by Jim Fergus
Following the willow line, they kept to the river bottom and walked for two days, stopping last night and collapsing to sleep huddled together for warmth on the ground like a litter of puppies. The older boys had knives and when they arrived here earlier today, they constructed their poor stick huts, where they planned to spend the night. They had no food and when Lulu heard them in the bushes they were on their way to try to scoop fish up out of the creek with their hands.
It was decided that we would camp there for the night. “As the children were hoping for a fish dinner,” Christian said, “then Astrid and I, with the help of the Lord, will provide one.”
The two of them went down to the creek and in an hour caught enough trout to feed us all. Fires were made and the rudimentary lodges set up that we use when traveling for long periods of time. Of course, there was no question of not absorbing these orphan children into our band. Before the evening meal was prepared, I took the girl carrying her dead baby down to the creek, and I had her sit beside me on the bank. She, too, was Cheyenne, and I came to understand that her name was Sehoso, which I later learned from Christian, whose vocabulary is far more extensive than mine, means Little Snowbird.
I told her that we must first wash her baby in the creek, then find a tree where we could place her tiny body in the branches so that she might begin her journey to Seano. My own preference, of course, was to bury the child in the ground, in our own manner, thus protecting her body from scavengers, but I knew that this was not practiced by the Indians. I knew, too, that the vultures and crows would peck away at the corpse in the tree, until it fell to the ground, where they would alight upon it and continue their consumption. The birds would then perhaps be chased off later by a wolf or a coyote, who would carry the body away. What little remained when they were finished was left to the ants and worms; in this way, the baby would be returned to the earth with nothing left to mark her short passage here, not even alive long enough to be named.
Sehoso and I stood together in the middle of the creek. So tiny and frail was her infant that I held the body in one hand as I washed her. It occurred to me then that in the relatively short time I have been here on the plains, I have seen and experienced such atrocities and heartbreak that I have begun to grow hardened to it … I think we all have … how else to survive in such a place? Yet now I felt my knees weakening in the cold water of the creek and I feared that they were going to buckle and I would collapse in grief. I thought of the worst day of my life when I found the body of my own little girl, beaten to death by her father, and now I was faced again with one of the greatest obscenities I have ever in my life witnessed … I held in my hand the tiny corpse of a newborn child with a bullet hole that passed through her head.
I washed, too, the piece of calico in which she had been swaddled; it dried quickly on a rock in the sun, and I wrapped her in it, tying knots at her head and feet. This small parcel I placed in the crook of the highest branch I could reach of a young wild apple tree that grew beside the bank.
“But my baby cannot go to Seano without a name,” Sehoso said.
“Why don’t we call her Mà’xeme?” I suggested, because I knew that was the Cheyenne word for apple.
“Yes, Mà’xeme,” she said.
We stood by the tree and ate of the ripe, wild fruit, and we wept together for her daughter.
* * *
Three different fires burned for the trout dinner, with different family groups seated together in circles, some Arapaho, some Cheyenne, some mixed. Sehoso and I had brought back apples to give out and the children all sat with us. They ate with the intense concentration of the famished, until they could eat no more. We retired to our respective lodges, each of them shared by at least three or four others. Sehoso has attached herself to me, and curls up under my blanket. She whimpers in the night.
I woke up before dawn to the voices of a pack of wolves baying in the distance, alternately an ululating, howling, yelping, barking sound that chills the soul of us humans as if passed down in our blood from ancient times. As the sky lightened and the baying subsided, I slipped out of the hut without waking anyone and went down to the creek. As I expected, the baby’s body was gone, and all that remained was the piece of shredded calico beneath the apple tree. I balled it up and threw it in the creek. Mà’xeme had made her journey to Seano.
23 July 1876
The children were the first of what we began to call “strays,” some of whom, if they had no prospect of finding their own people, we have taken along with us over these last days of travel. These are the unfortunates who, due to skirmishes fought against the wolves and/or the soldiers, or simply the sudden appearance of Army troops, had become separated from their bands and were now wandering on their own. It is treacherous enough traveling with a band, but those families or parts of families, alone and on their own, of course are especially vulnerable. Besides the Army, there is an increasing number of miners, ranchers, homesteaders, and settlers of all stripe, either traveling through the country or trying to carve out a hardscrabble life in the small clapboard towns springing up. We have tried to avoid all contact with the newcomers, and give them a wide berth when our scouts come back with reports of their presence in the area, both because we know they do not have friendly intentions toward us, and because we fear that we will not be able to prevent the young warriors in our band from attacking them. We have since learned from having obtained a newspaper, by means which I will explain shortly, that the fears of these settlers have been whipped up by lurid accounts in the press of bloodthirsty savages terrorizing the whites, not all of which, I’m afraid, are untrue. Of course, such accounts have resulted in the settlers being “trigger happy,” that is to say, exercising a natural penchant to shoot any Indian on sight. Indeed, our newspaper contained an article about the Custer “massacre” that enthusiastically recommended the Indians’ complete extermination.
Yesterday while traveling, we came upon a small train of four wagons bearing settlers. We spotted them before they did us, and managed to avoid detection. However, our friend Carolyn Metcalf, who has been from the beginning of our adventure the least well assimilated into tribal life, had the temerity to slip away without being noticed. She is the only one among us who has kept one of her white women dresses, which she wears and mends frequently, and was wearing today.
After roughly an hour, Astrid noticed Carolyn’s absence. I knew perfectly well what had transpired, because of late, Carolyn has been expressing an increasing homesickness for the comforts of civilization. It was decided that Christian would go back to look for her, as Carolyn has a notoriously poor sense of direction, and if it was necessary to approach the wagon train, besides the fact that he is a white man, he is also, in his attire, the least Indian-looking among us. The fringed buckskin outfit he made for himself could be easily taken as that of a frontiersman rather than a native. Of course, if I was correct, and Carolyn had approached these people, we had no idea how she might have introduced herself, or how she explained her presence here. All we did know for certain was that she would say nothing to give us away.
We could not afford to halt the travel of our own band, and it was over two hours before Christian caught up again, with Carolyn safely in tow. Lulu, Astrid, and Maria, all disapproving of her visit among the whites, let her know this with a stony silence.
“I’m sorry, ladies, to have disappeared without telling you,” Carolyn said. “However, I knew if I asked, you wouldn’t let me go. I’m afraid that I felt an overwhelming desire to socialize with civilized folks.”
At which remark, Lulu laughed. “Ah, oui, we are too sauvage for you now, c’est ça, is it not, Carolyn?”
“No, no, it is not any of you, of course. I speak of here, among these people,” she said, with a vague wave of her arm. “They were a lovely group, four families of farmers and dairymen from Indiana who have thrown in together to brave the trip west and find fertile land to homestead. They stopped their wagons and the ladies made a cup o
f tea for me. It was heavenly.”
“What did you tell them you were doing here?” I asked.
“I said that I was doing missionary work for the church, working at one of the Indian agencies. That proved to be a convenient lie when Chaplain Christian rode up in search of me, for he immediately assumed his role. They told us to be very careful, because there were still wild savages abroad in the area.”
“Yes, us,” said Maria. “We can attack them, Carolyn, if you want, kill them and steal their heavenly tea for you.”
“Stop it!” Carolyn said, pulling a newspaper from her saddlebag. “Look what they gave me. When was the last time we saw a newspaper? On the train, it must have been. They said there are several stories here of Indian depredations in the Great Plains, including that about the massacre on the Little Bighorn. They said they are very well armed, and if they come upon any Indians, they are going to shoot them on sight before they give them a chance to take their scalps. That’s what the newspaper advises all settlers to do. I’ll let everyone read it after I’ve finished. They are such lovely people, and their children so beautiful and well-behaved. The mothers are schooling them as they travel, and, of course, they have a Bible. It made me so happy just to hold it in my hands. I confess that I did not wish to leave them.”
I knew what was coming next, and later that afternoon, after we made camp for the night, Carolyn came to see me.
“Molly, you were my first, and have been my closest friend since we’ve been here,” she began. “You saved my life when you had me take to the floor of the train during the attack. You’ve always been so brave. I don’t know how I would have survived here without your strength.”
“I’m not so brave, Carolyn. And you’ve survived because you, too, are strong.”
“But not like you. When I heard that Lady Ann and Hannah had left us to return to England, I was so envious of them. I know that is an unchristian emotion, but I simply burned with envy. Of course, I can never go home, because like you, Molly, I have no home. My husband is an adulterer, a scoundrel, and a hypocrite, and I’ve lost my children forever. I can never go back there. But what, really, is my fate here? What is any of our fates?”
“What will you tell those people from Indiana if you go with them?” I asked. “And how do you know they’ll take you?”
Embarrassed, she cast her eyes aside and answered in a low voice. “Because they’ve already said they would. I told them I have no money. They said that I could instruct their children in Bible studies in return for my passage with them. These are my people, Molly; I will never fit in here. You know that.”
And I did. “You should go with them then, Carolyn. Do you know where they’re headed?”
“Yes, to a small town called Bozeman, farther west in Montana Territory. They say it’s beautiful country.”
“And what will you do there?”
“I’ll have to invent a story for myself. I’ve already told them my new last name.”
“I hope you didn’t say it was Vó’hó’k´áse.”
“As a matter of fact, I did, Molly. The English translation, of course. I’m calling myself Carolyn Light. I think it’s quite lovely, don’t you? I’m thinking I could become a teacher, or find some kind of work in the church.”
“It’s a fine name, Carolyn. And it suits you perfectly. Christian will be able to pick up their trail and find them tomorrow. I’ll come with you, but I’m not going to approach those people.”
“Are you afraid you will be tempted to go with me?”
“Not at all. My only wish is to find my husband, Hawk. I’m going to have his child.”
“Oh, Molly, you did not tell me. That’s wonderful news.”
“And you, Carolyn, you have not been shy about telling us how much you’ve enjoyed that part of your marriage. Are you certain you’re not with child? It won’t help you in starting your new life if you arrive in a family way and give birth to a brown baby.”
“I have taken the most strenuous measures to avoid that possibility,” she said, “and indeed, I have recently begun my monthly cycle.”
“What will you tell your young husband, Mr. Light?”
“He is a fine, gentle boy, Molly,” she said, “and I’m very fond of him. But he will get over me and take another wife … I must admit…” she added with a sly smile, “I have very much appreciated his attentions under the buffalo robes.”
And we laughed.
* * *
Christian, Carolyn, and I rose early this morning. She said a tearful good-bye to our group, all of whom have forgiven her for her defection and could only wish her well. We set off in search of the wagon train of farmers from Indiana. The chaplain has become a fine tracker in his time among the Cheyenne, and he had no trouble picking up their trail. On horseback we moved faster than they, and caught up to them before noon.
We reined up on top of a hill and watched them traveling down below.
“I go no farther than this,” I said. “I must say good-bye to you now, my friend.”
We dismounted and embraced. “I shall miss you terribly, Molly,” Carolyn said. “You will be in my thoughts and prayers every day for the rest of my life.”
“And I shall miss you, Carolyn Light. Who is going to keep the calendar for me now?”
She laughed and reached into her saddlebag. “I’m so glad you mentioned that. I won’t be needing this any longer,” she said, handing me her calendar. “And by the way, if ever you should make your way to Bozeman…”
I laughed. “Yes, I will be sure to look you up. I’m sure your neighbors will be happy to see that you’re entertaining a squaw.”
“Thank you, Molly,” she said, embracing me again, and beginning to cry. “Thank you for everything.”
“You have no need to thank me, Carolyn,” I said. “Travel safely. And remember that you’re on the other side now, and this is still Indian country. Your newspaper tells of rogue bands who move through the territory, preying upon white travelers and settlers. Some of that is undoubtedly propaganda to inflame the citizenry and further encourage the extermination of the last free natives. But you know as well as I that some of those stories are true. It sounds as if your people are well armed, but you know, too, how stealthy the Indians are. Indeed, you have much to teach the farmers about the ways of the ‘savages,’ which you can pretend to have learned while working at the agencies.”
“That is sound advice, Molly,” she said, “and well taken. They seem a capable bunch, and I believe I will be safe in their hands.”
“I wish you all good fortune in your new life, Carolyn. I’m sure it will be wonderful. You deserve as much.”
I watched now as Carolyn and Christian rode down the slope toward the wagon train. She turned in her saddle several times to wave at me, and I waved back. I must confess to a small twinge of envy.
THE LOST JOURNALS OF MAY DODD
Warriors
Wind has made a pair of stone clubs for us, using rawhide straps from the hides of the deer we have killed to fix the smooth, oblong river rocks to the sturdy wood handles she carved. It is virtually impossible for me to imagine striking another human being’s head with such a deadly instrument, but she says: “You will be surprised, Mesoke, at how easy it is, when that other human being is trying to kill you.”
—from the lost journals of May Dodd
Mid-April …
Woman Who Moves against the Wind has put me to work rebuilding my largely atrophied muscles. She need not tell me that I can be neither an effective hunter nor certainly a warrior in my current weakened state. Therefore, she suggests that we build a sweat lodge. Having no access to hides or canvas for this structure, we must use the more than plentiful supply of rocks these hills provide us. This, she says, will give us the benefit of the pleasure of a good sweat at the end of our labors, in addition to a good deal of healthful exercise. We found a location for it closer to the river than our cave, and also well hidden from view so that anyone traveling down be
low would have no view of it.
We have been working for a number of days now, lifting, carrying, and stacking, lifting, carrying, and stacking, hard, tedious work but for the dubious art of fitting the rocks together like a kind of giant jigsaw puzzle. My entire body aches, but Wind seems utterly indefatigable. I find her strength and energy inspiring, as well as, inevitably, annoying, when I compare it to my own feebleness.
Though I am of average height and build, due to our many months of travail among the Cheyenne, I was, at least before I was shot, relatively strong for a woman, especially a white woman. I even reached the point, finally, when I believed that I was capable of working as long, hard, and fast as my native women tentmates, which goal I had set for myself, and from which, upon achieving it, I took no small pride. Then winter and the inactivity of being with child, and birthing our infants, weakened us all. Then, of course, the attack … and all attendant events …
Wind, is another species altogether. Having not yet provided here a physical description of the medicine woman, I think that might help to assuage somewhat my own sense of shame for my comparative frailty. I was often told as a child that I was overly competitive. First of all, the matter of her name … Previously, I knew her, and apparently her perfect replica sister, as well, only as a rather unapproachable advisor to Little Wolf, for she carries an unmistakable air of one not to be trifled with. She told me that she gained her name when she was a young girl. The People were traveling across a broad plain that offered no cover, when they were overtaken by a sudden tempest, with gales of wind of such unearthly force that people were blown off their feet. Even horses fell to their knees and flattened themselves on the ground. Travois carrying tent poles, hide coverings, sundry goods, and even small children were picked up by the maelstrom and flung into the air, sailing by overhead. The people could do nothing but cower on the ground, clutching their sons and daughters if they had succeeded in grabbing hold of them, and digging their fingers into the earth for purchase. That was when they saw two figures, a good distance downwind but walking against it back toward them. Both carried a young child under each arm, and in what seemed like an impossible feat, they moved steadily through wind, as effortlessly as knives through butter, reaching the main group finally, before taking to ground themselves, still clutching their charges. The two became known thereafter as Girl Who Moves against the Wind, a name that stuck, even after she, they, became women.
