by Jim Fergus
I could not help myself, and although I knew it was unseemly to do so and would possibly even embarrass my husband, at this point I jumped up from my place and said: “If it is true that there will be more game after we kill the wolves, why is it that our relatives at the agencies who have been using the arsenic for some time now, have no game in their own country?” (Of course, I offer this far more fluent English translation of my remarks.)
Now there arose a small uproar of grunting among the assemblage expressing general disapproval—whether specifically of my remarks or at the fact that a woman had spoken in council at all, is hard to say.
“Vehoae …” Little Wolf said with a smile to the assemblage, “eohkesaahetseveoxohesaneheo’ o.” Which roughly translated means, “white women … nothing stops them from saying whatever they are thinking.”
At this point the “little chief,” Black Coyote, spoke up. He is a fine-looking fellow, but with a bit of a reputation as a hothead, and a warmonger, and particularly known for his dislike of white people. “Mesoke is right,” he said now. “Instead of using the arsenic to poison wolves, we should use it to poison white people. We should make many loaves of poison bread and distribute these among all the whites. We have much more to fear from them than we do from the wolves.”
“Well, I didn’t say that exactly,” I tried to interject over the mixed houing of approval from Black Coyote’s more militant followers, and the grunting of dissent from his detractors.
“The People have always lived with the wolves and the little wolves (coyotes),” Black Coyote continued. “It is true that sometimes we kill them with arrows or rifles, but there has always been enough game for all of us to share. It was not until the arrival of the white man that the buffalo and the other game began to disappear. The wolf is not our enemy. The white man is our enemy.”
This time the young warrior’s words were greeted with more houing than grunting as he seemed to be winning over the audience.
“I should like to hear what Maheoneeestseve’ho’e has to say on the subject,” Little Wolf said. This is one of the names the Cheyennes use to refer to Anthony, and means something like “holy-speaking white man.”
Anthony spoke softly. He has learned basic Cheyenne in a remarkably short time. “Christ gave the blessing of bread to provide sustenance, not to kill men,” he said to Black Coyote. And to the assemblage in general he said, “God put all of the beasts on the Earth for His own divine purpose. He gives abundantly for all to share.”
A long silence ensued as all soberly considered Anthony’s simple but eloquent remarks.
Finally my husband, Little Wolf, raised his hand and spoke in his usual thoughtful way—without flourish or fanfare, but with plain reason and good sense. “Mesoke, Mo’ohtaveo’kohome and Maheo’neestsevebho’e are all correct,” said the Chief. “We have always lived with the wolves, and it is true that far more Cheyennes have been killed by the white soldiers than have ever been killed by the wolves.” (There was a smattering of houing here.) “The wolves and the little wolves have always followed the People wherever we go; eating the offal and cleaning the bones that we leave behind from our hunts. This is not a bad thing, for all thus returns to the earth, and nothing is wasted. Sometimes, it is true that the wolves kill buffalo calves, and deer and elk calves. They kill old and weak animals, this is also true. But the wolves must have meat. If the Great Medicine intended that only the People should be allowed to eat meat, why would he have put wolves upon the earth? With this poison we not only kill the wolves and the little wolves but many other animals who have been our friends and neighbors. I have eaten the poison myself and almost died. I believe that the Great Medicine himself gave me the poison to eat so that I might know that it was a bad thing. It is the white man way to kill all the animals, to drive them away. It is not the way of the People, for we and all the other animals have lived here together, we have always shared, and until the white man came there has always been enough for everyone. Therefore, we will no longer permit the arsenic in this camp. That is my decision.”
25 December 1875
Christmas morning! I awoke thinking of my children, feeling the pull of memories … the remembrance of Christmas past … when I was a child myself and the day still held such promise … with St. Nick in his reindeer-drawn sleigh on the roof of our family’s house … and he would bring me a doll and some sweet candy … I had only two Christmases with my dear daughter, Hortense, and only one with sweet Willie before they took me away from them …
I woke this Christmas morning, vowing again that one day we would all be reunited, that I will tell my children the stories of their mother’s life and adventures.
It has begun snowing again, snowing and blowing, and again we find ourselves tipibound by the weather. But I refused to be so restrained on Christmas Day, and so I rose quietly, dressed warmly, and managed to slip from our lodge before anyone else stirred. All of us sleep more with the snow and cold and short days—in which sense, I suppose, we do hibernate. I took my notebook—strapped to my back—and off I went to visit Martha this Christmas morning.
The wind blew fiercely as I made my way to Martha’s lodge, the snow enveloping me in a whirlwind of white that stole my breath away. I could barely see beyond my own nose and at one point I became disoriented, lost all sense of direction, and felt a rising sense of panic. For that moment I was a prisoner of the white wind. But then the driving snow parted just enough that I could make out Martha’s lodge coverings—for all of our lodges are painted with different and distinctive paintings.
Martha herself met me at the entrance, surprised to see me so early and out in the storm. “Merry Christmas!” I shouted to her, but she could hardly hear me over the howling of the wind.
“Merry Christmas,” I repeated breathlessly after I had entered. It was dark, warm, and snug as a cocoon inside. I shook the snow from my buffalo coat and Martha helped me out of it. The two of us facing each other were like a pair of matching bookends, our protruding bellies touching beneath our antelope skin dresses.
“Christmas?” she said. “Dear God, May, I had completely forgotten. Christmas … Come sit by the fire, I’ll make coffee for us.”
Martha’s husband, Momebexaehe, still slept in his place before the fire. I have come to know the fellow rather well as Martha and I spend so much time together and his head of frighteningly disarrayed hair notwithstanding, he is a very pleasant, easygoing fellow.
Now Martha and I both sat ensconced on robes, leaning against backrests, which position at least relieved some of the discomfort of our conditions. She stoked the fire with sticks and set a small pot of coffee to boil.
I had made a small gift for Martha—a pair of baby moccasins that I had sewn myself from a butter-soft antelope hide. “I’ve brought you a little Christmas present, my dear friend,” I said, handing her the baby boots which I had enclosed in an embroidered deerskin pouch.
“A present?” Martha said in a small heartbroken voice. “But May, I have nothing for you. I had completely forgotten the day!”
“It makes no difference, Martha,” I said. “What’s important is that we are together on this day, safe, warm, and healthy.”
And then poor Martha began to weep softly—she wept and wept, and I could not make her stop, could not console her.
“What’s the matter, Martha,” I asked. “Why are you crying?”
But she could only shake her head and weep; could not catch her breath to speak between her pitiful sobs. Finally, when she had calmed herself enough, she said in a tiny choked voice, “I’m sorry, May, I don’t know what came over me. Learning that it is Christmas today made me suddenly so desperately homesick and lonely. Not that I have not been happy with my husband, for truly I have, but sometimes I do so miss home. Don’t you ever wish that we were home, May? Don’t you ever think of it?”
“Every day, Martha,” I admitted. “I think of my children, every day of my life. But I do not have a home any longer except for t
he one that I have right here. Open your gift now, Martha.”
She did so, and touched the baby boots lightly with her fingers, tracing the beads, lovingly. “Oh, May, they’re absolutely beautiful. These are the most beautiful baby shoes I have ever seen. Thank you. I’m sorry that I have nothing for you on Christmas.” And she began to weep anew.
“Hush,” I said. “I’m glad that you like them, dear. But please don’t cry anymore.”
“Do you think that Santa Claus is going to come down the smoke hole in the tipi today?” Martha said, smiling and wiping the tears with the back of her hand.
“I feel certain of it!” I said. “And why shouldn’t he? Weren’t we always told that Santa visited all children all over the world, wherever they lived. Next year he will visit our new babies, Martha. Think of it! Their first Christmas!”
“I hope that we go to the birthing lodge together, May,” Martha said, “that we have our babies at exactly the same time, you and I. But if I go before you, will you promise to come and be with me?”
“Of course I will,” I said, “and if I go first, which judging from the size of this enormous belly of mine, I surely will, then you must promise to attend to me.”
“I promise,” she said. “Oh, May, what a fine friend you have been. Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you, Martha,” I said. “Let us sing a Christmas hymn together, shall we?”
And so the two of us began to sing … while outside the blizzard raged, the wind moaned and howled like a living being, the snow roiled around the lodge, hurtled against it, spinning past to drift out across the prairie. Martha and I sat warm by the fire; we had much to be thankful for on this Christmas morning and we sang with full hearts, with hope and courage for the future:
Oh come all ye faithful,
joyful and triumphant,
Come ye, oh co-ome ye to Be-ethlehem …
And now I write these notes by Martha’s fire, as she dozes contentedly beside me. Mr. Tangle Hair also sleeps, as does their crone at the entrance. All is quiet and warm inside, and we are safe … perhaps I too shall sleep …
23 January 1876
I have done something very foolish and in the bargain, risked not only my own life but also the life of my unborn child—and of all those who ventured out to rescue me in the storm. It has been nearly a month since my “accident” and only now am I strong enough to sit up and write. God, how could I have been so careless!
After visiting with Martha on Christmas morning, I dozed off for a time as I reported in my last entry of that day. When I woke, Martha and the others were still asleep. I did not know what time it was and so I crawled to the lodge entrance and peered out to find that while the storm still blew, there was light yet in the sky. I decided that I would make my way back to my own lodge, before darkness fell. I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and wrote a note to Martha and then I bundled myself up in my buffalo coat and slipped out into the storm.
If anything the storm had intensified. But stubbornly I told myself that our lodge was only a short distance away, that if I simply walked slowly in a straight line I would certainly come upon it. After all, I had made it here this morning, had I not? But after only a few steps, a strange and terrifying phenomenon occurred. The maelstrom of wind and snow enveloped me in its own world of chaos. Suddenly I knew no direction—not east or west, north or south, not left or right, not even up and down. I was completely disoriented. I shall turn back, I thought to myself desperately, I can’t have come far. But, of course, I did not know where “back” was. Now I felt the panic overcome me; I fought against it, tried to put one foot in front of the other, but in my state of mental confusion even that proved difficult to do. The snow stung my face and eyes, felt like a million tiny lashes of a whip, cut through my buffalo coat as if I were naked. I had an overpowering urge to lie down, to curl up for warmth until the storm passed, but I knew in what was left of my disarranged mind that if I did so I would surely die there. I staggered on, holding my arms out before me like a blind woman, hoping that I would come across another lodge—any lodge. I tried to cry out but I could barely hear my own words over the screaming of the wind. Tears of terror and pain from the stinging snow streamed down my face to freeze on my cheeks. Finally, I could no longer draw breath from the wind and my own panic; I had no strength to go on. I sank helplessly to my knees in the snow, grasped myself with my arms and rocked back and forth. “Forgive me, child,” I whispered to my unborn baby, “forgive me.” I fell onto my side, curled up in a tight ball, and felt the sleep of death stealing over me. I knew then that I was going to die … but suddenly I was warm and comfortable and I began to have the most extraordinary dream.
I dreamed that I was walking in a beautiful river bottom in the spring, the cottonwoods were in full leaf and the sweet yellow clover was in bloom and the grass across the prairie was as green as the fields of Scotland. I was following a young girl who walked ahead of me, and in a moment I recognized her—it was my dear Sara. I began to weep with joy at seeing her, and I hurried to catch up. Sara turned to wave to me, and I could see that she, too, was pregnant. She smiled and called back to me in Cheyenne. “It is so beautiful in Seano, Mesoke,” she said. “I shall have my baby here and later you will join me. I will meet you and show you the way here along the Hanging Road. But it is not quite time yet for you to come. You must go back now.” And she turned and began to walk away from me again.
“Wait, Sara,” I called out. “Wait for me, dear, please …” But I could not catch up to her and she disappeared ahead of me …
I do not know how long I slept, but when I woke at last I was in my own bed in my own lodge. My little Horse Boy sat beside me, my little man, his small hand warm as a biscuit upon my cheek. I reached out to see that he was real, cupped his cheek in my own hand. “Mo’ehnoha hetaneka’eskone,” I whispered to him.
The boy regarded me solemnly when he saw that my eyes were open, then smiled down at me.
“Mo’ehnoha hetaneka’eskone,” I whispered.
“Mesoke,” he said.
And then the others gathered excitedly around me and I was startled to see among them my old friend Gertie.
“Name’esevotame?” I asked, speaking unconsciously in Cheyenne.
“Your baby’s fine, honey,” Gertie said, “but he’s mighty lucky and so are you. What the hell were you doin’ wanderin’ around out there in the blizzard, anyhow? Are you plumb crazy?”
I smiled weakly. “Some people used to say so. How did I get home?” I asked.
“Your little friend here found you,” Gertie said, indicating Horse Boy, “found you half-covered in a snowdrift and drug you home all by hisself, although I don’t know how the skinny little bastard managed it what with the extra person you’re packin’ along in there.” She placed a hand lightly on my stomach, smiled, and stroked my belly gently.
“Did you ever have children, Gertie?” I whispered weakly. “You’ve never said.”
“Never did, honey,” she answered, “never much cared for the little bastards.” But I could tell that she didn’t mean it. “This little Horse Boy, though, he’s OK, and he sure enough saved your fool butt.”
“He’s my little man,” I said.
For days I faded in and out of consciousness. I had contracted pneumonia from my ordeal, with the attendant fever and delirium. I woke and slept, woke and slept, with no sense of time. Through it all I was aware of the steady stream of people who came and went from the tipi, old Crooked Nose overseeing the visitors like a stern head nurse.
My little man Horse Boy hardly left my side, and sometimes curled up on the robe to sleep beside me. Medicine men chanted and passed burning sage under my nose, rattles and other totemic objects around my head. Anthony read passages to me from the Bible, my friends and family were there—their faces blurring one into the next. Martha sat with me, and Gertie, Feather on Head, Helen, Euphemia, the Kelly twins, Quiet One, Gretchen, Daisy, Pretty Walker—all were there.
And in my dreams I saw little Sara.
Sometimes the women sang softly to me. Feather on Head and Pretty Walker sang Cheyenne songs, the white women and the Indians taught each other their songs, and my sickbed became a place of joyous singing—until the old crone chased everyone off with her stick.
Always when the others had left, my husband Little Wolf was by my side, sitting silently, motionless as a statue so that when I woke, I was never alone, and when I saw him there I felt always safe, knowing that nothing bad could ever happen to me or to my child as long as my husband was here to protect us. If I was cold and shivering from fever, he would lie down beside me and fold me in his arms to warm me.
I slept and I woke and I slept, I thought that I should never be able to keep my eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time.
But after a time the fever passed and slowly I began to regain my strength. Now I feel the baby move inside me, and I tell myself that all is well.
At the moment I sit propped up against my backrest, scribbling these notes by the dim light of the fire. Feather on Head sits quietly beside me … my eyes grow heavy again …
26 January 1876
Good God, I can hardly believe the turn of events …
After my last entry I drifted off to sleep with my notebook propped against my enormous belly. I woke several hours later, woke with a jolt—the unmistakable tightening of a labor pain. “It cannot be,” I whispered to myself. “I am weeks early.” And I knew that something must be wrong. Little Wolf sat beside me, and Horse Boy curled against me. I touched the child’s shoulder gently, and he woke with perfect animal-like alertness. “Please,” I whispered to him, “run and get Martha.” And to my husband I said, “The baby comes.”
