Roger's Roughneck Wisdom

Counting Coup

(On an eleven-year-old boy)

Roger Wilson 10-17-13

An Indian friend introduced me to “counting coup.” We were both on horseback, playing cowboy and Indians. He caught me near a drop off to Garden Creek. The name of the game was to time your push so you land on top of the victim, breaking your fall. The victim absorbs the bumps and lumps of the encounter. This time, the Indian won. Off I went, Indian on top of me, yelling like only an Indian can. To my surprise, he had a genuine Tomahawk in his hand! I had a real experience with fear.

When we had stopped rolling—Indian still on cowboy, he said, “Do you realize, I could kill you?” I agreed that he could. But I wasn’t that sure he wouldn’t. He turned the Tomahawk to the other end in his hand and touched me with it. He had just made “coup.” Later, as we crawled away from the fall, he explained what “counting coup” was.

Coup was taking an enemy—and getting into a situation where the victor could do bodily harm, or even have a chance to kill his enemy. Instead, the winner touches the body with the harmless end of the weapon and that “counts coup.” The loser is left unharmed or alive when the winner could have killed him—or done bodily harm.

From that day forward, I belonged to my friend. Anything I had or cherished was his, if he wanted to claim it. Nothing held back. He saved me and now I belonged to him. After all…he had given me life. Never again, can a person declare war on that person because he owns him. What was mine, was now his. What an awesome idea!

Historically, this sometimes allowed a brave to ride recklessly into battle to expose himself to being killed. But his enemy could not, because he had taken “coup” at another time. All tribes rendered stock coup. Both taking and giving.

After we had recovered our horses, my friend took out his jack knife and told me to give him my hand. He selected one up-turned finger, cut it lengthwise, turned his own hand up, cut his finger. Now, both our fingers were bleeding. He took my finger in his hand, put his bleeding finger over mine, rubbed both fingers together. We were then brothers—blood brothers.

He told me his sacred name. The name his grandfather had given him. Then, we were the only three people who knew that secret name. He gave me my sacred name. It was……sorry, I can’t tell you!