Walking Wolf Read Free

punishing us for our lack of respect. Just then, Medicine Dog came up and motioned for the elders to be quiet.
    â€œNow, you old fellows, you were once boys like Little Wolf and Small Bear! Don’t you remember what devils you were? Forgive them their actions—for will boys not be boys?”
    The elders looked at one another, laughed and let the matter drop. After all, they were old men—peaceable after all the years spent on the warpath, not young warriors jealous of their dignity. All in all, they were fine old gents.
    Every year, near winter, the various bands of Comanche would gather together. It was a time when news was swapped, friends and family saw one another, marriages and liaisons between different bands became formalized, and the braves took a breather from the hunting and raiding that filled the rest of their year.
    There were several different branches of Comanche back then, some of which were more powerful than others. Like I said earlier, I was a member of the Penateka, or the Wasp Band. Others included the Yamparika (the Yap-Eaters), the Kweharena (the Antelope People), the Kutsuaka (the Buffalo-Eaters), the Pahuraix (the Water Horses), and the Wa’ai (the Wormy Penis—don’t ask), to name just a few. But even collected together in all their glory, there couldn’t have been more than ten thousand Comanche. So you can imagine the damage that was done when smallpox broke out during the gathering in 1850. I couldn’t have been more than six or seven at the time, but I remember it being worse than any nightmare I’d ever had—or ever will again. It was then that my adopted mother, Thunder Buffalo Woman, died. It broke poor Eight Clouds’s heart, and he was never quite the same after that, even though he ended up taking her younger sister, Little Dove, to wife a year or two later.
    I was twelve years old by the time I finally got to go on my first real buffalo hunt. I was riding with Eight Clouds and several other braves from our band, including one who went by the name Grass Rope. Grass Rope’s specialty was lying low in the weeds and sneaking up on the buffalo while they were grazing. He wore a coyote skin draped over his shoulders to mask his scent. Since coyotes were always haunting the fringes of the herds, looking to scavenge afterbirth during the calving season, the buffalo didn’t pay much mind, since they were too small to bring down even the youngest calf.
    When we spied the herd, Grass Rope got off his pony and motioned for me to follow him. Holding his bow at the ready, he got down on his hands and knees and started creeping through the prairie grass in the direction of the buffalo. I followed him, doing my best to keep upwind. I was very proud that a skilled stalker such as Grass Rope had chosen me to accompany him, and I was determined to cover myself with glory the best I could. But as we crept closer and closer to the herd, something strange began to happen.
    My sense of smell had always been acute, but for some reason it was incredibly keen that day. I could smell the grass as the sun dried the dew from its stems, the pungent odor of buffalo wool, the reek of their flops—but, more importantly, I could smell the coyote pelt Grass Rope was wearing. I caught its scent, and for the briefest moment I knew everything there was to know about the beast it had once belonged to: its sex, age, health and social standing in its pack. The surge of recognition was so powerful, I had to lower my head and whine.
    Grass Rope gave me a hard look. Hunting was serious business, and it was no time for foolish pranks. “Be quiet, Little Wolf!” he whispered.
    I tried to keep silent, but I was suddenly gripped by a strange fire that burned deep inside me like a banked coal. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out, causing blood to flow. The fire in my belly was growing, and my skin felt as if it were covered with biting ants. My bones seemed to be