NO EARS SAT BEHIND A LARGE SAGE BUSH, WATCHING SEVEN cranes wade in the small creek. The cranes had arrived in the dark. Because he had no ears, the old man had felt, rather than heard, their arrival. Their great wings disturbed the air sufficiently to wake him from his light sleep.
The fact that it had been dark when the cranes arrived made No Ears suspicious. The cranes had shown bad manners, in his view. In the first place, they belonged in the Platte River, not a small creek in Wyoming. No Ears, an Ogalala, had lived by the Platte River most of his life; he had seen the cranes come in their thousands, year after year, to rest in the wide river.
No Ears had little patience with bad manners, whether in bird or beast. He liked things to behave as they should, and the caprice of the cranes annoyed him. Crazy Woman Creek was not the Platte. What did these cranes think they were doing, straying into such a creek? Even worse, they had arrived at night, a very unmannerly thing. In his more than eighty years, No Ears could not remember seeing birds behave so badly, and he considered marching down to the creek to inform them of his disapproval.
What kept him silent behind his sage bush was the suspicion that the cranes’ arrival had something to do with him. It was well known that cranes were spirit messengers. All cranes were thought to have the ability to travel to the spirit place, and the seven cranes in Crazy Woman Creek were not ordinary cranes of the sort so common in the sandhills to the east. These were the great cranes that whooped—some considered that they spoke the language of souls, seducing tired spirits from people’s bodies and taking them away through a hole in the sky.
The hole in the sky was said to be far to the south, near the shores of an ocean whose waters were always warm.
No Ears had never seen an ocean and had little interest in seeing one, but he had a keen interest in the hole in the sky—namely, an interest in seeing that his own soul didn’t get snatched by a crane and carried away forever, through the hole.
No Ears thought well of the spirit world; he just wasn’t ready to visit it, and it annoyed him that the seven cranes had come to tempt his soul. They were large birds—even the smallest of them could have stepped across the trickle of the creek in a single stride. Such birds could easily carry several souls, which were light things, as easily blown away as thistledown.
He wanted to stand up, march down to the creek, and tell the birds they had made a mistake. He wasn’t through with his soul, wasn’t ready to die. He had seen many men die—some had feared it, but many hadn’t; many had died calmly, almost indifferently. From watching these many passings, No Ears had concluded that he just didn’t want to die—calmly, indifferently, fearfully, or any other way.
He wanted to confront the cranes and make that fact known to them, but he knew it could be risky. He was old; his soul was very light. What if it floated out of his body for a moment? One of the cranes might snatch it as if it were a frog or a small water snake, and then carry it south through the hole in the sky. Even if he shot the crane his soul might still float away.
It was too large a risk, No Ears concluded. He had better just stay behind his bush. The arrival of the seven cranes was too suspicious. There was nothing worth their time in the immediate vicinity, except his soul. He might challenge them and scare them off, but there were seven of them. He felt outnumbered—so he sat, annoyed that birds would behave so badly, and galled that the soul’s attachment to the body was such an undependable thing.
When No Ears was ten, his people were traveling on the Red River of the North and had gotten into a fight with some French traders. The traders, better armed, shot all the Indians and cut their ears off. No Ears was shot, but didn’t die. He woke to discover that his people were dead and that he had no ears. An old blind woman was the only other person spared. The traders had hit her in the head and left it at that. No Ears led the old woman across the prairie, back to the Platte.
Lack of ears was a severe handicap to No Ears in his youth. Warriors laughed at him and refused to let him fight with them. Girls wouldn’t have him. At fifteen he killed a wolf, took its ears, and persuaded a daughter of the old woman he had saved to sew the wolf’s ears to his head. This effort earned him a certain respect, but in the end it failed. One night while he slept a dog tore one of the wolf’s ears loose. Fleas by the hundreds collected in the other ear—finally, maddened by the fleas, he tore that ear off too. Part of his scalp came with it.
He never again attempted to acquire ears, though for many years he continued to miss them and for a time was haunted by stories of a Yaqui medicine man, somewhere in Mexico, who had medicines that could make missing body parts grow back. No Ears contemplated trying to find the Yaqui, but something always came up, and he never went.
After some fifty summers had passed, by which time No Ears had buried four wives, outlived all but a few of his own people, and survived many close brushes with death, he became comfortable with his handicap and even proud of it. He could hear, of course, but only in a whistly and erratic way; what he excelled at was smelling. Year by year, his capacity to smell had become more and more refined, finally becoming so keen that it brought him renown throughout the west. He could smell buffalo and he could smell rain. He could sniff a woman’s belly and tell if she were fertile, and he could smell babies in the womb within a few days of their conception.
Above all, he could smell death. It was No Ears who walked into camp, a hundred miles from the Little Bighorn, and informed General Crook of the Custer massacre. Bodies rotted quickly in the hot June sun—the smell of hundreds of dead had reached him on the wind. General Crook believed him, too; few men doubted No Ears’s nose.
Another thing that worried him about the cranes was that he couldn’t smell them—they stood in the water on their long, stemlike legs, as neutral as air.
Also, it was No Ears’s belief that death resided in the north. The hole in the sky was supposed to be in the south, but in his view that was only a trick to divert the victim’s attention. The seven cranes had come from the north, a sure sign, to No Ears’s way of thinking, that they had come on a spirit mission.
Carefully No Ears sniffed his hands. He had often wondered if he would be able to smell himself die, and the presence of the cranes made the question urgent. If his spirit had begun a quiet withdrawal, his flesh would soon begin to smell empty. He had often noticed an empty smell in the extremities of the dying, a sign that the blood was leaving with the spirit. No Ears sniffed his hands carefully and was relieved that they smelled fine. It indicated to him that his soul had no interest in leaving with the cranes.
Then a sound slapped the air. The startled cranes lifted their wings and began their slow, awkward climb into the air. Six struggled skyward and flapped off to the east, but one lay kicking in the stream.
Jim Ragg and Bartle Bone came walking up Crazy Woman Creek toward the dying bird.
“Whoopee, crane for breakfast,” Bartle said. He had a bowie knife in his hand. When he came to the crane he stood astraddle of the small stream, grabbed the struggling bird’s neck, and whacked its head off.
“This is a big bird,” he remarked. “It takes a damn good knife to make that clean a cut on a bird this size.”
Held up, the crane was almost as tall as Bartle, though not quite, Bartle being a shade over six feet tall. In his youth the older mountain men had called him Tall Boy and had assigned him the deeper beaver ponds. Jim Ragg, stumpy by contrast, could barely have kept his nose above water in some of the ponds where Bartle trapped.
Jim Ragg set down his gun and blanket and began to look for firewood. He had shot the crane in the head so as to spoil as little meat as possible, but Bartle whacked the bird’s head off without commenting on the shot. Bartle could have shot at the crane for a week and not managed to hit it in the head; it was typical that he would compliment his own knife rather than the shot. Bartle liked to be the best at everything, but in fact was only an average shot. Brilliant shots made by others were always ignored.
Jim scanned the barren plain and didn’t see much firewood, but both men saw No Ears squatting behind a sage bush fifty or sixty yards away.
“Would you be willing to join us for breakfast, or do you prefer just to sit out there and smell yourself?” Bartle yelled.
Of course No Ears expected to be asked to breakfast. He had known the mountain men since they were youths and had helped them on many occasions when they were less experienced and might not have survived. He had lingered behind the bush merely to enjoy a moment of relief at the departure of the cranes—the birds’ behavior had shocked him badly.
He stood up and started toward the creek, but before he had taken three steps Bartle yelled at him again.
“Bring some of that bush with you,” Bartle yelled. “There ain’t much wood around here.”
No Ears ignored this order, as he did most orders. This was another instance of how a handicap could be useful. He could actually hear fairly well but was careful to leave the impression that his hearing was hopelessly damaged. Pretending not to hear always worked better with men than with women. When women gave an order they didn’t care if you could hear it or not, they just wanted it obeyed.
“I wish you’d brought the bush,” Bartle said, when No Ears walked up. “Cranes are tasty, but not if you’re eating them raw.”
“I saw some wood yesterday,” No Ears remarked. “It is not too far from here. We could take the bird where the wood is and cook it there. I would have brought the wood with me but I didn’t know anyone was in Wyoming.”
“How far is the wood?” Jim asked. “How far and which direction? We ain’t very interested in traveling south.”
“That wood is north of here,” No Ears said. “It would not take long to get there if we were riding horses.”
“I don’t notice any horses,” Bartle said.
“No, I don’t either,” No Ears said. “I don’t think there are any around in this part of the country. If there were we could smell them.”
“How far’s the wood if we walk?” Jim Ragg asked, anxious to know whether the wood was within a feasible distance. Once Bartle and No Ears got a conversation started, securing practical information became extremely hard.
No Ears began to have doubts about when he had actually seen the wood. It seemed to him that he had seen it the day before, but he knew that his mind had begun to jump around, like a frog or a grasshopper. Perhaps he had seen the wood ten years ago, or even twenty. The wood had been part of a wagon that had fallen to pieces, and it lay in a little gully not far from Crazy Woman Creek.
“If we walk we will be there before we piss the next time,” No Ears said. “It is about that far, if it is there.”
“Oh, if it’s there,” Bartle said. “I’m not walking two hours on the strength of an if.”
“Me neither,” Jim Ragg said, gutting the crane.
“Excuse me, I’ll go cut off some of that bush,” No Ears said.
Darling Jane—
At this rate I’ll be a year older before I get south of the Bighorns, Satan is disgusted. If he could he’d take up with somebody who covers ground a little faster.
What slowed me up today was three nervous soldiers, not one of them full-grown men. They didn’t used to let boys that young soldier out here, but now that they think they’ve got the Indians whipped it’s anything goes—I guess they’ll be signing up little girls next, so watch out Janey, don’t be tricked.
The three boys were hauling some goods over to the Crow agency, they had never been there before and were afraid they’d get lost. I told them they might miss the agency but it would be hard to miss the Crow, they’re everywhere, they’ll be helping you unload the wagon before you can even get stopped.
It’s not getting lost these boys had on their minds, Janey, it’s the Cheyenne. There’s only a few Cheyenne now but they have a big reputation, they’ve earned it too. These boys don’t know their Indians either, they seem to think old Crazy Horse might ride up and scalp them, I mentioned that he was a Sioux, but it did no good. I think some sergeant has been teasing them, telling them Crazy Horse is still alive. I don’t know why grown men think it is such fun to scare boys.
The upshot was that I rode over to the Rosebud with them and pointed them on their way, they were sorry to see me go, they all miss their mothers I imagine. Since I had traveled that far out of my way I thought I might as well go visit my friend Mrs. Elkshoulders. She talked a blue streak, mostly in Cheyenne, I didn’t understand half of it but she is a loyal friend. When Dora DuFran was all but dead Mrs. Elkshoulders come all the way to Miles City with her ointments and herbs and Dora pulled through, without Mrs. Elk as I call her, Dora would be gone.
The ointment smelled like grizzly grease to me, it was rank, the only thing that smells worse than buffalo hunters is grizzly grease. I have always been scared of bears, anyone with good sense is, that don’t include Blue, one of the best stories about Blue is him roping the grizzly. It was a young one, I guess Blue thought he could handle it, there’s no one as cocky as Blue, he thinks he can handle anything but he couldn’t handle that yearling grizzly. The bear turned around and killed his horse—Blue had to scamper out of there on foot or the bear would have killed him too. Later Blue went back hoping to find his saddle, he had had the saddle since his Texas days and hated to lose it, but he lost it, the saddle was never seen again. It taught Blue not to rope bears, it may be the one thing he has ever learned in his life, Blue is deadly stubborn.
But now the grizzlies have about left the plains, the plains are too busy now, too many soldiers are running around who like to think they’re bear hunters, they’re fools, it’s no sure thing hunting bear.
Last night I dreamed of you Janey, I often do. It’s sad that a mother only gets to see her little girl in dreams, but as Dora would say it’s better than nothing. You had won a prize at school for doing your letters graceful. I hope you will develop a good handwriting Janey, not a scrawl like mine. I was proud while the dream lasted, it’s a comfort to have a daughter who’s good in school or can even go to one, I never did. But then I woke up crying, I cried all morning, it’s another reason for the slow start.
Dora DuFran hates it when I cry, she says will you dry up? She knows if I don’t she’ll start crying too and the two of us will bawl like babies half the day, Dora about her sorrows and me about mine. Hers are mostly the result of being in love with Blue, I can’t see that they compare with mine—love a skunk and you’re sure to get skunked. But that’s my point of view, I’m sure Dora’s is the opposite. The other day she told me she was thinking of moving to Deadwood, maybe she thinks Blue will let her alone if she’s living in the hills. He won’t—hill or plain means nothing to Blue, he’ll want his little visits wherever Dora is. She asked me if I’d come with her—we’ll always be a pair, she said.
Dora and I will always be a pair, I won’t desert her, but life in Deadwood might be too painful, it’s where Wild Bill is buried. He’s in Mount Moriah cemetery, on Jerusalem Street. I have paid him many visits there—I visit him just as Blue visits Dora, except Blue’s alive and Dora’s alive—I guess they find some love amid their troubles. Blue being married elsewhere don’t mean he’s lost his passion for Dora.
But it’s just a grave I’m visiting on Mount Moriah, Wild Bill’s grave, he’s been in it twelve years—you were already safe with your Daddy Jack when the coward McCall shot your father. I was not about to subject my precious daughter to these rough mining camps.
I think it’s a mistake for Dora to move, the climate is healthier in Miles City, but Dora’s restless—she’s always restless, I expect she’ll move anyway and take along Fred the parrot. Maybe Fred will learn some new words over in Deadwood, but what will I learn new? It’s painful when your true love dies, that’s all I’ll learn in Deadwood, and I already know it.
They say Deadwood is civilized now and even has a mayor, I asked who and someone said Potato Creek Johnny, ha! I had to laugh. I knew Johnny down at Fort Fetterman when he was breaking horses for soldiers, nobody would have picked him for a mayor then. I wouldn’t pick him for one now, though I count him a pal, he only found one nugget, finding one nugget don’t mean he can be a mayor. The first thing he’ll do is arrest me and Dora, or maybe he won’t, we both know too much about him.
All this old stuff must bore you, Janey, I don’t mean to write it, I started these letters thinking you might want to know a little about your mother’s life—first thing you know it became a habit. I have no idea what you think about it—you are a bit young to be writing letters yourself. I want my little girl to be proud of her mother—I should have considered better, there’s not that much to be proud of, at least it don’t seem that way now. I am not a braggart Janey, I just try to be decent—some don’t think I am, ladies don’t, or women who call themselves ladies, there’s a few in every town, how I despise them. I picked one of the old snoots up and threw her in the horse trough in Dodge City, it aroused a crowd and your father Wild Bill said I ought to vamoose for a while. It made me fighting mad that he told me that, what right did he have to tell me I had to leave Dodge or anyplace? No right, and I told him so, then I left anyway—I am too proud to stay where I’m not wanted, we were a long time making that up, but we did.
Well, this is another letter I might as well throw away, why would a sweet girl like you want to hear all this old stuff? I have wasted six sheets of paper on it.
Good night Janey,
Your mother, Martha Jane