But their dances do not mean anything.â
The squaws brought meat after the gruel. It was cooked black and cut into chunks. It was the first fresh meat Buster had eaten since leaving the bull train, and he quickly finished the small helping on his plate.
âThatâs the first buffalo Iâve had,â Buster said. âI didnât know it would taste so good. Kinda sweet.â
Long Fingers laughed. âThat was not buffalo you eat. That was the dog that Kicking Dog killed with your pistol. You eat more now?â
Busterâs jaw muscles seized up on him, and he took a long drink from his canteen. âNo, thanks.â
âWe will eat the rest if you will not,â Long Fingers said. He thought Buffalo Head took to dog meat much more admirably than the white men at Cherry Creek. Some of them had actually gotten sick after he told them what they had eaten. It didnât make sense.
âMy boys will help you get your wagon across this place,â the chief said after they ate. âBut first you will make some music with that thing you carry in your pocket. It has the most music to be so little.â
âItâs called a harmonica,â Buster said.
Long Fingers tossed his loose hair over a shoulder with an almost feminine motion. âI know what it is called. But that is a hard word for me to say in the English.â
âYou can call it a harp if you want to.â
âHarp?â He smiled. âI say that plenty good. Make some music on that harp. Then we will push your wagon out of this place.â
After Buffalo Head played, Long Fingers ordered a few warriors to haul the little wagon up to the west side of the gully. Kicking Dog sat on the brink of the sand bluff and frowned.
âThat is the mountain that guides you,â Long Fingers said, pointing at the prominence of Pikes Peak. âYou go to the north of it and come to the creek. Then you go up the creek and find Holcombâs Ranch on the east side of the creek. It is at our camp where our trail goes into the mountains. Holcomb does not ask us, but I think he wants to stay a long time. It is Arapaho land where he lives in his hole in the ground.â
On the bluff the air smelled dry and clean and made Buster realize just how bad the Indian camp had stunk. Bad enough to attract the buzzards. But he had it figured. The Arapaho liked to move, follow the buffalo. Everything they owned would travel, even their houses. It made no sense to bother with sanitation at a camp that would soon be struck for a fresh site. Maybe next time he visited an Arapaho camp, it would be a fresh one.
âI want to give you something, chief,â Buster said before he picked up his wagon tongue. âI think you can learn to play this harp. It travels good, too, because itâs small. Maybe we can play some music together next time I see you.â
Long Fingers took the harmonica with a strangely fearful expression. He turned the gift over a few times in his hand, then sent one of his warriors back to the camp. âNow you must wait. I also give something to you.â
âWell, you donât have toâ¦â Buster cut himself off short when he caught the chief glaring.
The warrior came back from camp with a skinny girl, about seventeen years old, dressed in ragged, grease-stained skins. Her eyes never looked up from the ground.
âI give you this squaw. She is called Snake Woman.â He blew into the harmonica.
Buster looked horrified. âBut ⦠One of your people?â
âNo. I get her from the Comanche. They keep her for a slave. They say they catch her in the south. Maybe so Mexico. I trade plenty skins for her. She was a slave like you. You will like her. She work hard. Now, go. You will go all day to find Holcomb.â
When Long Fingers spoke to Snake Woman, she picked up the tongue of the little milk wagon, grasped one end of the crosspiece, and started to pull