, because there is no tradition to guide us in this matter.”
He reached out a hand and touched Smoke on the shoulder. “And so I am asking my old friend Smoke to help us. Perhaps his medicine can reveal the truth.”
Smoke remained seated—enough people, he thought irritably, were popping up and down tonight, like so many ground squirrels—but he inclined his head. “I will try,” he said.
Panther Shooter was talking in low tones with some of the other Wolf Clan men. After a moment he turned back to face Nine Killer. “All right,” he said. “We can’t do anything for the next three days and nights anyway. We have to bury our brother.”
He folded his arms and looked at Smoke. “You have that long, then. In three days, if you can tell us the name of the killer, we will be in your debt. If not—” He glanced at Jack Fenn, then at Locust. “Then we will do as we see fit. Nasgi nusdi,” he finished. “That’s how it is.”
Walking away from the council house, Nine Killer said, “Can you do it?”
“I’ll try,” Smoke said again.
“Good. I hope you succeed.” Nine Killer’s voice was heavy with worry. “Otherwise something very bad is going to happen . . . Fenn!” He fairly spat the name. “I could kill him myself.”
“You think he did it?” Smoke asked mildly.
“Probably. I don’t care,” Nine Killer admitted. “Whoever actually did it, it was caused by that evil stuff he sells. I’d be glad to see the Wolf Clan rid us of Fenn,” he added. “But then the Deer Clan will take a life in return, and then we’ll have a blood feud that will destroy this town. Unless Black Fox and his brothers can be convinced that Fenn is really blood-guilty.”
He gave Smoke a sidelong look. “So if you should find some way . . . you know what I’m saying.”
“You want me to make false medicine?”
“Did I say that?”
The two men grinned at each other in the darkness. Smoke laid a hand on Nine Killer’s arm. “Don’t worry,” he said gently.
“Truth is a funny thing. It comes out in the strangest ways. I have some ideas.”
Three nights later Smoke stood in the center of the council house and said, “I guess you’re all wondering why I called you all together here.”
There was a chorus of chuckles, especially from the older men. Everybody in the council house—it was packed tonight; people were standing up or sitting on the floor, and a few young boys even sat in the rafters overhead—knew exactly why they were there. The old medicine man’s sarcasm was what was needed, though, to ease the tension in the air.
Everybody was dressed in their best tonight, as befitted such a serious occasion. Most of the elders wore tradeblanket robes and fancy turbans with egret or eagle feathers. Shiny silver gorgets swung at the men’s throats, and elaborate ornaments dangled from their stretched earlobes. The women, too, were decked out in their best dresses, and even the children had been cleaned up a bit.
