Murder at Medicine Lodge Read Online Free Page B

camping areas, Crying Wind didn’t trust any one of them.
    Encouraging my son to walk out the pains in his wobbly, bowed-out legs, I began leading the horses up the slight incline toward her. And— I forget. Did I say it was hot? Well, it was. I cannot stress this too much, for this is a memory of Medicine Lodge that comes to me each and every time I think of the place. An arid heat filling the valley of about twenty miles, shimmering under a sun so blazing-hot that the skin blistered and lungs were seared with each drawn breath. This was the way of the high prairies. There the land is either boiling hot or freezing cold. This was Osage country and, as far as I was concerned, they were welcome to it.
    Despite the heat, the snuffles of my son, and the uncooperative attitudes of the horses, I pulled all of us forward, up an incline that felt steeper than it looked. With each step I took, I believed it would be my last, as I was about to expire from heatstroke. My own peril quickly reminded me to spread the word among our people to double up on their daily ration of salt. I was thinking about that, thinking that we Kiowa who preferred more humid climes were at risk in this awful place, when the horses, my little boy, and I, finally made it up that hill.
    She was an amazing woman, my wife. I might balk at giving the roan a swift kick to hurry it along, but she felt no such hesitation. As soon as we were close enough to her, Crying Wind took over boy, man, and the horses, and we were quick to obey her scolding words, get out of the way of her slapping hand. With her in charge, we were quickly at the chosen site. The instant we arrived I fell down, lay sprawled on my back while Crying Wind, after sending Favorite Son off to cool himself in the creek, began the work of unpacking. With a groan, I rolled to the side, then eased myself into a sitting position. Crying Wind sent me that look. The look all married men know. The look that told me we were still having a fight, that she was still carrying a grudge. Well, I thought, fine. If she wants to fight, we’ll have a really good fight. I peeled myself off the ground and proceeded to do something guaranteed to irritate the very breath out of her.
    Another myth about Indian men is that we are feckless, content to sit around while our poor women are made to do all of the work. What a load of— Indian men are not shiftless and we are not helpless. We can make a camp as good as any woman, and during the many years I lived alone, I took care of myself wonderfully well. It was only since my marriage that, according to Crying Wind, I couldn’t do anything right. Normally I would just take myself off, stay out of her way until she had our home exactly the way she wanted it. But on that day, just to prove to her that she could not growl at me like a badger, bossing me the way she had our horses, I was just as helpful as I knew how to be.
    And, oooh, did that make her mad!
    Marriage is like a dance, the constant circling of partners seeking a workable coexistence. I’ve known a lot of men who felt that once a comfortable life was made with a woman, that the excitement of marriage was over. I never felt that way. But then again, I was married to Crying Wind and they weren’t. Even though I adored her—would have given my life for her—when she set to snarling and snapping at me, I would lose all patience and give her just as good as I got.
    This was how a handful of warriors found us, me helping to raise the lodge poles, and Crying Wind and I quarreling and saying a number of unflattering things. Only when I turned my head, saw the three of them standing there, smirks twitching their lips, did I feel any remorse about the way I was intentionally baiting my wife.
    â€œWhite Bear wants to see you,” Raven’s Wing said.
    To my mortal embarrassment Crying Wind tipped back her head and shouted, “Thank you, Father above!”
    I was mad at her for a