Wind River

by Charles G. West

  “Hod damn!” Squint exclaimed, stamping his feet in an effort to force some circulation back into them. “It’s colder’n a widow’s ass out there.” He moved to the fire to warm his hands. “I figured I better stay with Joe and the ladies for a while,” he said.

  “You want me to stay out there tonight?”

  “Nah, they’ll be all right. It ain’t too bad in there now. That fire will hold till morning. I don’t think they’ll get too cold.”

  Little Wolf shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. If you want me to sleep out there, I don’t mind.”

  “Nah, they’ll be all right.” He continued rubbing his hands briskly in front of the fire. “Besides,” he added, joking, “I been noticing the way you been looking at that little mare lately. You better stay in here.”

  Little Wolf laughed. “I ain’t about to step in and cut you out.”

  They both laughed. Squint sat down in the opposite corner and pulled his buffalo robe up around his shoulders. “I tell you what, it has been a damn long winter. If I don’t see some signs of spring pretty soon, I might consider marrying that little mare . . . or tracking up to that Shoshone camp and findin’ me a squaw.” As soon as he said it, he glanced quickly at Little Wolf in case he might have taken offense at the remark. Indians never used the term “squaw.” To them, it was an insult. The boy seemed not to think anything of it so Squint continued.

  “Last spring I had to take a little trip up to them Shoshones.” He paused to tear off some tobacco from a twist hanging from the ceiling. He offered the twist to Little Wolf but the lad declined. There was a long pause while Squint crumbled the tobacco and packed it down in the bowl of his cherrywood pipe. Little Wolf waited patiently for his friend to light his pipe and resume his story. Squint lit the pipe and drew on it deeply, filling the cramped lean-to with heavy blue smoke. With a small twig, he tamped the load down firmly and relit it. Content that it would now burn evenly all the way to the bottom, he removed it from his mouth long enough to spit on the dirt floor, then picked up the story where he had left off.

  “It was hard last winter, I swear. You know, the trick is, you got to keep your mind off women. ’cause when you’re up in these mountains by yourself for that long a time, if you once get to thinking about it, you can drive yourself crazy. That dang near happened to me last winter. I swear, I got so rutty I was ’bout ready to rut around with the elks by the time the thaws started. As soon as the snow melted enough to get through the pass, I hightailed it up to ole Wounded Elk’s camp.” He laughed as he remembered the chief’s reaction to his plight.

  “Ole Wounded Elk, he thought it was pretty funny—I mean, me needing a woman so bad. He said he didn’t think white men ever did it unless they was wanting to make a baby. I told him, Hell no. White men get just as stupid as any animal when they get the scent of a female in heat. Well, he was enjoying my predicament rightly enough, but he finally told me his wife’s younger sister would be willing to take care of my needs. Well, she weren’t very stout, not more than a slip of a thing, but she was spirited.” He paused, took his pipe out of his mouth and winked at Little Wolf. “She weren’t exactly pretty either, but then neither am I.” He shook his head and laughed. “Like I said, she was spirited and it might have been quite a ride. Ole Wounded Elk said she wanted to see how it was to take on a man big as me, ‘specially a white man. Oh, it would have been quite a ride all right. Problem was, ole Wounded Elk was just as curious as she was about how white men did it. He stayed right there in the tipi with us, made hisself comfortable over in the corner where he could watch the show.”

  Squint paused to tend his pipe again, re-tamping it and lighting up once more. “Well, I ain’t never been bashful with the women. But I ain’t never done it with no audience before either. That little ole gal was willing, no doubt about that. She dropped her skirt and leggings and threw that thing right up in my face. And I want to tell you, son, I could’t do a damn thing with it. She was doing all kinds of things too, I mean, jumping around and pulling on my horn, and everything. But I couldn’t do her no good a’tall. I mean, there weren’t no starch a’tall in that thing. It was downright mortifying. And that ole son of a bitch setting over in the corner hollering, ‘No good, got to make hard, no good.’ I finally had to tell him I couldn’t make the damn thing hard with him setting there gawking at it. Hell, it’s got feelings too. He just finally got up and walked outside, still shaking his head and mumbling, ‘White man no good, got to make hard.’”

  Little Wolf sat fascinated while Squint went on with his story. He would not volunteer the fact that he had, as yet, never been with a woman. He and Black Feather had talked about it but neither of them had given much thought toward making love with any of the young girls in the tribe. When they did discuss it, they talked in terms of taking a mate, a wife, and there was plenty of time for that later. He was surprised that Squint discussed his pursuits and conquests so openly, placing no more importance on them than emptying his bladder. Still, Squint’s talking was entertaining and set his thoughts in motion.

  “So,” he asked, “did the people laugh at you?”

  “Nah,” Squint replied. “Oh, they snickered a little at first when ole Wounded Elk went outside.” He smiled to himself and gave Little Wolf another wink. “But after we got shed of that old son of a bitch, we got it right enough. I want to tell you, son, we got it right enough then. She was singing a different tune about white men by the time I let her go.”

  Little Wolf laughed with his friend. He was amazed, however, that Squint would tell embarrassing stories about himself. No Indian would. A Cheyenne brave would be far too ashamed to admit to something of that nature. And a Dakota might be inclined to kill the woman rather than risk losing face before the tribe. And yet Little Wolf could see no strain of weakness in this bear of a man who laughed at his own foolish blunders. Little Wolf decided that Squint undoubtedly possessed a confidence in himself that made it unimportant what others thought of him. Squint Peterson was a different breed of man, he decided.

  They talked of many things during the long wait for the spring thaws. One subject that surfaced more than once was Little Wolf’s future. At first Squint merely questioned him about his plans when the winter was done with. But more and more, the talk got around to whether he had given any thought toward going back to the settlement with Squint and living like a white man. While he would never admit it to Squint, Little Wolf did give it a passing thought. While he would never be able to bring himself to forgive the white man for the crimes against his people, hunting and trapping with Squint might not be a bad path to choose. When he thought back to the village on Sand Creek, it was sometimes hard to believe it had all happened. But then, the picture of Buffalo Woman’s broken face as she lay dead in her own cook fire would burn its image into his mind and he would remember his vow that he was at war with the U.S. Army. Admittedly, it was difficult to maintain the venom toward all whites while sitting by the fire listening to Squint spin yarns. Spring was near. He would have to decide soon.

  * * *

  At last the long hard winter relaxed its frigid grip on the mountains and the first real signs of spring appeared. The breezes sweeping down the passes were still cold, but no longer icy and the streams began to flow freely once more. It had happened almost without their noticing. It seemed that one day it was winter and the next it was spring. The days were becoming longer. There were little patches of grass showing through the snow so the horses were able to graze again. All members of the little winter camp were ready to get out and stretch their legs, man and boy, horses and mule. The hibernation was long and hard so Little Wolf was readily agreeable when Squint proposed a trip up to the Shoshone village of Wounded Elk’s.

  There was little doubt in the boy’s mind as to the purpose of Squint’s visit to the village. Another tryst with Wounded Elk’s sister-in-law was obviously on his mind and had been since he recounted the first visit to Little Wolf. As for his own reasons, aside from a serious case
of cabin fever, he was hoping to hear news of his friend, Black Feather. Perhaps the Shoshones had heard something of the small band of Cheyennes that had fled the slaughter by the soldiers. So they packed some provisions on Squint’s two horses and set out on the two-day trek up through the mountain passes to the tiny valley of the Shoshone. Squint let Little Wolf ride Britches, the little mare, while he threw his saddle on Joe. He had only the one saddle but it didn’t matter to Little Wolf. He simply fashioned an Indian saddle from rawhide straps and a blanket. He was more accustomed to riding this way anyway. They started out one morning before the sun had climbed high enough to light the valley, wrapped in buffalo robes to protect them from the chilly morning air. Sadie, the mule, brayed in protest at being left behind when the two horses disappeared through the opening in the rock cliff.

  “Hush, Sadie!” Squint admonished. “These horses is probably good and damn glad to take a vacation from your complaining.”

  Little Wolf pulled the robe back from his face so he could feel the brisk morning cold on his cheeks. It was cold, but not like the deep winter cold. Perhaps it was just a feeling he had, knowing that it was the beginning of spring, that made it seem fresh and rejuvenating. He had come to greet spring with a sense of excitement. Spring had meant the women would soon be packing up the tipis, readying the village for the summer rendezvous with the rest of the tribe. It had meant the whole summer season of the hunt was all before him, that he would soon see Black Feather and all the other friends he shared the summer with. Then he had to remind himself that things would be different now, after the massacre at Sand Creek had killed his parents and scattered his friends. Black Feather had been on his mind a great deal during the last several days. He wondered how he and his fellow warriors had fared during the winter and if he would be able to find them. The thought caused his brow to furrow into a worried frown. Did he want to search for them? Or should he accept Squint’s invitation to throw in with him and do some trapping? He still didn’t know. After a moment, he shook it from his mind. The morning was too pleasant to waste with worries.

  Squint adjusted his sizable bulk in the saddle. It had been a while since he had ridden any distance and his body wanted to stiffen up on him. He turned to glance back at the silent figure behind him. The boy fit the mare perfectly, riding easily with her motion. He looked a hell of a lot better than he did the first day they met. He was little more than skin and bones then. But looking at him now, Squint could see a lean strength that signaled the beginning of manhood. He was still a boy by Squint’s reckoning but he was soon going to be man enough. You could tell that by looking at the long, muscled arms and legs. And he was tall, too tall to be a Cheyenne Dog Soldier, Squint was thinking. The boy was good company. Squint hoped he would give up the notion of returning to the tribe and throw in with him.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was a two-day journey to Wounded Elk’s village on the Wind River, two days that Little Wolf thoroughly enjoyed. It was good to get out in the open again after the confines of the cramped hovel that Squint called his camp. The wind whispered softly through the pines as they made their way leisurely along the slopes and down through streams swollen with melting snow and ice, climbing again through cottonwood and aspen on the lower slopes. Little Wolf could feel his senses regaining their sharpness. Long dulled by the smoke-filled cave he had shared with Squint, they seemed to return now that the cold mountain air flushed out his lungs. The sweet, almost spicy aroma of the fir trees lay heavy on the wind and he breathed it in deeply. The forest was so fresh and clean, purified by the long months of snow, that he could almost taste it. High above them, he heard the cry of a hawk piercing the soft murmur of the wind in the trees. It was good to be alive on this morning and he felt himself to be a part of the mountains and forests.

  As they rode in silence, he wondered if Squint felt this same oneness with the mountains or if the sensation was strictly Indian. Spotted Pony had taught him to be one with the land as every Arapaho father taught his son. Looking at the solid bulk of Squint ahead of him, hunched over against the chilling spring air, he decided it was unlikely his friend had anything on his mind but Wounded Elk’s sister-in-law.

  Upon arriving in the Shoshone village, Squint and Little Wolf were greeted cordially. Old Wounded Elk came out of his lodge to welcome them himself. Squint was obviously regarded as a friend and, since the Shoshone were not enemies of the Arapaho or the Cheyenne, Little Wolf felt he would be treated courteously as well. Squint wasn’t worried about it from the first because, although his hair was long and he still wore the buckskin shirt and leggings of his tribe, Little Wolf looked like just another trapper to the Indians. Besides, the winter months, as well as his recovery from his wound, had left him pale and looking very much like a white man again. These facts irritated Little Wolf, and he immediately spoke to Wounded Elk in the Cheyenne tongue, letting him know in no uncertain tones that he was an Arapaho brave, respected in his tribe. He had taken the power of the grizzly with his own hands, he had killed a Pawnee army scout with his war axe and a soldier with his knife. He was not to be regarded as a white trapper. Wounded Elk was impressed and invited Little Wolf to sit down and smoke the pipe with him, explaining that it was a natural mistake since he had come with Squint. He also explained, with some amusement, that it was somewhat unexpected to encounter an Arapaho brave with a face full of stubby whiskers. Squint couldn’t help but chuckle at this. Little Wolf’s hand immediately went up to rub his chin. It was obvious that, until the remark, he hadn’t even considered the fact that he had a growth on his face. He was far from flustered, however, and replied at once that the mighty Cheyenne measured a warrior by his heart and deeds, not by the hair on his face. Squint knew enough Cheyenne to piece the conversation together. He learned something about his young friend that day. Little Wolf was not to be taken for a boy. There was a sense of self-confidence and pride that had not surfaced during the long months in Squint’s camp. He made a mental note that he had best be careful how he stepped on his friend’s toes in the future, now that the lad seemed to have regained his health.

  It was a large village and, from all appearances, a permanent settlement. Squint told him these people were different from most of the plains tribes. They didn’t break up into smaller bands in the winter and come together in one big tribe in the summer. The valley in which they had settled offered ample water and the surrounding mountains provided plenty of game. The men formed hunting parties in the summer and went to hunt buffalo but they were seldom away for more than a week at a time. Like their brothers, the Sioux, the Cheyenne, the Utes and the Arapaho, they went on raiding parties to steal horses or war parties to avenge some wrong. But they operated out of the one central village.

  On this day there were but a few of the men in the village, only enough to defend it in the unlikely event of an attack by an enemy. Only crazy men made war in the winter snows. Even the Blackfeet were relatively peaceful in the winter. Most of the men of the village were gone on a hunting party. Wounded Elk explained that game was still pretty hard to find in the mountains, but soon the great herds of elk and antelope would return from their winter ranges. Then there would be much dancing and feasting. Little Wolf waited until the common courtesies had been observed and the pipe had been offered to the four corners of the earth. Then, after the three men had all taken the pipe and drawn deeply from it, he pressed Wounded Elk for the information he was most interested in.

  “I am seeking word of my friend Black Feather and a small number of Cheyenne warriors. They should have made a winter camp somewhere near the Wind River. My people were camped under a flag of peace near the soldier fort on Sand Creek. My chief, Black Kettle, wanted only peace with the soldiers but they attacked the village without warning, killing women and children. My own father and mother were killed. These friends I seek came to the mountains after the cowardly attack on Red Shirt’s camp.”

  Wounded Elk responded, “I have heard of the cowardly attack on Black Kettl
e’s camp. It was a bad thing. I am sorry for your loss. Our scouting parties have not reported any contact with your Cheyenne friends but there was talk among a band of Utes visiting our village during the last full moon. They told of a band of Cheyenne warriors wintering in the Absaroka territory. But that is all I have heard.”

  This was welcome news to Little Wolf. Who else could it be but Black Feather and his comrades? This meant that at least they were still in the high mountains. Now he had to make the decision about which path his future was to lie in—Black Feather’s or Squint’s. It was not a simple decision to make. He would have to fast and seek spiritual guidance.

  “My friends have vowed to make war on the soldiers,” Little Wolf stated. “What will the mighty Shoshone do? Will you go to war with the army?”

  Wounded Elk took a long, slow pull from the pipe before answering his young guest. The heavy smoke curled up around his face, framing the deep lines that furrowed his mouth and forehead, lines formed and deepened by many moons of war and harsh winters. He was accustomed to the impetuous prodding of young braves. His own young men were impatient for the answer to the same question. Even now, a few of the more aggressive braves questioned the old chief’s wisdom in his decision to wait. To the east the great Oglala chief, Red Cloud, was warring with the white soldiers. He had sent an invitation to most of the important chiefs to join him in his battle with the army. Wounded Elk looked deep into Little Wolf’s eyes. There was no blind impatience burning there, merely a desire for the answer to a simple question. So he was patient in his reply.

  “Many of our young men want to join the Sioux in their battle with the soldiers. Red Cloud has many warriors but there is no end to the soldiers. Where one is cut down, two spring up in his place. Every soldier has a gun—some, the new gun that shoots many times. We have no guns. The Dakota have but a few old rifles. They will be useless against the soldiers. It is my feeling that we should stay in the mountains and let the Sioux fight the army if that is what Red Cloud wants.” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of indifference. “His war is nothing more than raids on the small camps of workers building the trail for the iron horse”—he paused—“and on the settlers.” He looked at Squint, seeking agreement from someone older than the boy and, presumably, wiser. “This is the land of the Shoshone. The soldiers will not come here in the mountains. I say, let us stay here and hunt and care for our people and defend what is ours.”