by Jim Fergus
As far as anyone in our band knew, and there was much discussion about this matter, there has never in the history of the tribe been a feast and a dance, let alone war games, at which the Shoshone, Cheyenne, and Arapaho came together in a social and peaceful recreational setting. Previously, our meetings were on the battlefield, attacking each other’s camps, killing each other, and stealing horses. The dark, poisonous cloud left hanging over us by that horrifying sack of Shoshone baby hands still haunts the memories of all of us white women who witnessed it, an unspeakable act of barbarity for which there can be no absolution. And yet, we whites, our Army and government … all armies and governments throughout the course of history … have committed and will continue to commit equal atrocities, the vast majority of which the public remains blissfully ignorant of, until, like us, they find themselves in the midst of them.
I mention this only by way of highlighting the spirit of fellowship and cordiality we enjoyed with our unprecedented company that evening of the welcome feast and dance, in such stark contrast to the decades … the centuries of warfare and slaughter these tribes have suffered at each other’s hands.
The Shoshone are a handsome race, and arrived dressed in their finest party clothes, the women wearing elaborately beaded hide dresses and moccasins, trade earrings, rings on their fingers, bracelets and necklaces, their braids wrapped with thin chains of small silver or brass trade beads of French manufacture; the men similarly attired in fringed hide shirts, breechclouts, and moccasins, all embossed with the exquisite beadwork of their wives, mothers, and sisters, some wearing feather headpieces or headbands, and some with painted faces. Truly, as in our tribes, and I speak of both the Arapaho and Cheyenne, the men are the parading peacocks, far more ornately outfitted and ornamented than the more sensibly modest women.
As had the contingent of Shoshone warriors who first rode in to challenge us to these games, the splendor of the tribe’s apparel and accoutrements made us all aware of the rather threadbare nature of our own clothing. Our band, having been involved in two major battles, after which they had traveled for weeks, as had Wind and I, had upon our recent arrival in the valley concentrated our efforts on all the preparations required to set up our winter village. It is during the relatively idle season when the women are more free to pursue the activity of beading and other such sartorial efforts. But now we have had neither the time nor the requisite supplies for such handiwork.
Thus it is that we were especially grateful when our guests arrived at the dance circle that evening bearing gifts of all sorts: practical trade items such as tin plates and cups, pots, pans, utensils, and cured buffalo robes; tanned elk, deer, and antelope hides; and knives, jewelry, beads, trinkets, and articles of clothing for men, women, and children. They were clearly a wealthy band … and an exceptionally generous one.
Dog Woman was quite beside herself with the wealth of gifts bestowed upon us, at the same time more anxious than ever to ensure that the evening’s festivities were a success. She herself was, as always, resplendently dressed for the occasion, not one to be outdone by the invitees, and regal in her authority and bearing as she organized the musicians and dancers. Of course, all tribes have their own specific dances to celebrate various events, and with our aforementioned lack of contact with the Shoshone, we, of course, had no knowledge of theirs. But after our own dancers performed a welcome dance, our guests, having watched the steps, and perhaps themselves having had such interactions with other bands of our tribe that might be living here, seemed to pick up our style and joined in enthusiastically.
Chance and I, as well as others in our group, were seated around the circle with Chief Young Bear, his wife, Elk Road Woman, and their three children—two boys, roughly six and eight years old, and a little girl of only about three years. Chance and Young Bear again got on quite well together, indulging in a lively conversation throughout the evening in their common language of Shoshone-Comanche, some of which Chance translated for us, and the rest of which he would describe to me later in the privacy of our lodge. Our other speakers of that tongue, Gertie and Wind, had been artfully placed by Dog Woman in different positions around the circle to facilitate communications between our tribes. Still, we all managed with the use of sign talk to make ourselves understood, and the evening passed most agreeably. All enjoyed the dancing, the music, and the food, much to Dog Woman’s satisfaction. Because the games were to begin officially in the morning, and our guests had made a long trip here, the event wound down at an early hour, the Shoshone retiring to their own camp and we to our lodges.
* * *
The war games themselves lasted a total of three days, and were splendidly executed by both tribes. We Strongheart women … and I am even prouder now to include myself in that company … acquitted ourselves rather well, if I may say so. Most of the day’s first events were held on the ground. Running short and long distances, arm and leg wrestling, archery and shooting … there was even a competition in rock throwing, for particularly in the old days, which reside in the historical memory of the natives, these primitive objects of the earth were frequently used as weapons, and even today, when no other implement of war presents itself. I will confess that in this contest, we women were roundly defeated by the Shoshone men. It was something we had neither anticipated nor practiced, and an activity in which girls growing up, both Indian and white, do not often have occasion to indulge.
The very first event was the long-distance race. This was greatly to our advantage, as had we started with the rock throwing, which came later, we would have been humiliated to begin the competition so poorly. Furthermore, no one in our tribe had ever beaten Phemie in a running contest, although for reasons politic, or simply sympathetic, now and then she did let others win. We were most confident that she would prevail.
In this race, Phemie was matched against a young man by the name of Little Antelope, who appeared to have no more than fourteen or fifteen years. He was quite tall for both his age and race, had long, sleekly muscular legs, and as he approached the starting line he displayed a confidence, even a cockiness, that seemed impressive to those of us spectating. Phemie was as unflappable as ever, barefooted and regally nude, but for a breechclout that barely covered her sex, which lack of attire seemed to be a source of some consternation among our guests. She smiled pleasantly at the young brave, who was so nonplussed he could hardly bring himself to look at her.
They took their positions, the starter armed with a French flag, presumably obtained from the traders who come down out of Canada. He held the flag aloft on its stick and spoke something none of us except Chance, Gertie, and Wind understood, being the only three familiar with the language. However, he said it in a cadence that suggested a countdown, at the end of which he slashed the flag from high to low, and the race was on.
The young warrior made a beautiful start, fast off the line and assuming a graceful, long-legged stride that easily matched, even outmatched Phemie’s. We all instantly recognized that he was a force to be reckoned with. Nor did he make the usual mistake that did others going against her, of running too fast early in the race, thus tiring themselves out before the end. Indeed, he kept even with her, now and then, as if showing off to the yipping and trilling of his tribe, pulling effortlessly ahead, all the while running with the easy certitude of a winner.
It was a long race, the course set out across the rolling prairie, with spotters from both tribes posted along the full route. We lost sight of the runners after only a few minutes, when they crested a hill and dropped down on the other side, but they reappeared again for a moment on another crest, and this time it was clear that Little Antelope was well in the lead.
I should mention that Pretty Nose had appointed Phemie our official runner without requiring her to participate in the trials, based simply on her reputation, past performance in the sport, and distinguished position in our warrior society. But now it occurred to me that none of us knew what long-term ill affects her body may have suffere
d from her severe wounding during the Mackenzie massacre last winter, for it was not something she ever spoke about, wearing silently the prominent scars on her body.
When we got one more brief look at the runners, on a more distant hilltop, the boy’s lead had lengthened even farther. In this young Little Antelope, whose naming animal is the fastest runner on the plains, Phemie had clearly met her match.
There was no way of knowing the exact length of the course, though Christian had ridden it earlier and judged it to be between seven to eight miles, roughly circular, of course, so that the runners finished where they began. It was an endurance test, albeit not an especially long distance for the Indians; an entire tribe able to run all night if necessary.
After about thirty minutes had passed, we saw the runners again, having made the loop and heading back toward us, again appearing and disappearing in the hills and swales, the boy farther ahead each time we caught sight of them. When finally they reached more level ground, still perhaps three hundred yards away, it was clear that Phemie could not possibly make up the Shoshone’s lead. She was laboring while he still appeared fresh, and I believe we all experienced the same heart-sinking sensation that in our very first event, our master woman runner, from whom we had expected certain victory, was going down to ignominious defeat. We felt at the same time a tremendous sympathy for Phemie, one of our strongest, bravest, and finest warriors. It was clear that her loss was going to taint the rest of our competition.
The Shoshone women were already trilling for their young prodigy, when Phemie, as if reinvigorated, suddenly lengthened her stride. Even from this distance one could see the sweat glistening off her dark brown skin in the morning sunlight. Now from a lope, she was running instantly at full speed, her long coltish legs stretching out, with such astonishing power and grace; it was the old Phemie I remembered from her very first competition in Little Wolf’s village, when the Southern Cheyenne came to visit us. How long ago that now seems …
Still, I feared that she had waited too long and that there was too much distance yet to make up, for the boy, glancing over his shoulder at her, also increased his speed. However, the steady stride he had kept up suddenly seemed less effortless; now with well over a hundred yards to go, he was paying the price for the long lead he had consistently increased with such easy confidence throughout the race. The trilling of the Shoshone women had gradually changed from a tone of celebration to one of encouragement, tinted even with a bit of desperation as they watched Phemie gaining on their boy with now less than a hundred yards to go. At fifty yards she was only several strides behind him and seemed to be flying through the air, as if her feet were not even touching the ground, her arms pumping, shiny muscles rippling, God, what a magnificent woman! At twenty yards she had pulled ahead of the boy, whose legs seemed now to have become rubbery and uncooperative, nearly uncoordinated in his exhaustion. As Phemie crossed the finish line, we could see the beads of sweat spraying like mist from her body. Our men erupted in yipping, our women in trilling. As the Shoshone boy crossed behind her, he collapsed. She turned and went to him, lifted him to his feet, called for water, and, with her arm around him holding him upright, walked him slowly until he regained the use of his wobbly legs. One of our Arapaho boys brought a water vessel, and Phemie poured some over Little Antelope’s head to cool him off a bit before giving it to him to drink. He was crying, the poor thing, presumably both from sheer exhaustion and because he lost the race he was so certain he would win. Phemie was talking to him as they walked, in what language I do not know, but even if he didn’t understand her, he must have taken some solace in her reassuring tone, for he stopped weeping. It was a fine sight to witness—our African queen, consoling the young Shoshone warrior—and an appropriate manner in which to begin these games.
* * *
I hesitate to boast in describing my own participation in the competition, but as I am the only person who will ever read this journal, I may take the liberty of singing my own praises … just a little. It is true that Chance prepared me wonderfully for the wrestling competition, and in the trials, I had beaten both Warpath Woman and Kills in the Morning Woman, not necessarily because of greater strength or skill, but simply because they are both considerably older and a bit less supple than I. Astrid and our little Mexican Indian girl, Maria, had also qualified as wrestlers, for the Shoshone had announced that many of the events would be held with a number of different competitors, so as to give all a chance to participate in the games. Pretty Nose, Wind, and Martha all elected not to try out for the wrestling, as did Phemie, preferring to compete in their favored skills. I don’t believe any of us could have beaten three out of the four of the aforementioned women in this particular event, and who knows any longer about Martha’s capabilities? She told me privately that, due to her experience with Seminole, she was unable to grapple with any man, under any circumstances, and could not even bear to be touched by them. So perhaps we were not necessarily fielding our best team in this event, but, again, this gave all a chance to play.
I was matched in the wrestling against a Shoshone fellow by the name of Short Bull. Truly, the Indians have an uncanny way of aptly naming each other. He was only about my own height, but stocky, with a slightly humped back, short, thick arms, and had the look of a buffalo … or a bulldog … I admit to being greatly intimidated when first I laid eyes upon him.
After all of us had been introduced to our Shoshone adversaries, we huddled with Chance, who had also helped to train the others, although the tactic he had imparted to me remained a secret between us, as it was certainly not something he could share with the other women.
I have not spoken enough of them, but little Maria, being of Indian blood herself, seems to me the most well adapted to this life of all the women in Molly’s group. Indeed, the Cheyenne have accepted her as one of their own, bestowing upon her the very flattering name of Tsehésemé’eskó’e, an impossible mouthful in Cheyenne, even to me, but that translates roughly to Mexican Cheyenne. I found that she was a feisty handful in a wrestling match, an activity she tells us she had practiced since childhood among her own people in the Sierra Madre. She is considerably smaller than I but strong and ferocious. The two of us wrestled twice against each other in the trials. I felt like I was tangling with a wild bobcat, could not gain any purchase upon her, and she beat me quickly the first time. I bested her in our second contest, but only due to sheer luck on my part.
Similarly, the Norwegian girl, Astrid, is a force to be reckoned with, powerful as an ox, and not in the least bit shy about using tactics that might not be considered fair in wrestling, such as quick almost imperceptible jabs with her fingers, fists, or knees, usually mistaken by judges as being simply aggressive grappling. She doesn’t mind hurting people, and in our first match in the trials, she kneed me in the crotch, and I forfeited in protest. In the second, she poked me there with her fingers, and again it hurt like hell. I lost my temper and grabbed and squeezed her hard in the same place. Pretty Nose, laughing, called off the match. “I think it will be best if you save those moves for use against the Shoshone men,” she suggested.
“I’m sorry, May,” Astrid said. “Pretty Nose is right. I was just practicing it first on you, to get ready for the men.”
I couldn’t stay too mad at our Viking warrior. I am just glad that we are on the same team, for if this is how she treats her friends, I would not want to meet her in battle as an enemy.
“No hard feelings, Astrid,” I said. “I can give as well as I can take.”
She laughed. “So I see.”
* * *
I was to go first against Short Bull. “How can I possibly beat him, Chance?” I asked in desperation. “Look at his arms!”
“Just remember what I told ya, May. Try to fend him off as best ya can; fight like Maria, move real fast and wild, make a lotta noise, slip his holds, don’t give him a chance to get those arms tight around you, but if he does, and you find yourself against him … like we was …
relax, move your hips a little, like ya did to me, an’ if your head’s next to his, take a little lick on his ear, and whisper the nasty in Comanche that I taught ya. An’ even if your head ain’t next to his, you do that … But damn, May … I sure don’t need to explain to you how to get a man excitable … I mean, excited … I can’t believe I’m tellin’ ya this…”
I couldn’t help but laugh, which helped to briefly relieve my nervousness. “I can’t either, Chance … Good God, you’re telling me to seduce a Shoshone man in a wrestling match?”
“Only if it’s a last resort, May,” he said. “I got one more piece of advice for ya. What’s most important, right now … you understand me?… right now … is for you to pretend that this is for real … pretend you’ve come upon Jules Seminole again, and he’s grabbed hold a’ you, and now it’s a matter a’ life and death.”
That last piece of advice penetrated to my deepest core, triggered the substance that fuels us in times of danger, flooding my blood, carrying with it a river of terror, rage, desperation, and pure hatred. I turned immediately toward Short Bull, and, before giving him a chance to take hold of me, I charged him with an unearthly scream that seemed to come from somewhere primeval in my soul. Shoving him hard in the chest with both hands, I knocked the unwary warrior off his feet; he fell on his back and I atop him, straddling him, still howling like a mad woman. With an inhuman strength I do not own, I struck his shoulders again with my palms, pinning him to the ground. Later, I would be glad that I was not wearing my knife, for in my blind rage I might have killed him. So astonished was Short Bull that he barely had time to resist. The match was over that quickly, and I had won.
