by Jim Fergus
17 June 1875
This morning Helen Flight came to visit, to invite me to a dance tonight in which she is guest of honor. The Kit Fox warriors returned yesterday from their raid against the Crows. Having wisely not imbibed in the drinking on that Hellish night, they had held their own private war dance across the river, and off they went the next morning as planned. All of them were by then painted with Helen’s fantastic bird designs—the likes of which the savages, whose own painting skills are limited to the most simple stick figures, had never before seen.
The raid was a great success, and yesterday the Kit Fox warriors came whooping into camp with the usual fanfare, driving an enormous herd of Crow ponies. Not only had the men captured many enemy horses, but also they had not lost a man.
“I’m afraid, Mesoke,” Helen told me this morning, “that the Fox chaps are giving me full credit for the success of the venture, after all. ‘Medicine Bird Woman’—they call me now ‘Ve’kesohma’heonevestsee’—a frightful mouthful isn’t it? so please do continue to call me by my short name, Bird, won’t you?”
“Of course, Ve’ese,” I answered. (Some of us are making a concerted effort to speak the Cheyenne tongue, and names are an easy place to start.)
“Yes, well one bloke has already been’round to present me with three Crow horses and to tell me the story of his great success in the raid,” said Helen. “I should say—to sing and dance the story. I’m sure you’ll see the performance again tonight if you would be so good as to accompany me to the dance. I had the chap painted with the image of a snipe and he showed me how he and his horse had been able to zigzag through the bullets and arrows of the pursuing enemy just as the snipe flies, thus avoiding all injury. All the while as he danced and sang this tale, he held his arms out like bent wings and made the specific winnowing sound of the snipe in territorial display. Quite extraordinary, I should say. Haunting actually … never seen anything quite like it. That is to say, he sounded so like the bird, it was as if he had actually become the snipe.”
“Perhaps I must revise my opinions of the efficacy of your magic, Helen,” I said. “You may make of me a believer yet.”
Speaking of which Reverend Hare’s staggering loss of faith that terrible night—the dismal failure of his own “medicine”—has greatly diminished his influence among both our women and the savages—who despise more than anything the display of cowardice. They reason that if the Reverend’s medicine is so puny in the face of that of his archenemy—the evil God Satan—against whom he is constantly preaching, then what kind of power does the Father’s Great White Spirit really have? However childlike in nature it seems, the savages’ theological reasoning has a certain simplistic logic. The influence of gods being only as good as their earthly representatives, at the moment Helen Flight’s magic seems to hold greater sway among all …
The word about the camp is that tomorrow we depart on the summer hunts, I do not know where we go, or for how long … I do not know if John Bourke, or Gertie or the Army itself will be able to monitor our movements. This imminent departure to live the life of nomads seems yet another separation, yet another step further into the wilderness—leading us not closer, but seemingly always further away from our eventual return …
Having missed my monthly cycle, I am more than ever certain that I am pregnant now. The prospect of being a mother again fills me with both joy and trepidation. Now there are two of us to worry about …
NOTEBOOK V
A Gypsy’s Life
“Now we move out again, the horses slipping down off the knoll, following the People, who follow the buffalo, who follow the grass, which springs from the Earth.”
(from the journals of May Dodd)
7 July 1875
We have been on the move for weeks—thank God for the calendar I brought to mark off the days or surely I would have lost all sense of time, for, of course, the savages do not observe our calendar, and time itself passes differently among them—impossible to explain this … only that there is no time …
We have been traveling mostly westward and sometimes north—that much I know for certain—hunting and moving, we follow the buffalo herds.
At present I sit atop my horse Soldier on a slight rise overlooking the green plains below. The sweet child, Horse Boy, light as a feather, his brown skin warmed like a biscuit in the sun, rides up beside me on the saddle as he frequently does. I have grown ever fonder of the boy. He is my little man, my protector, and I his.
Several of us women ride abreast; in this case, I, Martha, Phemie, Helen, and Feather on Head. This traveling time is our best, and in some cases only, opportunity to visit and catch up on each other’s news—because, when we are in camp there is too much work for all to do.
For the same reason, I shall try to keep this poor record while on the move, and have taken to strapping my notebook to my back so that when I have a moment to pause thus I can make a few scribbles on the page. Presently I rest my notebook against my little man’s back as I write.
Now we watch as the entire band, possibly two hundred lodges strong with the southerners among us, moves out across the prairie, horses and dogs and travois, some people afoot, others riding, with the warrior guards appearing now and then on the distant horizons, before disappearing again into the folds of the land like ships at sea into the swales—it is a sight to behold! How many white people, I wonder, can lay claim to having witnessed such an exodus? Have ever participated in it?
The Cheyennes are a wealthy people and, particularly since the raid against the Crows, we have many horses. Some of the women and older children walk alongside the packhorses or alongside those that drag the travois, occasionally snapping their quirts to move them along. Others ride atop the packs themselves—two or three little girls together on one horse, they play games and chatter away like chicks in the nest. Some of the smaller children ride the huge camp dogs, others ride ponies. From the time that they are able to walk, Cheyenne children are comfortable on horseback, and their little hammerheaded prairie ponies, which are quite distinct in appearance from our own, are superbly even-tempered, well trained, and biddable. Some of the older people, especially if they are ill or in any way infirm, and some of the youngest children who still need to be tended to by adults ride atop the travels—while the infants ride on baby boards strapped to their mothers’ backs. Sometimes the baby boards are hung from the pack saddles or the travois poles themselves, where they dangle and bob gently with the movement of the horses much to the comfort and amusement of the infants themselves, who smile and gurgle, and, when they are not sleeping, watch all of the proceedings with wide-eyed interest. In this manner they absorb the nomadic prairie life as naturally as sunlight. The Indian children rarely cry. They are superb, perfect little creatures—but then what children aren’t? I think constantly now of our own babies—for many of the others have announced their pregnancies. Our government may have lost faith in our mission, but how can a prospective mother not be filled with hope for the future?
I am in a bright mood today. The constant travel of the past weeks, though hard and frequently exhausting work, rather agrees with me. It occurs to me in response to the conversation I once had with Captain Bourke in which he asked, rhetorically, “Where is the savage’s Shakespeare?” that possibly the reason the aboriginals have made scant contributions to world literature and art, is that they are simply too busy living—moving, hunting, working—without the luxury of time to record the process, or even, as Gertie suggested, to ponder it. Sometimes I think that this is not such a bad state … and yet here I am, trying to steal a few moments whenever possible that I may faithfully report these events.
I take this opportunity to study the four of us—representatives of our group as it were. Such a ragtag assembly we make! We are nearly natives now, all but indistinguishable from our fellow Cheyenne women, and finally, almost as dark of skin (and Phemie, of course, darker!). Even my fair complexion has gone brown as a chestnut though I am still c
areful to wear the greasepaint as much as possible.
Weather permitting Phemie dresses still in men’s breechclouts and little else, the scandal of her bare breasts long since accepted.
With the increasingly warm weather Helen has given up her heavy knickerbockers and has had our seamstress Jeanette Parker fashion a buckskin suit for her, with fringed blouse and trousers. It is a decidedly eccentric outfit for a lady, but suits Helen perfectly—she looks every bit the frontiersman, especially with her ubiquitous pipe clenched between her teeth.
Like me and my friend and fellow wife, Feather on Head, Martha wears the simple loose-fitting antelope hide dress that the native women favor.
Now we move out again, the horses slipping down off the knoll, following the People, who follow the buffalo, who follow the grass, which springs from the Earth.
14 July 1875
However peripatetic our wandering of the past weeks may seem, there is a genuine method to it. The camp organizes and moves with marvelous efficiency. I am reminded of Mother’s stories of the gypsies of Europe. Of course, now I understand why my bridal lodge had to be dismantled—I could hardly have managed it by myself. This is communal life in the purest form. Like a hive of bees, or a colony of ants, all participate for the good of the whole.
The women do all the work of packing the parfleches, dismantling the lodges, rigging and loading the horses and travois, and at the end of the day’s travel, remaking the camp in exactly the same formation as the last. In our lodge, the old crone Crooked Nose oversees this process, squawking at us like a cranky magpie while brandishing, at the slightest infraction, a willow switch from her arsenal of weapons. On the morning of our very first move she actually lashed me across the back of the legs with her damnable switch; I was, presumably, packing incorrectly.
“Ouch!” I hollered, leaping at the sting; she’d hit me hard enough to raise a welt. I turned furiously on the old woman, who, instantly recognizing my wrath, began to shrink away from me. I moved toward her, shaking my finger; I put my cupped hand on my throat and pointed at her again and said: “You may be in charge of this operation, you old hag, but if you ever do that to me again, I’ll wring your damn buzzard’s neck!” I was speaking English, of course, but I was also speaking the universal language of women, and the old crone understood me well. She has not lifted her switch against me again.
The men devote themselves to the hunt, the various military societies to guarding the camp and protecting us as we travel. So far we have had no encounters with enemies nor seen any sign of them but for a few abandoned campsites. It is said that we have recently entered Crow and Shoshone country, and all have noticed an increased vigilance on the part of the warrior societies.
Altogether, having more or less accepted my woman’s lot, I would admit that the division of labor among the aboriginals is an equitable one. Far from being a casual pastime as it was for Father and his friends, hunting is quite literally a matter of life and death—extremely difficult and, frequently dangerous, labor. Already this summer we have had one man trampled and killed when he fell off his pony in the middle of the chase. Another was severely gored by a buffalo bull, but survived (the fellow’s name has now become Buffalo Not Kill Him), and a third was badly injured when his pony stepped into a badger hole at full gallop and broke its leg (this man now known as Horse Breaks Leg). Still I have not failed to notice that the men embark upon their hunting expeditions with a somewhat keener sense of anticipation than we women are sometimes able to muster for our camp chores and moving activities. Although even these are generally accomplished in a spirit of good cheer and cooperation.
To her own and to the savages’ credit, our Negress Phemie, Mo’ohtaeve’ho’a’e, which translates interestingly to Black White Woman, is permitted to accompany the men on the hunt. Although women are not allowed membership in council, the Cheyennes are surprisingly egalitarian in recognizing special talents, and Phemie has clearly proven her venatic prowess.
At the same time, women in the tribe wield a great deal of influence in daily affairs and are regularly consulted on all subjects that concern the welfare of the people. My own Little Wolf, for example, values the advice of a prominent medicine woman, Woman Who Moves Against the Wind, above that of all the other medicine men, and, while he hardly agrees with my views on all subjects, he nevertheless listens to them with great respect. Perhaps our own society might learn something from the savages about relations between the sexes.
The scouts have consistently found good-sized herds of buffalo at nearly every place we have been. Thus the men have had excellent hunting, and the larder is full. The buffalo have been further supplemented by elk, deer, pronghorn, a variety of small game, and trout—the streams hereabouts so choked with fish that if one is quick about it one can scoop them up on the bank by hand—another job for the women and children. We have already amassed an abundance of hides, both for the comfort of the tribe and to trade later at the agency trading post for the precious commodities of coffee, sugar, tobacco, cloth, gunpowder, trinkets, cooking utensils, and what other white man luxuries strike the savages’ fancies.
Some days I actually find myself hoping that the hunters will not locate game, for its very fecundity makes more labor for everyone. At the expense of my hands which begin to look prematurely like the hands of a crone, I have become competent in all aspects of skinning, butchering, scraping and tanning hides, drying meats, and cooking over the fire—although as to this last, not all members of our family have fully appreciated my culinary efforts.
I have also made a tenuous peace with the old wife, Quiet One—we are hardly friendly, but she tolerates my presence and no longer do I fear for my life at her hands. However, she still becomes sullen every time I insist on taking a turn at the fire—obviously she feels that I am trying to usurp her position as first wife and head cook. Frankly, I should think that she would be grateful for relief from the chore.
If sometimes I find myself complaining about our daily labors, others among our group are shirking their fair share of work altogether. Since her unsuccessful attempt to “escape” Narcissa White has made it plain to our host/captors that she is here against her will and refuses to cooperate in any way whatsoever. The grand scale of her missionary efforts has been similarly reduced. Having largely given up on saving the souls of the savages, whom she has deemed as yet too crude and unformed to be properly Christianized, she has now turned her attentions to teaching them to be obedient servants to their future white masters.
“She wants to teach them to be slaves, first,” Phemie has observed. “Then, as my people have done, they will turn to the white God for spiritual salvation. It is the manner in which conquerors have always created a force of laborers.”
Toward this end, Narcissa has taken two savage girls under her wing and is trying to teach them certain “civilized” domestic duties—to curtsy and carry her possessions for her, to say “yes, ma‘am” and “no, ma’am” and other such things which appear comical, and even mildly insane, in the middle of the wilderness.
Many of the People do own utensils—pots and pans, tin dishes, and even some poor silverware obtained at the trading post, though some still eat with their fingers.
“After they are settled on the reservation,” Narcissa explains, “my instruction in such matters will serve them well. For they will always be able to find employment at the forts in the homes of the officers, and in the white towns and settlements that spring up after the frontier is once and for all secured from the heathens that civilization may extend her noble boundaries without constant fear of their vicious depradations.” (Speaking of which, Narcissa has never forgiven her husband for the “involuntary” consummation of their marriage—does not allow him in the lodge, and refuses to say whether or not she is pregnant.)
I have no idea why her “servant girls” go along with this treatment, perhaps simply out of curiosity, or mere politeness, for the savages are both curious and polite in abundance. Howeve
r, I predict that as a rule these people will make poor domestic help.
Now we have reached our afternoon destination, chosen by an advance guard of scouts, and announced by the old camp crier who rides the length and breadth of our procession, spread out by the end of the day over a distance of several miles.
Regardless of whether our new campsite is intended to accommodate us for one day or several, the women set up each as a perfect replica of the last—with every family and each lodge in the same position relative to the whole. The full tribal circle opens always to the east, to face the rising sun, as does each family circle, as does each individual lodge entrance. This is both a religious and practical consideration, for one awakens to the warmth of the morning sun, and by leaving the lodge flap open in the morning the sun lights, warms, and freshens the whole tipi. The symmetry and order is quite lovely—a kind of art form.
Well before sunset, we have the entire village in place and settled—just as if it had been here for weeks or months. Fires burn, food cooks, children play, men smoke and hold their councils—and, as always, women work …
1 August 1875
We have been camped for the past six days along the Tongue River, the single longest encampment since we began traveling. It is a lovely spot situated in a natural bowl at the base of the mountains, well protected from the wind and elements. The small valley is green and lush, with ample grass for the horses, surrounded by low hills and bluffs, the river lined by huge cottonwoods whose leaves rustle softly with the slightest breeze.
