Beauty for Ashes (5 page)

Sam thought of his own dream, and the cow he joined beings with. Still, he said, “I don't know what you mean.”

“I think it is buffalo, but…it was you that stood on the hill above the village.” Then he explained, as though to children, “You in your human shape and your beautiful white hair. You carried a deer skin tanned beautifully white, and in it was some gift for the people. You opened it, and it shone. You set it down on the crest of the hill and walked away in a sacred manner.”

He stopped awkwardly. “But I never saw what it was. Others rushed up the hill to see the gift, but I woke up. I don't know what you brought us.”

The four men looked at each other, uncertain.

“But I knew you had a gift. That's why I saved you. You bore a gift.”

“Third Wing, I honestly don't have anything for the Pawnee.”

The Pawnee shrugged. “Maybe you don't know what it is, but you have it. The gift, that's why I want to be with you.”

Sam considered, and then knew what he wanted to do. He scooted over to Third Wing, made his eyes big as a demon's, gave him a big smooch on the cheek, and said in a honeyed voice, “I like you, too.”

Everyone laughed.

Sam fell asleep thinking,
He's a strange friend, but I like him.

 

S
AM'S COUNTING STICK
told him when New Year's Eve was, and they broke open one of the two whiskey jugs and got uproariously drunk. Only Third Wing stayed mostly sober, so he could take care of the fools who overindulged, he said.

That night Gideon and Beckwourth got into a storytelling contest Sam would never forget. His favorite was one Gideon told. “Me, ze first winter I am on Saskatchewan River, I walk sometimes from trading post to village, maybe one hour walk. I need, you know, a woman warm against ze long, long winter. Very cold, Saskatchewan, very much snow. I am lonesome on the walk, so I whistle along the way. This was my favorite song,

“A young man in on ze far plains, during the long winter, he
naturalement
t'ink of his lady love back home, no?

“Remember, I whistle this song as I walk, no did sing it, just whistle.

“One winter day it is so cold. I remember my breath frosted my beard. The hairs in my nose, they crust with ice. My lungs hurt from drawing in ze air. But I whistle, always I whistle.

“I mean I try. Zis time it is for nothing, it…Nothing comes out. My whistles, ze cold freezes ze sound. I keep whistling, I am superstitious. If I don't send my song to my love, maybe she is, you know,
infidel
with another man.”

“
Infidel
like you are, huh?” asked Sam, taking pleasure in catching on to a new word.

“Yes,
naturalement,
I am a man. Two weeks later, maybe three, comes ze wind we call chinook. You know? Warm winter wind, melts ze snow, bares ze ground, makes you feel good. After three days of chinook I must walk to village, and now is much more pleasant, neh?

“Oh, you don't know how pleasant. Because my whistles, it is warm, now they thaw out. They sing to me from every wild rose bush, from every blue spruce tree. Even ze snow, dripping from the branches, serenades me. I pretend the thawing whistles, zey are ze voice of my lover.

“That's horse puckey,” said Jim, with a big grin.

“Says the world's biggest maker of horse puckey,” said Sam.

“Whoo-oop! Lookee here!” Jim mock-roared. “I am a grizzly b'ar crossed with a mountain lion. I can outrun, outshoot, and outride, and outfight any man what takes breath within a thousand miles of the Missouri River. And I am the world's biggest maker of horse puckey,” he concluded triumphantly.

“All right,” he went on with buttery charm, “now, I got a story….”

 

I
N THE FAR
, wee middle of that night Third Wing asked to hear the tale of how Sam got Coy.

“His medicine coyote,” said Gideon.

“His familiar spirit,” said Beckwourth.

“He's just my friend,” said Sam.

“You aren't friends,” said Beckwourth. “You're the master, he does what you say.”

“We're friends,” insisted Sam quietly. He thought a moment. He didn't believe Coy was his medicine animal. If he had a medicine animal, or should claim one, it was that buffalo cow back on the Platte, the one he entered into and joined with. Though he wasn't sure what a medicine animal was.

He did think he could tell the story of how he got Coy. It was related to the buffalo story, but not the same story.

“I was camped in a cottonwood grove on a little creek several miles north of the Platte. Alone—that was when I was doing my walk down the river to Atkinson.”

“Baptism of fire, plains style,” said Gideon, a veteran of the same walk.

“I shot a buffalo just before dark and got her gutted out. Woke up just before dawn, it looked like the sun was rising in the northwest, so bright and red it was. Until I smelled the smoke I didn't figure out what was happening. Prairie fire coming my way.

“I put it together fast as I could. Huge, huge prairie fire, wind whipping it straight toward me. Too wide to outrun to either side, too far to the river. I tried to get in the little creek, but there wasn't enough water—left half of me sticking out. Did get good and wet, though. Pawing around with no place to go, I heard a mewling sound. It was this pup here, only smaller, and he was poking at the slit in the buffalo, like he wanted to get in.

“Seemed crazy. I looked up at that fire. It was going to hit the grove right quick, and when it did the trees would turn into torches—you wouldn't have to touch flame to get burnt, ‘All right,' I said to myself, ‘It's crazy but it's the only chance.' I crept right into the buffalo belly, took the pup with me. Hell, all of me didn't even fit. Knees stuck out. When they got too hot, I turned over and my tail stuck out. Got burned pretty good.

“When the sound eased away—you can't imagine how loud a prairie fire roars—I waited and waited some more and finally crawled out.” He thought of telling them about the strange feeling he had, like being born, but decided against it. “Everything was turned black.
Every
thing. The stink was beyond belief, and it stung your nose. Most places you couldn't step, even in a moccasin—too hot.

“Later I butchered out the buffalo—meat was good, even if it was toasted around the edges. Kept the pup. Fed him. Figured the pup saved my life.”

He picked Coy and hugged, dog back to human chest. “This pup is my friend.”

No one spoke, maybe out of respect, Sam thought, or maybe because the story wasn't a stretcher like they wanted.

“Up at Slave Lake, hell of a way to ze northwest and gone,” began Gideon, “I came across a sow grizzly, and sudden I wondered where her cubs were…”

Third Wing egged on Gideon and Beckwourth, and they never stopped telling stories until the sun rose over the hills to the southeast. Then the four men and coyote slept all New Year's day. Sam didn't figure this country often brought in the new year so sunny and mild and pleasantly lazy.

S
AM SPAT HIS
freezing hair out of his mouth—the hair was crinkled with ice. The weather was so nasty he had Coy up in the saddle with him, curled against his belly and around the horn.

It was three weeks and two days since they'd left the Ashley men at the forks of the Platte, according to his counting stick. He knew the tipis of the Crow village were in the cottonwoods along the river ahead. But on this bitter evening he couldn't see even their silhouettes, or any hint of a fire. His left ear ached from the wind and sleet slashing that side of his face. The hand leading the pack horse was too stiff either to grip or let go—the rope was wound several times around the hand. And his white hair, now finally grown back to decent length, was whipping ice into his mouth and eyes.

He had made it to Meadowlark's village, but at the moment he didn't give a damn.

“Riders,” said Beckwourth.

Sam held up a hand, and all four stopped. Odd, though the youngest, Sam was a sort of leader here. He and Gideon had lived in this village last winter, but Sam alone spoke the Crow language. (Gideon had a few words of
amour.
)

Five horsemen came out of the lacing sleet and stopped facing Sam's party. Sam thought he recognized one figure.

“Ohchikaape.”
It meant, “Greetings after a long absence.” “We come from General Ashley in friendship.”

“Sam?” cried a voice in English. “Welcome back, Sam. I'm glad to see you.”

“I'm glad to see you Blue Horse!” chimed in Sam. He felt a twinge of guilt at always thinking of Meadowlark and seldom of her brother, his noble-looking friend. He wanted to say lots of things to this comrade, but he forced himself to stick with business. “We want to speak with Rides Twice.”

The young men with Blue Horse held the horses of both groups. Sam stopped to put Coy on a leash, which got him strange looks from whites and Indians alike.

The trappers limped into the village on numb feet that made them weave like drunken sailors. Their march had not a shred of dignity, but Gideon was still strong enough to lug the panniers, full of presents. “You can make a tent with the other young men,” offered Blue Horse in English. He was still keeping one wary eye on the coyote.

“
Pitch
a tent,” said Sam. He was acknowledging their former pact to help each other, one with Crow, the other with English. “We will do that tonight. Thank you.”

A tent, though, was not what he wanted. He longed for the coziness of a real tipi and a center fire, preferably with Meadowlark in the buffalo robes at the rear.

As they approached the council lodge, Sam made himself remember the details of the Crow way of handling the sacred pipe, the proper Crow words to use in offering the smoke to the four directions. The presents would make the trappers welcome. These trade items were great luxuries to the Crows, who had no other access to them. He assumed the Crows would accept Third Wing. Both Crows and Pawnees were long-time enemies of the Sioux, and that should do it.

The problem was Coy. When they got to the lodge, Sam regretfully tied him to a lodge stake outside. Then they waited until Rides Twice and several Big Bellies went in. Sam ducked through the flap behind them. The lodge was cold, but a good center fire was already started. He wanted to crawl into a corner, wrap up in a buffalo robe, and sleep.
Right now I don't even want Meadowlark there with me.
He gave a crookedy smile.
Well, maybe I do.

Rides Twice sat in his accustomed place behind the center fire. He motioned for Sam to sit to his left, and the others in the trapping party to Sam's left, and the Big Bellies to their left. He said in the Crow language, “Welcome, Sam, we are glad to see you again.”

Sam lowered himself beside the chief. It was going to be a good winter.

 

E
ARLY THE NEXT
morning Sam was sitting quietly by the river, on a cottonwood felled by a beaver, rubbing Coy's ears. The early morning fog half hid the two of them. His breath swirled up to join the fog.
My breath, the earth's breath,
he thought. He took off his other glove and changed hands. Coy's fur warmed his fingers better than the gloves. He watched the figures moving ghostly through the fog, to the river bank and back. He wasn't interested, though, in any figure except one, Meadowlark, and she didn't appear.

Beyond him the river was easy to get to, and the water formed a pool. Every morning the mothers and grandmothers sent the young women here to get water. But no Meadowlark yet.

When the weak winter sun had burned the fog off, Meadowlark's mother, Needle, came down the trail carrying a bucket.
Another trade item they need from us
.

Sam was miffed. The other young women must have told Meadowlark, or Needle, that the white man was waiting for her.
I'm sure she wants to see me
. Maybe it was her parents…
Maybe she still hasn't done the ceremony…

Needle was usually merry. This time she walked with her eyes straight ahead, apparently seeing nothing but the path and the pool. Sam couldn't even tell whether she knew he was there. When she was gone, he and Coy traipsed back to the village. There would be meat for breakfast at the tent, and coffee. Sam had gotten to where he loved black coffee with sugar in it.

By midday the trappers had traded for a lodge cover and lodgepoles. Now they struggled to erect the tipi and get the cover on nice and tight, without wrinkles. Third Wing laughed a lot, Sam kept saying he didn't know what to do, Beckwourth gave instructions despite knowing nothing about tipis, and Gideon kept saying, “This is women's work.” Except for Third Wing, they'd never have gotten the lodge up.

Sam remembered grumpily what happened last winter when he and Gideon put up their first lodge. Needle and her daughters came to help out, full of giggles at the white men's ineptitude.
Now we're just as clumsy, so where are you? Why don't you help?

The four men stood back and looked at the small tipi, erect beside the brush huts of the young men. Altogether they'd done a half-assed job, but they would get by. Sam looked longingly toward the main circle. Like these men without families, the trappers weren't part of the circle that made these people a village, where everyone was arranged according to their relationship with everyone else.

Sam thought of what family he had. A brother who'd stolen Sam's girl and married her, and now hated Sam. A mother who loved both her sons in an ineffectual way, and wouldn't live long. Two sisters who loved Sam but were probably glad he was gone from the country and not causing trouble. Altogether, no one who wanted to see him coming.

Sam didn't see Meadowlark all day long.

 

“L
ET'S GET GOING
,” said Blue Horse, happy and proud to speak English again.

“We'll do it right here in front of the lodge,” said Gideon.

Though the sun was about to drop behind the Wind River Mountains, they had a good while before dark—those mountains were high. It was a clear, windless afternoon, pleasantly cool before the plunge of the January night.

The four trappers and Blue Horse spread the blankets in front of the lodge and laid the trade goods out for display. Coy curled on a corner of the blanket. Soon Crows were bumping shoulders to see.

Sam had asked Blue Horse to help. Sam wasn't quite that sure of his Crow language.

The most popular item was a free cup of whiskey, as lubrication for the trade. Having neither Crow nor sign language, Beckwourth was assigned to play bartender and instructed to pour everyone a fair two fingers. “That don't make sense,” Jim said with a laugh. “The cups are all different sizes.” These cups were occasionally tin (luxury items) but mostly made of horn.

“Just do it,” said Sam. He and Gideon had prepared the whiskey as instructed by Ashley—one part raw alcohol to four parts creek water, seasoned with tobacco and pepper. The Crows were so avid for it, men and women alike, that Sam was glad it would soon run out. Gideon had told him tales about Indians when they were really drunk—daughters seducing their fathers, husbands raping their daughters-in-law, men fighting with knives or tomahawks until someone was hurt bad or dead—every sort of behavior that forgot they were one people, all related.

Sam, Gideon, and Third Wing traded all manner of things for Crow beaver. Since the fur men had spent last winter with them, some Crows had taken to hunting beaver, not with traps but spears and clubs. General Ashley liked Crow beaver. He said the plews (the men's common word for the hides) were thicker and heavier, so he got a better price for them. As the men put it, Crow beaver was
some
.

The favorite Crow purchase was a blanket. The trappers had the good thick ones manufactured by Witney in England. Each small black stripe woven into the rug indicated a cost of one plew. The smallest blanket was three plews, and a really big one six.

The prices of other items were not openly declared, and so depended on the bargaining skill of buyer and seller, and maybe the inebriation of the buyer. Gideon was fair and firm in his prices and didn't bargain much. Since he spoke only a few words of Crow, it was mostly point, gesture, and shake your head yes or no. Sam was cordial and less particular about price. Blue Horse checked with Sam before he made a trade—he seemed to take pride in helping the trappers by getting good prices. Sam reflected again that everything about this young man seemed noble. He was going to be a leader.

The Crows seemed uninterested in one item. At Atkinson Ashley had paid Indian women to sew the Witney blankets into coats with hoods—capotes, the men called them. Sam wore a beauty made of a blanket with narrow red stripes on a white background. But the Crows seemed to want the blankets as they were.

It was Third Wing, oddly, who turned the trading into entertainment. He'd take a piece of calico cloth, hold it up in front of himself like a shirt, and do an ain't-I-a-handsome-fellow strut. Then he showed them what the wool strouding, red with blue and yellow stripes down one edge, looked like when wrapped like leggings. He put vermilion on his cheeks as rosy makeup, modeled a string of sky-blue seed beads as a necklace, and did a sexy woman's walk. This drew hoots from the women. He conducted a mock fight, butcher knife against cottonwood trunk, and threw a tomahawk into the trunk with a force and accuracy that scared Sam.

Sam jumped up and added to the show. He got Coy to sit, roll over, and jump for a bite of meat held in Sam's hand. Since the Crows hadn't seen the coyote pup before, and had never seen even a dog obey commands, they were delighted.

The women (most of the customers were women) soon ran out of beaver pelts to trade and started offering buffalo robes. Ashley wanted some of these, and the four trappers would use them as warm bedding against the rest of the cold winter. The Indians also brought forward river otter skins, a bear hide, and thick wolf hides, all worth something, but not as much as beaver plews. After a while they were mostly offering to trade jerked meat and pemmican, the sausage-like blend of fine-ground dried meat and buffalo fat, with berries or rose hips mixed in. It was a nourishing food and would last forever—the men were glad to trade for it.

When dark came, the trading dropped off but continued slowly by the light of the nearby cook fires. Now Needle and Gray Hawk came. Needle was mostly interested in beads, which seemed more special as decoration than porcupine quills to the Crows, and in cloth, which was a complete novelty.

Sam stared at the two with one thought:
I haven't seen Meadowlark at all.
Even Blue Horse hadn't mentioned her. For that matter, Sam hadn't seen Meadowlark's sister either, or her younger brothers. He felt a chill:
She did the goose egg ceremony, married a River Crow, and is living with her husband far down the Missouri. And they don't want to tell me.

Carefully, he insisted to himself that this was irrational. He didn't know anything about Meadowlark yet. Still, most of the tribe's women and many of the men had stopped by to trade, but not her. She loved beads, vermilion, wool strouding for knee leggings, and other white-man aids to looking good. He peered at the top of Needle's head as she bent over, lifting strings of different-colored beads. He looked into the impassive face of Gray Hawk.
You aren't about to tell me. So what's going on?

He decided to tie Coy in the lodge, slip away without Blue Horse, and find her. He took a string of Russian blue beads, the finest beads they had, as a gift. Something else General Ashley would take out of his pay.

T
HE MAN WAS
tall and well formed. Sam backed carefully between the tipis, outside the lodge circle and around it to another angle. When he came back into the circle, he saw the man's face by firelight—it was Red Roan, the son of Chief Rides Twice.
Damn
. It was an unusually handsome face belonging to a splendidly built fellow in his mid-twenties. Sam remembered now, he was a widower—his wife and son were taken by the Blackfeet. Meadowlark stood next to him, although she didn't let him wrap her in his blanket. Clearly, she had performed the goose egg ceremony and was accepting suitors. Red Roan was good-looking and much respected—a great catch.
Damn
.