Burning Ground

by D. A. Galloway

  Graham was impressed by the temporary structure constructed almost entirely from fallen trees and brush. The closer he got to the shelter, the more he appreciated its simplicity and sturdiness. How long had it taken the Crow Indian guides to assemble this wickiup? He wished he could have observed the construction of the vertical pole lodge and committed to doing this sometime during the expedition.

  A young woman was tending a fire outside the opening to the wickiup. A brown-and-white stallion was tethered to a nearby tree.

  Graham waved to the squatting woman when she looked up from the crackling flames. He hoped Aurelio was correct in reporting the Crow woman spoke English quite well.

  He removed his cowboy hat and said, “Hello, my name is Graham Davidson. I joined the group yesterday.”

  The woman stood. “I am Makawee. Pleased to meet you,” she responded, nodding her head slightly as she spoke.

  Graham was immediately taken with her beauty. She was about five feet seven inches tall and slender, with light-brown skin and straight black hair worn in two thick braids. Her diamond-shaped face was accented by dark-brown almond eyes, high cheekbones, and an aquiline nose. The young woman wore leggings, moccasins, and a knee-length, fringed elk-hide dress adorned with elks’ teeth. Her only jewelry was a necklace made from black-and-yellow chevron seed beads threaded on an elk-hide cord. A turtle carved from dark-green obsidian stone was attached as a pendant.

  The time traveler tried not to stare as he gazed on the lovely young Crow woman, but he was captivated by her simple elegance.

  “I’m attempting to meet everyone on the survey team. I understand you are one of our guides,” Graham explained, trying to sound casual even as his heart was beating faster in the presence of this attractive woman. “I’m . . . uh . . . I’m from Pennsylvania. Do you know where that is?” He was stammering like a schoolboy and chastised himself for asking such a lame question.

  “It’s on the East Coast of America close to New York.”

  Okay, clearly this young woman knew more about white civilization than he assumed.

  “Uh . . . yes. That’s right.” He paused, thinking about how to briefly communicate his situation. “I was camping in this area for about six weeks. A few days ago, I lost my horse and most of my belongings in the river. Some members of the expedition found me near the Dragon’s Mouth spring.”

  Makawee looked confused. “Where is this place you call Dragon’s Mouth?”

  Graham suddenly realized the thermal feature would not have that name for decades. What did Redfield say the natives called the hot-water cave?

  “Tó-sá-dà?” He guessed on the pronunciation, hoping it was close to the actual name. “It is near the exploding Mud Volcano—you know the one that was making so much noise and throwing mud into the air?”

  “Tó-sál-dàu,” Makawee corrected him. “That is the Kiowa name for this special place. How do you know this?”

  “I have a Crow Indian friend in Pennsylvania who told me about it. Some of his ancestors were Kiowa,” Graham explained. He could tell she was intrigued by his informal connection with the Crow and Kiowa. When she did not immediately respond, he decided to change the subject. He suggested they sit by the fire to continue their conversation.

  “How did you learn to speak English so well?” Graham inquired.

  “I was raised by baashchiile. A white man.”

  “Oh? How did that happen?” Graham asked, trying not to sound too forward.

  “In 1850, my parents and two brothers died from rotting face sickness. White people call this smallpox. My mother had the sickness while she was pregnant with me. She died when I was born. I was taken to Fort Sarpy by women from my village so I would avoid the sickness. They named me Makawee. The fort was a fur-trading post run by Robert Meldrum. The Crow called him Round Iron. He had married a Crow woman named Medicine Tree. Because they were both familiar with our tribe’s culture, the women asked them to care for me.”

  Upon hearing the year Makawee was born, Graham realized they were both twenty-one years old. He was amazed she had survived smallpox but knew a baby can achieve temporary passive immunity because the mother’s antibodies are passed through the placenta to the fetus.

  “Were you ever vaccinated for smallpox?” Graham inquired. He tried to recall when vaccinations for this dreaded disease were available in America. He thought it was sometime early in the nineteenth century.

  “Yes. Round Iron worked for the American Fur Company. They supplied some vaccine, but very few of my people were inoculated,” she said with a distinct sadness in her voice.

  “So, Meldrum and Medicine Tree raised you?” Graham said, prompting her.

  “Yes, until I was ten years old. That is how I learned English. Round Iron also taught me about the white man’s world.”

  Makawee placed a few more sticks on the fire and was silent. Graham waited patiently, eager to hear the rest of her story. She spoke again after a few minutes.

  “One day I was gathering berries with Medicine Tree near the river. Blackfeet warriors came up behind and took me. Medicine Tree ran and got away. I was taken to their band’s territory along the Missouri River. I lived with them for four winters and learned their Siksika language.

  “When I was fourteen, I was traded by the Blackfeet band to the baashchiile Isaac Baker, who ran the Fort Benton trading post. After the fort closed, he opened a store. It was a good business because the steamboats brought many people up the Missouri River. I worked there two winters.

  “But I wanted to return to my own people, so I was granted my freedom when I turned sixteen. When we found out Robert Meldrum and Medicine Tree had died, Baker contacted Crow Chief Long Horse. Baker asked the chief to welcome me into his clan. I traveled to the Yellowstone River Valley to join the house of Long Horse, and I am now staying with his people.”

  Graham was stunned by the woman’s saga. He could not imagine what it would feel like to live with four different families and three different cultures in her young life. Surely the series of painful experiences Makawee suffered in her youth produced deep emotional scars. Losing every member of her immediate family. Orphaned at birth. Forced immersion into discordant cultures. Captured and sold. Traded like a beaver pelt. How could she ever find peace or redemption? He considered his own family’s personal tragedies and concluded Makawee’s wounds were probably deep and painful as well.

  Graham was at a loss for words. He wanted to comfort her. Instead, his clumsy response sounded like an interrogation. “Tell me about your last five years with Chief Long Horse.”

  Makawee stared into the fire as she spoke. “It has been good. Long Horse is a proud and brave warrior. He accepted me as family. He took me along on trips into this country to hunt and trade. He knew my grandmother was Kiowa, so we made a trip every year to visit Tó-sál-dàu because it is a sacred place for the Kiowa people. He realized it would be important for me to stay close to my spiritual roots. I am Crow. I am also Kiowa.”

  Graham understood why Makawee was interested when he mentioned knowing a Crow with Kiowa ancestors. Several hundred years ago, the Crow and Kiowa were trading partners and allies. They often intermarried. However, by the end of the eighteenth century, all Kiowa had migrated from the Yellowstone region. They were eventually confined to a reservation in southwestern Oklahoma.

  Makawee paused before continuing. “Long Horse taught me how to shoot and build a wickiup. Because we traded with the Shoshone, I also learned their language. Every year we traveled to Shiiptacha Awaxaawe to gather sharp rocks for spears and scrapers.”

  “Is this where you got the stone for your turtle necklace?” Graham asked.

  “Yes. One of the women in our tribe carved this because Makawee means Earth Maiden. A turtle is always close to the earth. It is my animal spirit.”

  Graham’s mind flashed back to the park ranger’s presentation about the Obsidian Cliff. The turtle on Earth Maiden’s necklace had the same distinctive glass-like appearance as the
arrow tips passed around by the ranger. Shiiptacha Awaxaawe must be the Crow name for this ancient geological site, where obsidian has been collected for thousands of years.

  He could see why Makawee would be a valuable addition to the Hayden Expedition. She had traveled extensively through the Yellowstone region. In addition to her fluency in English, she spoke or understood Crow, Siksika, and Shoshone. She was more than a guide. She could serve as an interpreter if the survey team encountered any of these tribes!

  The rhythmic sound of horse hooves caused Graham to look up. A young Crow warrior approached the wickiup, quickly dismounted, and picketed his horse by tying the reins to a tree branch. Graham stood to greet the rider.

  “Graham Davidson,” he said, extending his hand.

  The young warrior did not reciprocate. He glared at the white man, then turned to face Makawee.

  “This man joined the group yesterday. He was camped at Tó-sál-dàu,” she explained. “Graham, this is Rides Alone, my stepbrother and son of Long Horse. He understands English but does not speak it well.”

  The Crow warrior was six feet tall and muscular with brown skin and shoulder-length black hair adorned with a single eagle feather. He had dark-brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a prominent jaw. The young man wore a long-sleeve, fringed tunic shirt. A tanned elk-skin breechcloth covered the tops of his leggings, and sinew-sewn moccasins protected his feet.

  “I take oath. Protect Makawee,” Rides Alone said, crossing his arms on his chest and looking directly at Graham with steely eyes.

  “I understand,” Graham replied.

  The message from Rides Alone was unambiguous. Graham was a baashchiile. Because he was a white man, he would be tolerated, but not trusted. He was not surprised Rides Alone’s words had an acrimonious tone. Graham learned in his history classes Native Americans were treated poorly by European settlers and the US government.

  Nevertheless, Makawee seemed willing to speak with him. Graham reasoned she held a different viewpoint about white people because of the support she received from her adopted white families at Fort Sarpy and Fort Benton. While Makawee was pensive and sad, Rides Alone was angry and bitter.

  It was time to end the visit. Graham told the pair of guides he looked forward to talking with them another day. He glanced briefly at the alluring young woman and nodded slightly as a personal goodbye. The time traveler turned and strode toward his campsite with a light heart.

  * * *

  Graham spied the mast of the small craft in the distance as the Annie advanced toward the shore in late afternoon. He could see the oars dipping into the choppy water every few seconds and was surprised at the steady rowing rhythm. Perhaps Henry Elliott was stronger and more athletic than he appeared. As the boat drew closer, Graham saw the reason for the quick rowing cadence. Stevenson was pulling the oars while Elliott sat in the bow. Graham smiled inwardly. Apparently, the confident young artist was not up to the challenging physical task of extensive rowing.

  “Ahoy!” Stevenson shouted as he glanced over his shoulder and saw Graham standing on the shore.

  The modern-day scenicruise operator pulled the front end of the crude wooden boat onto land as Stevenson stowed the oars inside the gunwales. Elliott and Stevenson disembarked. Both men looked tired, but they were grinning.

  “What a day!” the survey manager exclaimed. “We explored a bit of the island, but it’s so densely forested we couldn’t venture too far inland. I rowed all the way around the island, and Henry produced a beautiful, detailed sketch of it. Show him your work.”

  Elliott retrieved the sketch pad from his leather pouch and held it up for Graham to see. Indeed, it was a wonderful rendering. The artist titled his drawing Stevenson’s Island.

  The time traveler considered this moment. He was standing on the shore of Yellowstone Lake with the first white man to set foot on the island as well as the young artist who drew and officially named it.

  “That’s wonderful,” Graham said sincerely.

  “Did you get a firearm today?” Stevenson asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m all set. I also introduced myself to our Indian guides.”

  “Okay. Sounds good. I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat. We have more survey work on the lake tomorrow. Graham, come with me. I’ll introduce you to Doctor Hayden.”

  He followed Stevenson to a large wall tent, where the expedition leader was sitting on a camp stool.

  “Doctor Hayden, this is Graham Davidson, the young man we found by the river. He’s done some really nice work for me on the lake,” Stevenson said.

  “Glad to hear. We have a lot to do in the next month. I appreciate those who aren’t afraid of hard work,” Hayden replied as he looked at Graham. “Don’t hesitate to speak up if you see something that could help the group or add to our knowledge.”

  “I certainly will. Thank you for the opportunity. I’m willing to help any way I can.”

  As Graham headed toward the aroma of the cooking fire, he thought about the events of the day. He was grateful to have a weapon and know how to use it. He was thankful for witnessing a historical park landmark’s being named. But mostly he was elated to have met and talked with Makawee. The young Pennsylvanian pledged to get better acquainted with the captivating Earth Maiden.

  Chapter 13

  July 30, 1871

  Everyone in camp moved a little more leisurely during breakfast the next morning. When Graham commented about this unhurried pace to Aurelio while they were eating bacon and biscuits, his friend reminded him it was Sunday. Work would still be completed today, but many survey-team members would be allowed some personal time.

  “I need advice,” Graham said to the hostler as they sat outside the fly and sipped strong black coffee. “I lost my toothbrush in the river. How do you clean your teeth?”

  Aurelio looked surprised. “You had a toothbrush?”

  The time traveler was caught off guard by the question. He had not considered this simple invention may not be common in the nineteenth century and quickly came up with a vague description.

  “It was a small brush with hog-hair bristles on a wooden handle.” Would it have hog hair or horsehair? He hoped Aurelio wouldn’t become more inquisitive.

  “The only man I know on the survey team who uses a toothbrush is the doctor.”

  “Doctor Hayden?” Graham asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what do you use to clean your teeth?”

  “A chewing stick. That’s what most guys use—at least those who clean their teeth.”

  Graham never heard of a chewing stick, but it sounded like something that could be made. “Can you show me one?”

  “Sure,” Aurelio responded. “Mine is getting dry and brittle. I need to make a new one, and I saw some willow bushes over by the river. Bring your knife. Seguimi per piacere. Follow me.”

  The two men sauntered over to the place where the lake emptied into the river. Graham marveled at the pristine appearance of the lake outlet in the absence of the modern-day Fishing Bridge, cabins, and campground. They trudged a short distance downstream, where a cluster of eight-foot silver willow bushes sprouted from the riverbank. The shrubs were eight feet high with narrow lance-shaped leaves coated in white, silky hairs.

  Aurelio pulled a knife from a sheath. He removed several twigs about six inches long and the diameter of a pencil. He handed one of the twigs to Graham.

  “First use your knife to remove about a half inch of outer bark from one end of the stick,” Aurelio instructed. He held the knife edge ninety degrees to the surface and spun the twig as he scraped away the tough outer bark exposing the green inner bark. Graham mimicked the scraping motion on his stick.

  “Now chew on the exposed end until the fibers become frayed.”

  Both men used their molar teeth to masticate the ends, twirling the sticks and spitting out loose pieces of wood fiber. After a few minutes of persistent gnashing, a cluster of fibers resembling a crude brush developed on the end of the
sticks.

  “There you go,” Aurelio announced. “A willow chewing stick. When the fibers dry out in a few days, soak the stick in water. When the fibers wear down, cut off the end of the twig, scrape off the outer bark, and create a new brush.”

  Graham reflected on the many uses for the versatile willow. The inner bark of Salix could be chewed to relieve a toothache. It could be mixed with regular tobacco to make kinnikinnick. The flexible, thin branches could be used to lash together deadfall poles when building a wickiup. And willow sticks could be converted into a toothbrush!

  On their way back to camp, Graham stopped by James Stevenson’s tent. The survey manager was sitting on a camp stool looking at a map of Yellowstone Lake sketched by Nathaniel Langford, a member of last year’s Washburn expedition. Another man was sitting on a wooden crate coiling a long, Manila hemp rope at his feet.

  “Good morning sir,” Graham said as he walked toward his supervisor’s tent.

  “Ah, Davidson! I was just headed your way. We need to take some measurements on the lake today and need your assistance. Let me introduce you to John Beaman. He is the meteorologist for our expedition.”

  Beaman had studied weather and earned a degree in civil engineering from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. The young man was clean-shaven with long sideburns. Though he was only in his late twenties, he looked much older because his light-brown hair was receding.

  Graham exchanged greetings with Beaman.

  “John is marking fathoms on the lead line. You can help. As soon as you’re finished, bring the line over to the Annie. We will take as many soundings as possible this morning,” Stevenson said. “I will meet you at the boat in thirty minutes.”