“Zut, I would like to take that trip to the duke’s fatherland,” grumbled Charbonneau. “I could be a big man when I came back with all the knowledge from there.”
Abruptly Sacajawea stopped her sewing. A song stuckbetween her teeth. Her face went dark and dead. She sat staring. Eagle looked up at her. Sacajawea was jerked out of her daze by Eagle’s words.
“Our man is foolish—nobody at home—you know.” She pointed to her head. “No one would take an old man to a strange land across so much water. The water sickness would affect him.”
Sacajawea pushed hard to get the needle through two layers of hide, and pricked her finger. She frowned and sucked at the tiny drop of blood, then set her face and fixed her wary black eyes on Charbonneau.
“I need some warming before I high-tail it to a hunter’s camp.” Charbonneau pulled Kitten closer to him.
“The papoose is too young for any warmth,” warned Sacajawea, remembering her fate among the Minnetarees with sudden remorse. She clicked her tongue and thought now about getting Baptiste away from this situation.
After several games, Charbonneau wiped his face with a red bandanna. “Play something with a good stake—something worthwhile.”
Tess nodded, his eyes glistening and his breath coming fast with the excitement of the game and the glances and sly handclasps of Kitten stirring him.
“Me!” suggested Kitten boldly, smiling at all three men.
Baptiste drew in his breath and let out a low, shrill whistle.
Sacajawea exploded. “No!” she said. “You will never do this.”
Charbonneau laughed and tugged at his beard. “She is mine for tonight. If you win, Bap, she is yours tomorrow.”
Tess nodded. “And mine the next?” He burned with desire.
Charbonneau went on dipping his hand into a bowl of bear’s oil and tree sugar mixed with hominy and venison. “You learn to cook like this, and you be number one around here,” he said, winking at Kitten and licking his fingers. At this single moment Charbonneau felt contentment about the coming deep fall days, and he thought nothing could approach the joy of having two nearly grown sons and three fine-looking womento keep him feeling young. Afterward this evening seemed more like a dream. It was nearly a dream now, with shadows in it. Kitten snuggled near Baptiste, sidestepping Charbonneau to get near him.
Sacajawea appraised the situation quickly. She noticed the bare feet of the girl, ankles tied with colored leather cords, the long gingham dress making her young body seem shapeless, yet the one bare shoulder revealing its soft skin, the small parfleche Kitten wore at her waist, now bulging, where it had been flat several days before.
Kitten, suddenly conscious of Sacajawea’s eyes, turned her face toward her. “Pase,” she said in Spanish. “Come in. You wish to play the game?”
Sacajawea remained quietly sitting, her hands in her lap.
“This house is yours also,” Kitten said. “You keep it clean. You can play.” The tone expressed contempt.
“No! You stand!”
The flat, terse answer halted Kitten’s look. She slowly drew her eyes from Tess and turned to face Sacajawea with her whole body. What she saw was a mature squaw who threatened her friendship with the two boys. Kitten’s face held an expression of indolent cunning. She had known squaws long enough to know the arrogant assumption of some that all men bowed to the wishes of the eldest squaw in the lodge.
“So then, you do not have to. I would be the last to force you to play the game,” she said affably. “You can come and watch. Maybe you will learn how it is played, then.” She paused, and in a conciliatory voice that did not mask her disregard of Sacajawea’s demand, she added politely, “Sit with us and have some boiled coffee.”
Kitten was resolute enough to know that to this polite offer should be added the casual gesture of turning around and going about the game. But she could not. The deathly quiet of Sacajawea held her, and the look in her eyes. They had hardened like obsidian. Kitten saw behind the look too late.
As she slowly got to her feet, Sacajawea was already standing, weight balanced evenly on both feet. Sacajawea reached for the small parfleche.
“Let us see what sort of beading is done by your people.”
Kitten held the bag close to her waist and lowered her sulking eyes.
Tess looked up, his eyes bright. “Come on, Kitten,” he pleaded. “I would like to see what you make. Do you have Ute trinkets in there? Beads you have strung?”
She took a step backward.
Tess lurched toward her and grabbed the bag, breaking the strings that held it to her waist.
“Do not lay your warty hands on that, you filthy son of a bitch!” she cried in her pigeon English learned from white traders. She scratched at Tess.
“See, she is plenty strong.” Tess grinned. “And wild like a kit of the mountain lion.”
Kitten staggered back to swing her fist, her feet spread apart. The movements of Sacajawea caught her eye and froze her an instant too long. Before she could drive in a blow, Tess had an arm around her. They went down in a heap.
Sacajawea had emptied the bag’s contents upon the floor before the amazed eyes of the family. All sorts of trinkets and jewelry spilled out. There were pearl earrings belonging to Sacajawea, a gift from Miss Judy. Eagle reached for her missing necklace of pink seashells and her multicolored beaded belt. There was Sacajawea’s small snap purse of American coins she had saved from sales at Chouteau’s, and the peace medal, which took up all the back space in the purse.
Kitten, flailing with her fists and pushing with long, strong legs, pulled away from Tess. With slashing dark eyes she grabbed the bag and began scooping the trinkets into it. Sacajawea shoved her aside and began searching for her own things. She found the blue stone, the piece of sky, still attached to its thong. Beside it was her pewter mirror and bone comb, and the round, rusty red glass with the white bird raised on one side.
Eagle moved closer to gather her things, laughing shrilly, almost hysterically. “I knew time would be an enemy and soon we’d know what kind of girl you are!”
Kitten seemed like a captured animal. She had a thin face, a bit pockmarked. Her shoulders were straight. Her rounded buttocks quivered. Then she did not moveexcept for her eyes, which now constantly turned this way and that to watch the boys, Charbonneau, and the kneeling women beside her.
Tess panted and wiped his sweating forehead with his hands.
Clutching her stolen belongings, Sacajawea half rose from the floor; with a quick push of her knee she threw Kitten flat on her back, and with her free hand scratched at her face and bare shoulder. Kitten clung like a panther. She clawed toward Sacajawea’s throat.
Over and over they rolled, scattering the stolen goods on the clean-swept floor. They rolled against the far wall. Kitten reached for the inside of her blue-and-scarlet sash. Sacajawea came back with a swing of her arm that knocked the butcher knife from the Ute girl’s hand. A kick from her foot sent the knife clattering out of reach.
Kitten let out a low whine. The accuracy of Sacajawea’s timing, the safe parry of the butcher knife, kicking it out of reach, tempered her anger with a spot of fear. There was a cold deliberation about Sacajawea’s attack that froze her again an instant too long. Before Kitten could reach for her opponent’s long braid, Sacajawea had pushed her fist into the hollow at the base of Kitten’s throat. Just as her other hand came up to scratch at the Ute’s thin face, there was a sudden and terrific explosive crack above them. Both women lay as if stunned for an instant. Then Kitten, with a heave, broke loose and staggered to her feet.
Sacajawea rose to her knees. She saw Kitten standing before her with glazed, frightened eyes, staring at a long rip down the side of her cotton dress. This revealed her tawny pubescent body.
Charbonneau could no longer stand the situation and had pulled the horsewhip from its wall nail. He had snapped it with such force that it had caught the thin dress of Kitten and ripped it.
With a fra
ntic howl Kitten cried out to him, “Go to it! Go to it! Crack it good over the crone’s back!”
Thus encouraged by the hatred and fear that was on the girl’s face, Charbonneau lifted the whip and struck once.
It fell like a great tree. The impact on Sacajaweawas like the heavy trunk of a cedar and a moment later the lacerating sting of its branches and needles.
Oh, Lord, Sacajawea thought, I am finished. I will not stay in this place with a man who humiliates me and a child-squaw who has sticky fingers. Her face was set into an impassive mask.
The next blow struck her like a bolt of lightning. She heard the deep rumble of thunder, the sharp crack, and the hiss of flame all at once. The impact dazed her an instant. To clear her swimming gaze, she looked up. Baptiste was clutching the butcher knife. He did not move. He drew a target on his father, near the breastbone, in his mind. Still, his hand did not move; his mouth went dry; his knees trembled.
Eagle, crouched beside the table, shouted. “Do something! He will kill her!”
“Ai, ai, ai,” said Kitten, her tone expressing admiration for the old man.
The third blow pushed Sacajawea forward on her face. Her body felt no pain; there was only an irresistible, bodiless force that hit her from all sides, a roaring in her ears. She rose to her knees.
Her thoughts were above her body. She remembered how Charbonneau had looked when he shaved off his whiskers—as though he had two faces. Ai, he did have two faces—one, conceited and fun-loving; the other, uncontrolled and unthinking. She thought of Duke Paul, who was taking her son Baptiste out of this lodge, with gratefulness. She thought of Chief Red Hair and knew he would encourage Baptiste to go to that unknown land across the Great Eastern Waters. Her face relaxed, and she smiled with shining eyes, as if nothing were happening. Ai, to her this whipping was an unreal dream that would soar away, forgotten. She thought of her own words: “If you whip me again, I will leave and you will not see me again.” Ai, she would leave. There were other lodges, other people for friends.
Baptiste gripped the knife with trembling fingers. Impossible! He gritted his teeth; this time he would stop the horrible whipping. His glance fell to his mother, crouched close to the floor but with her head held up. He saw this peculiar thing about her face. There was no anger on it for Charbonneau or the young Ute girl;
no shame for herself; neither pity nor sympathy. It was relaxed and smiling. His gaze plumbed the dark pools of her eyes. Baptiste could not believe them. They were deep with the greatest love he had ever seen, and turbulent, as if stirred by leaping trout in the joy of spring. They were triumphant with a strange exultation.
Another blow came, and her head felt large with pressure. She came up gasping as the lash uncoiled around her. A warm trickle ran down her side under the shreaded tunic.
Two more blows came with long pauses; they lacked vigor. Did Charbonneau hold back, or was it the strange, kind smile and look of exultant triumph in his woman’s eyes that made him stop?
Sacajawea rose slowly, panting. With calm dignity she walked forward to her son.
Baptiste met her. He felt shame that he had no power to use the knife on the one who had left long, bleeding welts on his mother’s back. Angrily he threw the knife so it struck the floor and stood, handle up. She faced her son as if nothing had happened, her face relaxed and smiling, her eyes shining.
“The duke will come for you before the next snowfall. Go.” She said it in a low, curiously vibrant voice.
Baptiste felt as though he were standing alone, high on the edge of a fathomless chasm, the world lying far below. His mother’s face smiled with understanding. A new strength filled him.
Charbonneau rolled and lit a cigarette and walked toward the fireplace, hands thrust deep into his pants pockets.
Like someone driven by an unconquerable obsession from which she was not yet freed, Sacajawea mechanically gathered up her blanket and placed it beside the door. The others watched as she and Baptiste walked slowly, in quiet dignity, as if nothing had happened, through the opened door.
Sacajawea felt the darkness cover her, and the pain across her back became sickening. She gulped the fresh air to subdue her rising nausea. Then she slumped to the ground. Presently she heard Baptiste talking with someone. She tried to stand on her feet. Eagle came to her with wads of old faded-blue strouding.
“I have waited until our man snores with sleep,” shushed Eagle with a finger over her mouth. “I come to wash your back.”
At the tiny stream behind the shed, Eagle washed Sacajawea’s back, sopping off the blood with the wads of trade cloth. She put a fresh tunic carefully over Sacajawea’s head.
Baptiste squatted in the darkness, thinking. He thought in the morning he would see General Clark. Clark would know of a place for his mother so she would not be in danger of another whipping from Charbonneau. He wanted now more than anything to get his mother away from this place.
Sacajawea shivered with a chill.
“Our man is a beast,” said Eagle with disgust. “We ought to take a rope and tie him to a tree.”
“The mare,” Sacajawea said. “Get it for me.”
“Let me bathe your face first,” begged Eagle.
“There is no time,” said Sacajawea. “I am leaving.”
Eagle went into the shed for the mare. Sacajawea stood, unsteadily at first. She went back into the cabin and quietly searched for a few belongings.
Kitten stirred, sat up in her robes and said, “There, now, cut out her heart!” She pushed her butcher knife toward Charbonneau, who was by now half-awake, and drew her finger dramatically across her throat, making a foolish clucking noise.
Charbonneau frowned at her a moment, then looked away. Kitten came back and began to slash the air around him as if to cut his body into chunks. He jerked back, dodging her thrusts as well as he could, then he stayed still and merely frowned at her threatening movements, watching Sacajawea putting things into a large leather bag.
“She is my woman many years,” he said sleepily, staring at Sacajawea, half-frightened now at the continued violence the Ute girl displayed.
The smile of triumph faded from Kitten’s face. “Then let us skin her like a beast.”
“You are from the diable,” said Charbonneau, sucking in his cheeks.
“We have human meat for the next meal,” said Kitten smiling, looking at Sacajawea. “You’ll stay?” She was moving out of her blankets.
Sacajawea said nothing, but packed her things and took a leather box of jerky from the shelf.
“We’ll take her hair. Quickly!” Kitten, on her feet now, pushed Charbonneau’s hand, which held the butcher knife.
He shrank back, wondering what the girl would do, and hoping it would not be a cruel thing. The night’s episode was finished; it was now time for sleep.
“Get the hell back in your robes!” muttered Tess. “I want to sleep.” He took Kitten by the arms and held her against him. He laughed with great delight as she tried to bite his hands and arms. “Oh, Jesus!” he stormed.
A thin, bitter smile slashed the Ute’s mouth. Instantly it changed to a sullen frown as she saw Sacajawea pick up the snap purse with the medal and coins and pearl earrings, the pewter mirror and bone comb, then the sky blue stone on the thin thong and the red marblelike glass, and drop them inside her bag. The glow of the fire brought out the deep rose red in Sacajawea’s dark, round, unlined cheeks. She had not lost her dignity. She did not scream or jump, but moved quickly and quietly. She slipped on the old blue coat with the worn sleeves, letting the wide folds and familiar scent of the garment engulf her. Her eyes turned to Charbonneau.
He had never seen her quite like this. She seemed to tower high above him. She said no word. Her face showed a look of rapturous triumph. He felt his strength gone, and he feared this strange beauty that seemed to radiate from her black eyes, which were sharper than knives.
“Dear God, the blessed Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, now where the hell are you going?” he howled
with exasperation. “What is this, anyway?” He pushed his fear away and concentrated on her face. “Little Bird Woman! Oh, Madonna, protect me from the females in my household!” He was now enraged, but he knew that he was as helpless as an infant tied in a cradleboard.
Sacajawea saw his shoulders beginning to sag. She felt pity, but pushed it away. She had pitied him before. She carried the bag to the door, found some steel fire-sticks, and picked up the folded blanket. She pushed the door open and walked through without looking back. Outside she said calmly to Eagle, “Send Baptiste to the homeland of the duke.”
“Ai,” said Eagle, trembling. “It is done. I promise. That Ute girl makes me so angry. If she were on fire, I would not spit on her.”
Sacajawea heeled the mare and was gone.
Thundering out of the cabin, Charbonneau lifted his fist, his face now livid. “Damn! Where the diable is she going?” he asked in desperation.
“Who knows?” It was Kitten’s answer to life and death alike.
Charbonneau swung his head from side to side, glowering helplessly from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
Tess was outside searching through the night air for a sound that might lead them to her. “Can’t track anything this night. In the morning we can track that horse easy.”
One thing stood out to Charbonneau like a sore thumb as he looked toward one face, then another, then toward the empty blackness beyond. His life suddenly had come tumbling down like a house of cards. It was the strange female power he felt Sacajawea possessed. It sought to dwarf his manhood, and against it he had no means to rebel. He felt as though he had been trampled by buffalo. His mouth had the taste of a magpie’s nest. He grunted and spat on the dust. So—maybe this was good riddance for the rest of the night. Tomorrow, early, they would track the damned horse. By evening things would be the same and he and Tess would go out on a fall hunt, just to gather a few fine beaver pelts and maybe a deer or young elk. In any event he planned to be gone when Duke Paul came to Saint Louis. Charbonneau felt he could not endure a tongue-lashing from the duke right now.
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