With fascination she watched a spiraling cloud grow and slant down, bending and twisting from the heavy, dark cloud. Like the drooping tail of a coyote it dragged across the ground, roaring and sucking up mesquite and whole cottonwoods and willows. This slender tail of a cloud pulled up for a moment, then dropped again, picking up more dirt, gravel, trees, and grasses. It veered away from Sacajawea, moving quickly upriver. Within minutes she felt the fierce gusts of wind that trailed behind the long finger of the cloud, and heard them rush through the tops of the trees. Yellow streaks of lightning flew across the sky and she pulled the horse close among the willows for protection. She picked up the arrow again and took a closer look at it. The shaft was grooved from the end of the feathers to the headof the arrow point. There were two straight black grooves on one side. She turned it over and saw two red spiral grooves. Many times she had seen her own father cut just such grooves using a bone containing a circular hole with a little projection inside.1 Ai, she thought to herself, can this possibly be a Shoshoni arrow? She crouched close against the willows. Suddenly it began to hail, and the horse twitched and flicked its tail as though it were being attacked by bloodsucking, green-headed flies. Sacajawea spoke softly to the horse so that it would not bolt away through the waist-high sage.
Sacajawea’s head ached, and she pulled her old blue coat over herself as protection from the pelting of the corn-size hail. She thought about the grooved arrow and she shivered. The hail did not last long, but the cold, blustery wind felt like it would blow forever.
She scraped at the melting hail with her toe. Just then a ruffed grouse flew up and away down the riverbank, but she did not try to chase it with a stone or with her bow and arrow; by now her hunger pangs were beyond feeling. She did not even think of hunting buffalo chips for a fire to keep off the cold. Her thoughts seemed more a dream than reality.
Sacajawea imagined she would get up soon and would then see Eagle fixing the morning meal. Baptiste would be there, his sturdy back straight as a lodgepole. He would smile as he told what had been done the day before in school. Her dreams faded; she slept. It was dark when she awoke. There were no stars in the sky. She pondered the funnellike cloud that had sucked up the land and growing things. Was it some device of the sky-people, sent for her to see? Did it have an important meaning? Was it related to the pronghorn experience? Was it a foreshadowing? She buttoned the old blue coat, thankful for it, and pulled her wet blanket closer about her shoulders.
The wind had now died down, and Sacajawea took a deep breath. Her mind cleared a bit, and she could detect a familiar odor in the air, but she could not name it. She pinched her nostrils tight and blew hard. Again she sniffed, taking only small amounts of air at a time. Then she knew. A wild dog or coyote was near. She heard the mare whinny. She wondered if the coyote wasnipping the mare’s legs. Then she remembered coyotes usually went after much smaller prey, unless it was carrion or something foul smelling. That was it! Foul smelling! She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the lower branches of a cottonwood. In doing this she had a whiff of her unwashed body. That caused her to hurry and she pulled herself painfully up into the tree.
From her perch she saw a restless, doglike animal pacing back and forth near the tree. The mare snorted once and moved away into the tall, brittle grass. Sacajawea could hear the swishing of the stems. The farther away the sound retreated, the more alone she felt. Her stomach knotted and her eyes watered. One foot was jammed uncomfortably in the fork of the tree, but she knew she had to stay put until the coyote left. Toward morning she saw another coyote join the first. They circled in opposite directions around the tree. Once she pulled off a branch and threw it at them but they only growled and ran faster. Her arms and legs grew heavy with fatigue. Her eyelids closed, but she dared not let herself fall asleep or relax her hold on the tree.
In the first light of dawn she saw slender shafts of white smoke rise in the south and merge with the pale sky. The smoke seemed to come from a broad gully three, four miles away. The coyotes had snuck away and she worked her foot loose. She wanted to see the arrow shaft again and she looked around for it. She wondered if the coyotes and the arrow were dreams or reality. Her eyes burned—they were puffy from crying and lack of sleep. Her head felt dull and oversized. She saw her mare munching a patch of Indian grass. Close by, staked to a low, scrub juniper, was a strange pinto pony. She rubbed her eyes, making them sting, and squeezed them down into narrow slits in order to see better. Ai, there were two horses and both were on rawhide tethers.
She moved her head and was surprised that she did not feel dizzy. She saw an orange flame between herself and the two horses. Hunkered over the fire, replenishing it with small mesquite sticks, was a strange man. She stared.
He appeared taller than the average Shoshoni, but she could not be sure until he stood up. His bare chestwas wide and thick and copper-colored. His shiny, braided black hair was long, falling below his shoulders. On one side of his head he wore a round silver plate, about the size of Sacajawea’s hand. She wondered if it were some good-luck token or his all-time helper. He wore close-fitting leggings attached to a leather string around the waist. The material was fringed, loose, and flapping beyond the seam. His moccasins had high buckskin tops, similar to the Shoshonis, with the seam down the heel. The fringe from the lace to the toe was short, but that along the back seam was six to eight inches long and it had bits of silver tied in the ends. A band of rawhide was wrapped around his left wrist so that he would not feel the sting of his bowstring.
He glanced up, his eyes meeting hers. They were slanted slightly upward and his wide, full mouth matched their curve. His nose was hooked like the hawk and his chin was round and firm.
Sacajawea licked her rough, chapped lips. “Who are you?”
“Comanche.”
To Sacajawea the word Comanche meant, I am a human being.2 She smiled at this answer and tried again. “Why are you here?”
“We are going to my lodge. You are a gift for my sister.”
She had to listen intently to his twang, and the way in which he flapped the r by placing his tongue against the roof of his mouth and letting it drop fast. When she understood she pulled herself up, her heart pumping. “I am no gift! No slave! I am Shoshoni! Maybe lost, that is all!” She was indignant.
“Shoshoni!” he sputtered, making the in-and-out, weaving movement with his hands. “So—that is why your tongue is different, but the same, if I listen carefully.”3 He looked at her closely.
She was embarrassed, knowing that she was dirty, unkempt, and had not bathed in weeks. She was still in the cottonwood.
“Come down.” He reached into a leather pouch and held out his hand. “Wadzewipe, Lost Woman, try this with penat.”4 He held a narrow piece of ordinary pemmican toward her. In his other hand he had a smallskin container and he motioned for her to dip the pemmican in the container. She hesitated, took a deep breath, then jumped out of the tree into the sand. She crawled on hands and knees toward the food. A clear, viscous, golden brown liquid clung to the stick of pemmican. She put her tongue to it and the taste was sweet and delicious. She licked off the honey and dipped again and again, her hunger awakened. She was starving.
The Comanche laughed and slapped the side of his leg. “You have more hunger than manners, my cousin. We have more honey. It is gathered in the summer near the black sage, where there is much thorny chaparral. The gatherers are either stung by the honey bees or thorns.”
She looked sideways at him. His upturned eyes were brown and clear. Many adult men had eyes that were muddied, the whites yellow and streaked with red. Slowly she got to her feet so that her stomach would not cramp. She shuffled down to the shallow river to drink. She cupped her hands and sucked in the muddy water, then stayed in the squatting position for several minutes to rest. She was glad this day’s dizziness was not overpowering. She put her hand to her head, scratched vigorously, and again wished for a bath. She was surprised to see that the Comanche had followed her
to the river. He washed his hands and drank.
“I saw you yesterday. I imagined your village sent you away for some punishment. I watched you examine my spent arrow. It was meant for the speckled grouse, but the fool bird got away two, three times. Later, I found a skinny, young pronghorn, and shot it for food for my old grandfather. During the twisting wind, I yelled for you to seek shelter. You did not listen to my warning. You will like my sister—my mother—”
“Stop!” she snapped. “I am not going. I will never be a slave! Never!”
“Well, so—now, I hear what you say. Anyway, you come with me, cousin. So, fix yourself.”
“Fix? What? This is me! How can I be fixed?”
“How? Comb your hair. Wash your face. I think there is beauty somewhere, but it is deeply hidden. Fix yourself!”
She was so startled that she actually started for theriver, then stopped and looked him in the face. He had delicate little laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and his nose twitched. He stepped forward, as if to push her toward the water.
“You smell of sweat and trail dirt. Anyone standing downwind can tell you have traveled far.” He looked from her louse-infested head to her scruffy, makeshift moccasins.
Reddening, Sacajawea turned and hurried out of his gaze to a place behind some thick willows along the riverbank. “I might go to that camp, but not with you! I will not belong to anyone!” she called back.
He raised his voice so she could hear. “Shoshoni women are same as Comanche. Talk, talk, when there is little time and much work. I have butchering, if you know how.”
She felt weak and so kept her mouth closed. She shivered with the cold air when her soiled, ragged tunic was off. She rubbed small gravel mixed with water over her body, not only to clean it, but to warm it as well. Soon her skin burned as if the water were boiling. Using fine sand and water she scrubbed her hair. The wind dried her brown back with the long, white scars and she felt more alive than she had for many days. Finally she washed her tattered tunic, put on the old blue coat, and wrapped the gray woolen blanket about herself. Near the fire she put the tunic on a large mesquite branch to dry. Only then did she notice that he had hung pieces of a small bull antelope in the same mesquite tree.
“Can you cut and pack that in the antelope’s skin so that it can be carried on your lowly mare?”
“Lowly?” she asked. “Because you prefer stallions does not mean you can make base comments about my mare. She is patient, loyal, and probably can walk longer without complaint than your patchy-looking pony.”
He said nothing.
She closed her eyes and hoped she was not going to feel dizzy-sick. She found her butcher knife with her firesticks in the leather bag tied to her mare’s back. She managed to cut the meat in smaller hunks so it would pack well. She cut off a small piece of fat and rubbed it on her lips and over the scratches on her legsand arms. Then she chewed it, hoping it was not too rich for her griping belly. Neatly she tied the finished pack with strips of antelope hide, but she knew there was not strength enough in her arms to lift it to the back of either horse. She sat on the gravely riverbank to rest, her back against the meat pack.
The Comanche brought her more pemmican and the honey bag. She found it hard to keep her eyes open. Finally he took away the food and pulled the meat pack up to the mare’s back. Sacajawea lay on the ground a moment, until a voice above her said, “The sky is heavy with snow clouds. Come before the snow. The Quohadas are waiting.”5
Her tunic was dry. Behind the big mesquite she took the blanket and coat off and slipped on the clean tunic. The fresh smell pleased her. She saw the parfleche in which he kept pemmican next to the pinto and pointed to it.
“I would have the strength to go, if I ate a little more.”
“Ha! Just like a woman to only think of her belly when it is time to move on. A little at a time is best, Lost Woman. I, Jerk Meat, will give you more when it is time.”
“How do you know what is best for me?” Sacajawea was somewhat irritated and reached out for the parfleche.
“So!” he laughed and slapped the side of his leg. “Your manners are worse than a spoiled child’s. Or is this the usual way for my cousins who live as hunted animals in the Rock Mountains?”
She jerked her hand away, and her face turned crimson. She knew he was right. She had been too long by herself, not remembering manners. She combed her hair smooth with her fingers, wishing for her buffalo-tongue brush from the leather bag she’d left tied to the mare. She parted it down the middle as best she could and braided each side, wrapping small Cottonwood sticks around the ends.
Now Jerk Meat looked at her and smiled his approval. Then he picked up the tattered blanket and threw it into the highest limb of a cottonwood, far beyond her reach. He looked at it and held his nose.
Then with no warning, not listening to her protests, he pushed her down by a flat stone. She did not have strength to resist. He laid her braids upon the stone and cleared his throat.
“I will keep them clean,” she pleaded once more.
“It is a buck’s privilege to wear long hair. I would be much degraded to bring in a squaw with hair longer than mine.” He hacked each braid off below her ears with his knife. He picked up the braids and stuffed them inside his leather jerkin. “You won’t need another bath until summer.”
Holding the cut ends of hair, she sniffed and said angrily, “No buck will push me around. I’ll take as many baths as I wish between now and spring.”
“Horsetail,” he said, provoked with this talkative squaw he had picked up and spent so much time bringing back to life.
The clouds grew grayer, and snow began to fall in large flakes. Sacajawea walked behind Jerk Meat. She led the mare with the meat and antelope hide tied to its back. Now she did not shiver quite so much and wanted to talk. She was like a well overflowing. It had been so long since she had spoken to another human that she could not be stopped.
She told the Comanche of the beautiful sunsets on the prairies, of the meadowlark’s song from a nodding sunflower. She told him of the first rattlesnake she had eaten and of the lightning and heavy rain and the terrible heat, then cold. He nodded. He did not ask questions about more of her past. He let it sleep. He called her Wadzewipe, Lost Woman.
The ground was covered with white snow, but she did not feel cold. She was exhilarated by companionship. Jerk Meat told her that when the grass was green and the winds hot, great animal herds came to these Staked Plains. Brown bands of buffalo moved into the wind, herds of wild mustang with manes that flowed against the rose of a late summer sky, and the graceful antelope bounded, playful in a soft sea of grass. “We are called the Antelope tribe. The Quohadas! We hunt, raid ranches in Texas, and cross the Rio Grande to trade with Mexicans. Ten pounds of coffee can be traded for a good horse, or a keg of whiskey for a few mules. The
Quohadas are rich—their horse herds number in the thousands.”
As Jerk Meat talked, Sacajawea watched the trail made by the small leather tassels attached to the heels of his moccasins in the skiff of snow. Then she studied his hair, which contained buffalo fur. The proper placement of the fur made his own hair appear longer, as though it reached below his shoulders. It was daubed with pine pitch and vermilion paint. Then she noticed the tip of each ear of her mare had been slit—the same as the ears on his pinto.
She asked him sharply about it.
“Have you seen the white man?” he asked her.
“Ai,” she said.
“They do such things to make it known which horse belongs to which man. This is my mark.”
“But that is my mare.”
“You brought it to me for bringing back your health. So—we are even.” He laughed.
“Can women ride horses in your village?”
“Ai, some do.”
“Then I will work and earn my mare back,” she said soberly.
He looked back at her quizzically, asking how it was she knew much about the white man when she
came from the Land of the Shining Mountains.
“Traders who are white will come to my people,” she said, avoiding his question.
He was truly surprised. “White traders in the mountains?”
“Ai, and so my people will not be without guns and ammunition for long. They will hunt more game and have full bellies.”
“Ugh, guns make people hate one another,” he said, thinking she made up that about white traders to impress him, and he spit at a pine. “Now, do you need the iron kettle of the white woman to cook in, or can you make a basket from willow?” he teased.
“I can make a good cooking basket,” she answered, and to prove it, she tethered the mare and stepped into a willow grove and with her butcher knife cut some small branches. She worked quickly, making a deep basket. Jerk Meat hunted for the backside of a hillocksheltered from the wind. When he found a place, he curled himself up inside some dry leaves and went to sleep. Sacajawea built the fire with his rubbing sticks and heated two stones red-hot. She put snow and strips of antelope flank into the basket, then the red-hot stones. When the snow melted and the water boiled, she added more snow quickly so that the water covered the meat. After a while she tasted the meat. Delicious. She tasted some more. Wonderful. The snow almost put out her cooking fire. She gathered more sticks and heated the stones again and cut more flank meat. Then Jerk Meat was standing beside the fire, his toe pointing to his rubbing sticks.
She was embarrassed that she had not asked permission to use his sticks and that he would find she had eaten the meat before he had had any. She hurriedly put the fresh strips into the basket and put in handfuls of snow. With two green sticks as tongs, she dropped the hot stones in one by one.
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