IT WAS EARLY IN the autumn, the leaves turning over yellow in the puzzling wind, that a woman of the Cheyennes and her father went to collect meat he had killed. They each rode a horse and led a pack horse behind, for the father had killed two fine antelopes and had left them, skinned and cut up and covered well with hide.
They didn’t know that a party of Crows had found the cache and knew it for a Cheyenne kill by the hide covering it.
“We will wait for the hunter to come and collect his meat,” they said. “We will get both a Cheyenne and his meat.” It made them laugh at the thought.
And so it happened. The Cheyenne man and his daughter came innocently to the meat and the Crows charged down on them. The man was killed and his daughter was taken away as a prisoner, well to the north, to a village on the Sheep River which is now called the Big Horn.
Is that the end of the story, grandfather?
It is only the beginning. This is called “The Woman Who Loved A Bear.” I have not even come to the bear yet.
The man who carried the pipe of the Crow war party was named Fifth Man Over and he had two wives. But when he looked at the Cheyenne girl he thought that she was very fine looking and wanted her for his wife. Of course his two wives were both Crow women, which means they were ugly and hard. They were not pleased about the Cheyenne woman becoming his third wife. When they asked her name, she told them she was called “Walks with the Sun,” so they called her “Flat Foot Walker.” But they could call her what they wanted, it did not change the fact that she was beautiful and they were not.
So whenever Fifth Man Over was away from the lodge, they abused the Cheyenne girl. They hit her with quirts and sticks and stones till her arms and legs were bruised. But they were careful not to hit her in the face, where even Fifth Man Over would see and ask questions.
The days and weeks went by and the beautiful Cheyenne wife had to do all the hard work. She had to pack the wood and dress the hides; she had to make moccasins, not only for her Crow husband, but for his ugly wives as well.
Grandfather, I have heard this story before. I have seen a movie of it. It is called “Cinderella.”
Is there a bear in “Cinderella”?
No, of course not.
Then you do not know this story. This is a true story, from the time when children played games suited to their years and spoke with respect to their grandfathers. You will listen carefully so that you may tell the story just as I tell it to you.
Now, in Fifth Man Over’s lodge there also lived a young man, about a year older than the Cheyenne woman, who was an Arapaho and had been taken as a slave in a raid when he was a small child. He had the keeping and herding of Fifth Man Over’s horses. He was not straight and tall like a Cheyenne, but limped because his left foot had been burned in the raid that made him a slave. But he had a strong nose and straight black hair and he spoke softly to the Cheyenne woman.
“These women abuse you,” he said. “You must not let them do so.”
“I cannot do otherwise,” Walks with the Sun answered. “They are my husband’s elder wives.” It was the proper answer, but she was a Cheyenne woman and they were only Crows, and so she said it through set teeth.
“Make many moccasins,” the Arapaho told her. “Many more than are needed. Hide some away for yourself.”
“Why should I do this?” she asked.
“Because you will need them on the trail back to your people.”
She looked straight in his face and saw that there was no deceit there. She did not look at his crooked leg.
“You will wear out many moccasins on the trail,” he said.
When does the bear come in, grandfather?
Soon.
How soon?
Soon enough. It is not time to cut this story off. Listen. You will have to tell it back to me, you know.
Walks with the Sun made many moccasins, and for every three she made, she hid one away. This took her through winter and into the spring when the snow melted and the first flowers appeared down by the river bank.
“We will go in the morning for the buffalo,” said Fifth Man Over to his wives. By this he meant he would ride a horse and they would come behind with the pack horse pulling the travois sled.
“She should not come with us,” said his first wife, pointing to Walks with the Sun. “She is a Cheyenne and has no stamina and will not be able to keep up and will want more than her share of the meat.”
“And she is ugly,” said the second wife, but she did not say it very loud.
“I will stay home, my husband,” said Walks with the Sun, “and make the lodge ready for your return.”
“And you will not break any of the pots we have worked so hard on,” said the first wife.
‘“And you will not eat anything till we come back,” said the second wife.
With all this Walks with the Sun agreed, though she would have loved to see the buffalo in their great herds and the men on their horses charging down on the bulls, even though they were Crow and not Cheyenne. She had heard that the sound of the buffalo running was like thunder on the great open plain, that it was a music that made the grass dance. But she kept her head bent and her eyes modestly down.
So Fifth Man Over and his two wives and most of the other hunters and their wives left to go after the buffalo. And the Arapaho went, too, for he was to take care of the horses along the way.
Grandfather, a buffalo is not a bear, and you promised.
There will be a bear.
Buffalo do not eat bear. Bear eat buffalo. I prefer the bear.
There will be a bear.
There had better be.
But the young man returned the long way around, leaving his own horse in the timber outside of the camp. He came limping into the Crow village and the old people said to him, “Why are you here? What has happened to the people?” By this they meant the Crows.
“Nothing has happened to the people. They are following the buffalo. But my horse threw me and ran away and I have come back for another.” He went to Fifth Man Over’s lodge and saddled another horse and put two fine blankets on it, but not the best, because he was a slave after all. But before he mounted up, he went into the lodge and said to Walks with the Sun, “Now is your time. I have hidden my own horse in the timber down by the creek. You must take a large pot and go down later for water and you will find it there. Put your extra moccasins in the pot, for should you lose the horse, you will surely need them.”
“What of you?” asked Walks with the Sun. “Surely you want to leave here.”
“I have no other home,” he answered.
“Then you shall come home with me,” she said.
“I am poor and I have a bad leg and I am not a Cheyenne,” he said. “But I will watch out for you, never fear.”
He rode away, but in a different direction from the creek, so that no one would suspect that the two of them had spoken. And Walks with the Sun did as he instructed. Taking a large pot, she put the moccasins in. Then she went to the creek. There she found the horse, saddled, with two blankets. Swinging herself up into the saddle, she began to ride south, toward her home.
I am still waiting, grandfather.
Patience is a good thing in the young.
I am not patient. I am impatient.
I did not notice. The bear, though, is coming. In fact, grandson, the bear is here.
Here? Where?
In the story. But you cannot see it unless you listen.
I see with my eyes. I hear with my ears, grandfather.
You must do both, child. You must do both.
Walks with the Sun rode many miles until both she and the horse were tired. So she got off, unsaddled it, and let the horse feed on the new spring grass. Then she re-saddled the horse and rode another long time past the Pumpkin Buttes. There she made camp, but without a fire in case anyone should be looking for her.
In the middle of the night she awoke because of a huffing and snuffling sound and the horse got frightened and screamed like a white woman in labor, and broke its rope. It ran off not to be found again.
And there, near here, with the moonlight on its back, was . . .
The bear, grandfather.
The bear, grandson.
Walks with the Sun spoke softly to the bear, not out of honor but out of fear. “Oh, Bear,” she said, “take pity on me. I am only a poor Cheyenne woman and I am trying to get back to my own people.” And then, quietly, carefully, she pulled on a pair of moccasins and stood. Carrying several more pairs in each hand, she backed away from the bear. When she could no longer see the great beast, she turned around and ran.
She ran until she was exhausted and then she turned and looked behind her. There was the bear, just a little way behind. So, taking a deep breath, she ran again until she could barely put one foot in front of the other. When she turned to look again, the bear was still there.
At last she was so tired that she knew she must rest, even if the bear was to kill her. She sat down on a hollow log, and fell asleep sitting up, heedless of the bear.
While she slept, she heard the bear speak to her. His voice was like the rocks in a river, with the water rushing over. He said: “Get up and go to your people. I am watching to protect you. I am stepping in your tracks so that the Crows cannot trail you, so that Fifth Man Over and his ugly wives cannot find you.”
When Walks with the Sun awoke, it was still dark. The bear was squatting on its haunches not far from her, its head crowned with the stars. Awake, she did not think he could have spoken, so she was still afraid of him.
She rose carefully, put on new moccasins, and began her journey again, but this time she did not run. She walked on until she could walk no longer. Then she lay down under a tree and slept.
You said he spoke in a dream, grandfather.
I said he spoke while she slept, grandson.
Is that the same as really speaking?
You are sitting with me on the buffalo-calf robe. Do you need to ask such questions?
In the morning Walks with the Sun awoke and saw the bear a little ways off on top of a small butte. It did not seem to be looking at her, but when she started to walk, it followed again in her tracks.
So it went all the day, till she reached the Platte River. Since this was early spring, the waters were full from bank to bank. Walks with the Sun had no idea how she could get across.
She sighed out loud but said nothing else. At the sound, the bear came over to her, looked in her face, and his breath was hot and foul-smelling. Then he turned his back to her and stuck his great rear in her face. By this she knew that he wanted her to get on his back.
“Bear,” she said, “if you are willing to take me across the river, I am willing to ride.” And she crawled on his back and put her arms around his neck, just in front of his mighty shoulders. With a snort, he plunged into the water.
The water was cold. She could feel it through her leggings. And the river tumbled strongly over its rocky bed. But stronger still was the bear and he swam across with ease.
When they got to the other side, the bear waited while she dismounted, then he shook himself all over, scattering water on every leaf and stone. Then he rolled on the ground.
While he was rolling, Walks with the Sun started on. When she looked back, the bear was following her just as he had before.
So it went for many days, the Cheyenne woman walking, the bear coming along behind. When she was hungry, he caught a young buffalo calf and killed it. She skinned it, cut it into pieces, took her flint, made a fire, then cooked the meat. Some of it she ate, and some she gave to the bear.
The rest she rolled in the skin, making a pack she carried on her back.
Did she feed him by hand, grandfather?
By hand?
Did she hold out pieces for him to eat?
That would be foolish, indeed, grandson. He could have taken her hand off at the wrist and not even noticed. Where do you young people come up with such foolish ideas, heh?
Then how did she feed the bear?
She put it down on the ground a little way from her and the bear walked up and ate it.
Oh.
They came at last to the Laramie River and below was a big village, with so many lodges they covered the entire bank.
“I do not know if those are my people or not,” Walks with the Sun said. “Can you go and find out for me?”
The bear went up close to the outermost lodge, but someone saw him and shouted, and someone else, an old man whose hand was not so steady, shot an arrow at him. The arrow pierced his left hind foot and he ran back to Walks with the Sun, limping.
“Oh, Bear,” she cried, “you are hurt and it is all my fault.” She knelt down and pulled the arrow from his foot and stopped the bleeding with the heel of her hand.
When the people tracked the blood trail to them, she was still sitting there, holding the bear in her arms. Only he was no longer a bear, but a young man with a strong nose and straight black hair and a left foot that was not quite straight.
The bear turned into the Arapaho slave, grandfather?
That is not what I said, grandson.
But I thought you said . . .
Listen, grandson, listen.
Walks with the Sun took the buffalo hide, shook it out, and turned it so the hair side was outward. Then she wrapped the Arapaho in it to show he was a medicine man. Her people put great strings of beads around his neck and gave him feathers to honor him. Then they lifted him onto a travois sled and, pulling it themselves, brought him into the village.
He never walked as a bear again, except twice, when the people were threatened by Crows. Walks with the Sun became his wife and they had many children and many grandchildren, of which I am one, and you are another. The buffalo hide we are sitting on today is the very one of which I have spoken.
Is that a true story, grandfather?
It is a true story, grandson.
But how can it be true, grandfather? People can’t turn into bears. Bears can’t turn into people.
Heh. They do not do so today. But we are speaking of the time when the Cheyenne were a great nation and still in the north, when the land was covered with buffalo, and we passed the medicine arrows and buffalo hat from keeper to keeper.
And the buffalo hide, grandfather?
And the buffalo hide, grandson. This ties it off.
What does that mean?
That storytelling is over for the night. That it is time for children to ask no more questions but to sleep. Time for old men to dream by the fire.
This ties it off, grandfather.