"You could do this," said Gray Falcon. "Except, not believing it is truly yours to use as a bet in this game, I will have one of our warriors go and find Mitchell, the superintendent. He will know if your tongue is forked, like the snake, or if it is whole and complete like the human being you should be."
"I tell you, it's mine."
Gray Falcon waved toward Strikes Fast, and, without speaking a word, used the spirit talk to say, "Find Mitchell and bring him here one way or the other. Take another warrior with you. We will wait."
****
Practically carried into the trading room by Strikes Fast, Mitchell looked to be none too happy about being dragged out of bed, and he protested his treatment, asking, "Why have you brought me here in the middle of the night? Looks to me as if your game is nearly finished since Calhoun appears to be nearly naked. Lost your shirt, have you?"
"You're hardly in better shape," sneered Calhoun. "You're still in yer nightshirt."
"At least I still have one. What's all this about?"
"That rifle." Gray Falcon pointed. "Maká'pato'si tells us it belongs to him, and he is looking to use it in our bet. He has lost all his other property. You are here to tell us the truth he speaks…or the lie. Come now, is the weapon his?"
Mitchell frowned, and Gray Falcon could easily read the uncertainty and frustration upon Mitchell's countenance. Should he side with the white man, or should he tell the truth?
Gray Falcon watched as Mitchell frowned, then glanced around the room at the twenty to thirty Pikuni people who were crowded around the gaming table. At last, looking defeated, he said, "It is his. But, I see nothing else in the room which is owned by him."
Gray Falcon nodded, then said, simply, "We play."
With a smirk affixed to his lips instead of a smile, the evil one reached for the bowl. Squinting his eyes for a moment, he sat still as though in thought. However, opening his eyes wide, he slammed the bowl on the table, turning it this way and that.
At last, it was done.
The crowd’s murmuring stopped. A hush fell over the room. Both men sat forward to inspect the contents of the bowl. With only a slight pause to note the exact count of the roll, Gray Falcon called out, "The big claw is on end, which is twenty-five. There are three red claws, or twelve, a total of thirty-seven. No burnt sides up, no blue sides up, one eye up, or no points. There were three concaves up. A total of forty."
Maká'pato'si counted out the sticks and handed them to Gray Falcon. He smiled, though the gesture appeared more snakelike than friendly.
“This was a good roll," said Maká'pato'si. "And, now it's your turn, Injun. I guess we'll see who beats who, since I am certain this is the beginning of my lucky streak."
“Perhaps,” said Gray Falcon, and, picking up the smoothly polishedCos-soóbowl, he paused. He needed forty-one points to win, and, envisioning what pieces he would need to land up in order to achieve this, he decided this would be his throw. Only then did he pound the bowl on the table and twist it round and round. At last, he let the bowl go, allowing the pieces to fall where they would.
The tension mounted, while in the background the fire blazed and the rain pattered down from the heavens. Both men, as well as most of the audience, leaned forward, peering into the dish.
As though in a daze, Maká'pato'si scooted so far forward he might have fallen onto the bowl, unsettling it, as he had done once before. This time, however, Strikes Fast was there, and, catching hold of him, Strikes Fast pulled the evil one back.
Not a sound—outside of the rain and the spitting of the fire—could be heard as the evil one looked down into the bowl and called out, "The big claw is on end, or twenty-five. Two plum stones with black-side up at four each equals thirty-three sticks." He paused. "There are three buttons with eye-sides up, or six sticks. It is a total of thirty-nine. And, there is one brass with its face curved in, making his throw forty sticks."
Was it a draw?
No one spoke a word. Not even Gray Falcon, although with his brow lifted, he fixed an unwavering gaze on Maká'pato'si.
"What?" asked Maká'pato'si.
"Continue," said Gray Falcon.
The evil one set his lips, but he said not one word. It was up to Mitchell, then, to settle the matter, and, stepping forward, he called out, "There are also three concaves up, at one each, thereby making the Pikuni medicine man's roll forty-three sticks. Gray Falcon wins the game and all the pledges this man made." Mitchell fell silent for a moment. "It is done."
Instantly, murmurings took root within the crowd and, at last, Gray Falcon drew in a breath, sitting still for a moment. But, now was not the time to relax, and at last he stood to his feet. Humbly, he accepted the crowd's praise.
But, tonight's work had only begun. Fixing his glare upon the evil-spirited one, he said, "And, now I will accompany you to your room, and I will have the contract you pledged."
