There were eight Crow women gathering berries on a low knoll less than a quarter of a mile from their village. They chatted as they worked, gossiping about the latest news of a raid the men had been on against the Utes.
Stiff Back Woman was the oldest in the group. She had gotten her name in childhood when an accident had rendered her incapable of bending over. A horse had kicked her squarely between the shoulder blades and she had never been the same. Still, she had led a good life. She’d married a handsome brave and borne him two children, both sons. Now, in her old age, she much enjoyed spending time with her granddaughters and their friends. They respected her years, as all Indian youths were taught to respect their elders, and they looked to her for guidance in womanly matters.
As her wrinkled fingers nimbly plucked the ripe red berries and deposited them in her basket, she kept a wary eye on the surrounding plain for enemies. One never knew when the Blackfeet might stage a raid, and there were always grizzlies to watch out for.
As alert as she was, she still didn’t hear the rider approach, and had no idea they were no longer alone until she glanced up and saw the white man observing them. Although surprised that any white man could come up on them so quietly, she retained her composure. He was a big man on a fine black stallion, and nearby stood a great black dog. She stopped picking berries and greeted him in her tongue.
“Hello,” the man said in the Crow language, and then he pointed at the village and used his hand in flawless sign language. “I seek Red Moon’s people. Is that his village?”
“Yes,” Stiff Back Woman responded. She saw no reason to lie to this man. He had an air of honorable character about him that impressed her. “But Red Moon is not there. He has not been seen in four or five moons.”
“Is his grandson there?”
Stiff Back Woman frowned in sadness. “Little Sparrow died two moons ago. He was asking for his grandfather when he gave up the spirit.”
The rider closed his eyes and seemed to tremble. When he opened his eyes again they were moist. “Thank you. Tell your people Red Moon is dead. Tell them he died bravely.” With that the white man wheeled his horse and rode off, the dog keeping pace with the stallion.
“Wait!” Stiff Back Woman shouted, but it was no use. The rider went down the knoll and out across the prairie, and was soon lost in the dust raised by his mount.