“Do your people always act this way?” Captain Clark asked the chief. He was appalled by the scene.
“Game is scarce for us. Usually each hunter keeps what he kills for his own family. This is the first time many have had fresh game in weeks,” said Chief Black Gun sadly. He was standing next to Sacajawea, who looked on in silence.
Captain Clark turned his back on the blood-smeared scene and ordered Ordway and Collins to divide the three deer with the Agaidükas. In addition, he distributed what was left of the Mandan dried corn and beans.
“It won’t be many years before these people can live below the mountains and feed on corn, beans, and squashes,” said Captain Clark. “If they put their minds to it, they could become good farmers.”
Sacajawea turned away. “Good farmers,” she mimicked. “They have no taste for it yet.”
“They’ve eaten enough Mandan corn and beans to get the taste,” he flashed. “Lord knows, they could poke seeds into this ground in the spring.”
Sacajawea shook her head sadly. Then suddenly she looked at Chief Red Hair, her mouth rounded. “Please,” she said, “I would like to boil a little squash for my brothers to taste. Lord knows, they would like that. And I can show them how.”
Forgetting herself, she bolted for the cooking fire. Out of the tail of her eye, she saw Chief Red Hair settling down on a boulder and chuckling.
Chief Black Gun and his woman, Dancer, Spotted Bear and his woman, Cries Alone, Shoogan, Willow Bud and her man, Yellow Neck, ate the orange squash greedily. Sacajawea watched their mouths rounding as she pushed squash toward Shoogan.
“Leave me half my thumb,” she hooted.
As she fed the child the fragments left in the kettle, she hummed an ancient tune that lost itself now and then in her pleased chucklings.
“Miss Janey!”
Her song stopped short. York’s voice was not loud, but Sacajawea caught its excited pitch. “Whooo! You look here. I’se fetched something sweet for after supper.” York had a sly smile on his face, and a crowd of children behind him. The children were sucking their fingers. He handed her a handful of sugar cubes and put more on the ground beside Chief Black Gun. “It appears like it’s the first time they’se had such fine tastes.”
“These sweet stones are finer than anything I have ever dreamed of eating,” Yellow Neck told Sacajawea, smacking his lips loudly.
“Will the white traders bring these?” asked Spotted Bear.
“Ai, they will bring all good things to the People,” she answered, and then began to show them how to put squash seeds into little holes in the ground and cover them, then look for the rain clouds and wait for the green shoots and then the fruit.
“Yes, sir,” York told Clark later. “They’se wild, but they’se like children when it comes to liking sweets. Lord, they’se still be licking their fingers. If the traders bring lots of sugar, there will be no reason to be scared of Injuns.”
A feeling welled up in Clark. York knew, right enough. He knew how to make friends. He knew people. Of its own accord, his hand reached out and took hold of York. “Thanks—I’ll make a note of it in my journal this minute.”
“Write how Miss Janey looked when she saw her kinfolk. You could’ve lit a lamp wick off that smile. I’se never seen the sun rise up in nobody like it done in her then—just as sudden as the rain pour down like it never going to stop.”
CHAPTER
21
Divided
Now that he had begun to succeed in getting horses, Lewis evidently thinks that Sacajawea deserves a reward for her help. He gives Charbonneau some merchandise with which to buy a horse for her. What effect this has on her Indian women friends one can only guess. Certain they must be startled, since in their tribe it is the man of the family who rides if there is only one horse. If he owns a second animal, his wife and children may share rides, unless the horse is too heavily loaded with the family possessions. Possibly the women are jealous of Sacajawea when they see her mounted while they have not only to walk but help carry the white men’s baggage as well. Perhaps this is the beginning of her second separation from her people.
NETA LOHNES FRAZIER, Sacajawea, the Girl Nobody Knows. New York: David McKay Co., 1967, p. 71.
Captain Lewis and a couple of the men busied themselves packing and caching supplies for their return trip. They sank the remaining dugouts in the river. It was time to start on the portage over the mountains.
But Chief Black Gun was not interested in having the white men hurry on. He was enjoying the food the white men provided, and the entertainment they gave each evening around the campfire. The chief sent Big Moose, Spotted Bear, and several other hunters to look for buffalo in order to prepare the winter’s supply of meat. It was now the edge of the cold weather, and he had known throughout the last days of summer, when the autumn taste was in the air, that he would make the annual hunting trip sooner than usual, sending out most of the good horses with his hunters. Each year these Shoshonis joined their neighbors, the Flatheads, to go down into the plains with the hope of getting a winter meat supply before the Blackfeet could drive them off. The hunters took their skin sleeping rolls and leather sheaths filled with arrows and rode out leading the best Agaidüka horses.
When Lewis expressed impatience with the lesser grade of horses left at camp, the chief said, “Wait a few days until my hunters come back with the good horses packed high with meat.”
“Three days—I’ll wait no longer,” Captain Lewis told him. “Then I’ll buy horses from some other tribes—maybe the Flatheads, your neighbors.” In anticipation, Captain Clark and some of the men went on ahead to set up a forward camp.
Before leaving, Clark asked Chief Black Gun for several Shoshoni men to accompany him up a fork of the river he had named after Captain Lewis.1 No one but the old persimmon-faced warrior and his four sons volunteered. Even these five men looked as if they would turn back at any moment. Sensing their reluctance, York grabbed the hands of the four sons and jigged in a circle with them. Then he pulled the old warrior into the circle and began chanting. The warrior smiled, thinking that York had praised him and his sons with some great medicine. “I give you a name like one of us,” York said solemnly. “Here after we’se going to call you Toby.” He pointed a long black finger at the old man. “Toby—Old Toby.” Then he used hand signs to show it was a name.
The old warrior pushed out his mouth, and the corners quivered when he tried to speak. He appeared nearly to cry, he was so pleased. It must have been a considerable time since anyone had given him any sort of gift.
Captain Clark, Drouillard, and several others, under the guidance of Old Toby and his four sons, set out to explore the river and set up a camp. Once they stopped to watch some Agaidükas fishermen who used bone gigs fastened to short lengths of thin rawhide tied to poles. The gig struck the trout so hard that the sharp end passed through and caught the other side of the fish. They went on, following the river north, then turned west with it, after the entrance of a north fork. Then they saw the first canyons, whose steep sides and swift, rock-filled rapids caused Captain Clark to pronounce this a completely nonnavigable river. Toby pointed out that the Agaidükas called it the River of No Return.
By the next afternoon Captain Lewis was impatient when Big Moose and Spotted Bear had not returned to camp. The chief busied himself sending more men and some women with butcher knives made of chipped flint and more horses to the hunt. “Hunting is good when they stay!” the chief laughed.
Captain Lewis knew there was game in the area. His own hunters had come back with buffalo and antelope each morning, dividing their kill with the needy Shoshoni families, but now Lewis felt as though there were a cold wind blowing on him. The good horses were being sent out of camp! No, by God! The expedition was not going to be stuck here all winter, then have to turn back east in the spring. Suddenly he realized what Chief Black Gun was up to. He should have realized it by the way they had been greeted by these savages. The Indians wer
e not only hungry for food, they were starved for comradeship. The expedition was made up of men who were compassionate and friendly. Chief Black Gun was trying to delay the expedition so that the Agaidükas would have food and company through the winter. That was why Charbonneau was encouraged to swagger around wearing his soiled ermine collar and to brag about his hunting ability, thought Lewis. By convincing Charbonneau he was a big man in camp, the Shoshonis thought to persuade him to encourage all the white men to stay for the winter. Well—they had the wrong man.
And Janey? Did she want to stay with her relatives? It would be a natural thing. But the expedition would be the loser. She and Pomp had kept the men’s spirits up when the going got tough, and she would be a continuing indication to future tribes that the expedition was peaceful. I will have to play my hand close to my chest, thought Lewis. All at once he laughed. “She’s the one. Thank the Lord for Janey!”
Captain Lewis devised a plan that afternoon with Sacajawea to get the goods carried over the foothills to the steep incline of the mountains where Captain Clark would be waiting. It was impossible to carry all the expedition’s supplies on the few horses the men had bought, so Sacajawea would ask the Agaidüka women who had strong backs to carry the heavy packs. The women would not say no; they had eaten much of the expedition’s dried corn and meat, and would be glad for a way of saying thanks.
Sacajawea moved from one tepee to the next. Finally she was standing in front of Willow Bud’s tepee. She felt a deep pain go through her when she noticed Willow Bud standing near the outdoor cook fire exactly as she had seen her own mother stand a thousand times, her arms folded across her bosom, quiet, as steady as the mountain behind the camp itself. Sacajawea felt like a child again, come home, eager to be enfolded in strong maternal arms, eager to be protected against all harm and hurt. Once again tears flowed down her face as she put her arms around her friend.
“I’m glad you are home,” said Willow Bud.
At that moment Sacajawea wished she could turn back the years, see her father strong and laughing once more, hoisting her to his shoulder, carrying her around the camp while he pretended to be a horse and she clutched at his hair and laughed and kicked his ribs. She wished she did not belong to Charbonneau, had never traveled with the white men, had never seen the Minnetarees and Mandans.
“It’s life. It has to be,” said Willow Bud, wiping away Sacajawea’s tears, her voice low and sad, but calm. Sacajawea remembered her own mother saying, “If it has to be done, then it has to be done.” It was as if the Agaidüka women had a pact with fate, as if they said, “What must be, will be, but nothing will ever defeat us.”
Then Willow Bud said, “Each day you look more like yourself. I think it is because you gave away all your clothes and now wear those of the poor Agaidüka Shoshoni. You are one of us.”
“That is what I want to talk about,” said Sacajawea impulsively. “I want to know if I can stay in your lodge if my man goes on with the white men over the mountains.”
“But he will stay here with some of the white men for the winter. The chief—your brother—thinks they will bring us food and keep the Blackfeet out of our camps.”
“So—that is it!” Sacajawea saw things more clearly. She understood why Charbonneau insisted on wearing the ermine collar and why Black Gun was so friendly to him. Charbonneau did not want to go. He was a big man here. “But my man has promised the white men he will go as far as they go. He cannot stay.” Then, looking at Willow Bud, she said, “I can stay. The white men needed me to lead them to this camp so they could buy horses to get over the mountains. Now my work with them is finished.” She made the cut-off sign for emphasis.
Willow Bud moved backward a step or two. “I have not thought about this. I know my man would not be happy to have another woman to feed, especially one that has a white man’s child with her. The child will have to eat. In this lodge there is hardly enough to feed the two of us in winter.” Willow Bud hung her head and kicked at the earth beneath her feet. “Why not go to Spotted Bear’s lodge and talk with his woman. If you stay there, we will visit back and forth.”
“Ai,” Sacajawea said. “I will.”
“Let me know what she says.” Willow Bud looked up. Sacajawea had already turned and was walking slowly toward her brother’s tepee.
Cries Alone was inside with Shoogan. Sacajawea pulled a red blanket from her shoulders and took Pomp out of its folds so that he could sit near Shoogan. “See how they like each other,” she began. “Cousins, they are nearly like brothers.”
In the end, Cries Alone sent Sacajawea to Chief Black Gun’s lodge, explaining that Spotted Bear also had all the mouths he could possibly feed, but Black Gun was not only her brother but the chief, and he would surely find room for her and her half-white child.
Sacajawea shook her shoulders as if shaking off her thoughts, and picked up Pomp. She tried to see that it was for the best. Still, all the old ways had returned to tempt her. She thought she had only to say she wanted to stay and she would be welcome—freely, gladly, tenderly welcome. She thought of the paths her feet knew—across the rocks, to the meadow, to the creek, up the ridge to the clearing, to the berry bushes, to the tepees, to the cook fires, to the sleeping couch.
But as she thought about the peacefulness and security she had known as a child, she knew deep beyond the thinking that she could not stay, and she knew that the peaceful feeling would not last—it actually had not lasted through her childhood, she thought, remembering the raid of the Minnetarees. So, even as she thought of the familiar pathways, she remembered the good food among the white men and the good hides for clothing. She had gone on a journey, and she could not turn back; she had a man and a child.
As Sacajawea stopped in front of Black Gun’s lodge, Dancer came out to greet her. “Um,” said Dancer, “there is no need to ask. I know your brother would not let you stay in this lodge. But then, he would be glad to see you here if you stayed with your own man in a tepee of your own and your man went out for winter meat. All the white men should stay.”
Sacajawea nodded. She had half expected that answer. She was welcome if she stayed in the camp of the white men with her half-white child. “Well, then, if you want, you could help pack some of the baggage over the foothills. The white men are going west. Has an Agaiüdka been as far as the big sea?”
“No, because it is a bad journey, with hardships and only the mountain sheep.” Dancer reached out a strip of dried meat toward Pomp.
“I am going to see that big sea and taste its salty water,” said Sacajawea stubbornly.
Dancer’s eyes grew large, and she made the sign for a split tongue. She said she could not believe a woman would go on such a trip.
Sacajawea could not be angry with these women; they had done what was expected of them. But she felt an inner disquiet; she was deeply shaken. To have been turned down by her best friend and relatives went against every courtesy she felt the People should have shown. She did not stop to ask anyone else to carry goods over the foothills but went back to her camp and Charbonneau.
The next morning Captain Lewis carried out the remainder of his plan. He gave Charbonneau a tomahawk and an old pair of woolen leggings and told him to buy a horse for Sacajawea.
“By gar, if we aren’t staying the winter here with my brother-in-law and his people, maybe I ought to have a horse, too.”
“Oh, Lord, I should have thought of this,” said Lewis. He gave Charbonneau another tomahawk and a couple of steel knives. Charbonneau was able to buy two horses and a mule from some men he had entertained with hunting stories.
Sacajawea’s having a horse of her own caused some commotion among the women. They had never seen a woman riding a horse around the camp. Their tongues wagged. This was Boinaiv, who seemed to have a way of doing what no woman did. Sacajawea looked around at their faces and wondered why they had not thought of using a horse to carry the water jugs from the creek and back to the tepees. It was a long walk. She asked for jugs an
d shortly had them all filled and tied to the sides of her horse. Others came with their jugs. The women stood in line during the afternoon laughing and gossiping, half-afraid their men would come back from the hunt, see them doing this new thing, and accuse them of being lazy.
“Boinaiv does not see a woman’s place as we do,” said one woman, clicking her teeth. “I should say not,” said another within Sacajawea’s hearing. “She behaves like a man. Look, she can carry a pack for the white men on her horse, and we promised her to carry packs on our backs.” Someone tittered. “Ai, I saw that man of hers cooking, so I should not be surprised if he were the one to go to the birth lodge. She is the brave; he is the squaw.” More tittering and some loud tee-hees could easily be heard.
Nothing they could have done, however, could have hardened Sacajawea’s stubbornness more. At first, the laughter pierced her and hurt; slowly it became simply a sound, a concert of sound. She stood alone. It was pride that came to her rescue, pride that refused to be humbled. She felt publicly humiliated and stoned with words. Standing, listening, it came to her that these women were like half-grown children. She felt shame for them, and pity. Then to herself she thought, You cannot recover childhood, nor can you ever find your home in your past. Slowly she led her horse to the other side of the camp where York was entertaining some children by dancing barefoot in the dust, wiping a bit of red paint from his body and daubing it here and there on theirs.
The children gathered about her, admiring the horse. York was kind and commiserated with her. “We’se both without folks. But we’se lucky to have acquaintances in two nations, ours and the white man’s.” Then he said, bristling with indignation, “I’d like to take a hickory stick to those spiteful women.” Sobering, he predicted, “Troubles never come singly. There’s some in those mountains. I’se getting hunched. These damned Shoshonis know there are hazards up there. I’se been praying: Lord, hold the buzzards back so we’se get out of here safe and sound and be on our way home to the States come another year.”
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