Sacajawea felt wet all over, yet there was no rain. The air was heavy and hard to breathe and made her feel anxious. She balanced the child on one arm and moved closer to the bank where the horses were tied to a stunted, post oak covered with a catbrier vine. She pulled the robe from her riding horse and spread it on the ground for the child to sleep on. She sat on one corner, brushed the dark hair from the little girl’s face, and kissed her cheek. She had not used this white man’s gesture much on this papoose.
The thunder roared like a long tattoo on a tight skin drum. Sacajawea watched the chain of lightning in the clouds. She sang an old Shoshoni lullaby that had come to her:
“This day is good,
The baby sleeps,
Content with food.
Under dark clouds,
The voice of thunder
Sounds soft to her ear.”
It seemed that Mother Earth was talking as the rumbles of thunder penetrated even into the ground. Sacajawea got the bundle of old tepee skins and spread them over her back and around her child. It felt good; the gusts were cold.
Lightning flashed more frequently as the clouds rolled in like dirty water boiling in a kettle. Crying Basket moved, pulling her knees against her chest for warmth. Sacajawea remembered an old saying of her mother’s. “Roast the porcupine and when you have eaten it, mash the bones, then the frozen rain will come.” The wind blew dirt into her face, so that she pulled one of the skins higher for protection. The grass was pushed nearly flat. The horses stayed close to the wall with their heads down. The dust swirled one way, then another just before the hail peppered them. Sacajawea held the skins over her child and herself as best she could in the thrashing wind.
Crying Basket woke up and climbed to her mother’s lap, clinging from fear, her eyes wide. She did not cry, but her tiny heartbeat quickened. The hail fell in streaks and bounced on rocks; the horses shone in the frequent flashes of lightning, their hooves smeared with gummy clay. Then the wind slacked off and the rain came, but did not last long.
The roiling clouds moved away, and their grumbling was not so loud. The bright stars seemed to hang low in the sky. Sacajawea was soaked. She found a partially dry skin and wrapped the child in it. She lay down, trying to forget the wetness and was soon asleep.
Sacajawea was awakened suddenly by some subconscious sense. She was stiff and sat up slowly. Her eyes became accustomed to the starlight as she looked around. Her eyes fell on a small hole nearby where the ground had been kept dry by the robe. The robe corner was now folded back so the movement at the hole was visible. Two dark, hairy legs were feeling the outer edge. Then the hairy body of a wolf spider emerged, lookingfor food. Silently it moved on long, fuzzy legs to examine Crying Basket’s exposed foot. Sacajawea involuntarily stiffened. She breathed deeply and forced herself to remain motionless. She knew any sudden movement might make the creature lunge and drive its fangs deep into the tiny, bare foot, releasing its poison.
She sat quietly, praying to the Great Spirit that the child would not move. The hairy, dark spider backed away by inches, fell off the robe into the dirt, and scrambled away silently and out of sight. Sacajawea let out her breath, closed her eyes, and thanked the Great Spirit for the creature that intended no harm. For all living beings life was a constant hunt for food and avoidance of enemies. She could have squashed the spider, taking its life, but what would have been the purpose of that?
In the morning, Sacajawea repacked the damp skins, led the horses farther along the ledge, and checked the end horse hitched to the travois. She scooped up Crying Basket, tied her in a blanket, and swung her over her back. The ledge narrowed, then circled around a sharp sandstone point. On one side was a high bank of rock, with some precarious overhangings that looked as if they could fall at any moment. On the other side was a sheer drop-off down to the plains. Far below, the river looked like a pale green satin ribbon thrown carelessly on a red-brown floor. The lead horse would go no farther and there was no room to turn around.
Sacajawea could not look down without feeling a helplessness that fostered the urge simply to let everything go and topple over the edge. Forcing the thought away, she took a deep breath and looked only at the ground where the horses’ hooves touched. She inched forward hugging the wall, to investigate further.
To her surprise and joy, on the other side of the point the ledge widened and a broad incline led all the way to the top. Carefully she coaxed the horses forward inch by inch. She held her breath when the travois teetered once, then let her breath go when it settled upright.
She finally got to the summit and could see what appeared to be another wide, expansive plain, carved with dips, crevasses, and small canyons. Below, the river still meandered.
As the morning sun moved higher and bathed thehigh plain with light, Sacajawea, with Crying Basket still on her back, moved down a game trail to seek a way to the river. They found a crevasse in the sandstone and came out on a wide ledge. A fog bank had now moved in above the river and was only a few hundred yards away. It was like a wide wall in front of them. Sacajawea stood at the edge of the stone shelf, feeling stimulated from the exertion and clear-headed in the warm rays of sunshine. She turned and caught her breath. There was the most astonishing sight.
Mirrored on the fog’s wall-like surface was the side view of an enlarged shadow of a woman carrying a child on her back! Sacajawea moved, and the shadow moved. She made a quarter-turn to face the fog bank and held out her arms. She made a shadow image of a large bird, larger than any thunderbird she had ever seen drawn inside rock caves or on high rock cliffs. She moved her arms and the bird’s wings seemed to flap as if readying itself to soar into the sky.
Then she noticed a glow, similar to a rainbow, encircling the upper half of the shadow picture. She stood motionless, her arms widespread, transfixed with awe. She was certain this phenomenon had some significant meaning for her. Sacajawea moved so that the silhouetted woman and child were haloed by the light. The colored, concentric rings all about her larger-than-life shadow could only mean one thing, she thought. The disk of colors was a protector: it was a totem to care for her and the child in this harsh land. What else could this extraordinary sight possibly be?
Sacajawea was so overwhelmed that she could not make a sound for several long moments. Her mind searched for some supernatural explanation. Slowly and deliberately she lowered her arms and turned for another side view. Awestruck, she felt the presence of the Great Spirit all around as she reverently gazed at the image of mother and child with a spectrum of violet-through-red around their heads.1
The sun rose higher and the shadow slowly disappeared. The wall of fog evaporated and Sacajawea clearly saw the river and another game trail.
For many days after that her mind dwelt on the shadow picture. She was unable to connect it with anynatural cause and effect, such as relative position of the sunlight, thick fog, and where she stood on the rock ledge or reflection, refraction, and dispersion. Thus, she turned to superstition, to some powerful, magical force that was a sign to her. She decided it was a sign that she was to have a large, full life, that she was headed in the right direction and that she would be protected by this rainbow light. This explanation satisfied her.
Each night Sacajawea was more exhausted. She climbed from the horse, pulled the packs off, and lay on the earth with her child sheltered in her arms. Each night she looked for the North Star in order to start out in the right direction in the morning. Crying Basket licked cracked lips and asked for water more often. Sacajawea longed for meat to put flesh on the bones of Crying Basket and herself. Their diet had become one of bare subsistence.
There was a breath of winter in the sharp, dry air as they rose into the shaggy foothills bordering the plains. Now they found berry bushes with ripe fruit. They crossed old beaver dams, but saw not a beaver. The beaver had once been rich in the small streams, but by this time were gone. Unknown to Sacajawea, the spot was too accessible to trappers. She guided the horses throu
gh black junipers and scrub piñon, then back to the grizzliness of blade-leafed soapweed, grease-wood, and cactus. The going grew rough. Eventually they forded another river. It was hard now to separate one river from another, or how or where the crossing had been made.
One day she saw dust feathering out against the sky. She knew it meant men on horseback.
Forgetting the riders that night, Sacajawea built a fire to keep the chill away. Crying Basket’s legs were covered with scabs, and her feet were scratched and cut. Sacajawea cut an old tepee skin to bind them. The child’s nose seemed pinched and pointed, and her scrawny fingers all thin bone. The horses were thin and gaunt. She looked at her own feet, which were bruised, swollen, and torn, with blackened nails. Her hands were rough and cracked. As she cut bindings for her feet, shethought neither she nor her child could travel many more days; even the horses were ready to drop.
Sacajawea lay in a stupor with Crying Basket in her arms. She had heard the horses coming, but had no strength to hide. And then she heard the horses stop, and opened her eyes, and saw Mexican soldiers with broad hats staring down at her. There were many of them.
“Con su permiso,” the nearest soldier said. ”Pobrecita.” He pointed to the starving child, then to the two thin horses. Most of the soldiers were mounted on fat black Mexican horses.
“Agua?”
Frightened, she slowly sat up with as much dignity as she could muster. She answered, “No water. It is gone.”
A man offered her a drink from a copita, a small silver cup. She gave it to the child first. In a few moments the soldiers, or dragoons, had all dismounted and were setting up a rest camp.
“We travel again, before sunup,” explained the first soldier in slow Spanish and with hand signs. Someone brought a plate of pinto bean paste and panocha, a gluey brown pudding made from dried wheat sprouts. Crying Basket dipped fingers into the food, then licked them noisily.
“Are you lost?” another soldier asked in Spanish, also using hand signs.
“I am going north to the white man’s fort,” Sacajawea answered, less frightened and more curious about these soldiers who had found her path. “I look for my son.”
“Your muchacho is lost?”
“No, he is cholo—too grown to be lost.” She measured a full-grown man with her fingertips held high.
“Ah, he is half-white. You have a white husband?”
“No.” She shook her head, wanting to ask the man questions herself, but a deep weariness overcame everything and her hands dropped back in her lap.
A man with a red serape came to her. “I’ll take the papoose.”
Her mind woke, and she felt ill from eating much too fast.
“No, no! Do not take the child! No!”
“I am sorry,” the man’s face was reddening. “I did not mean to frighten you, señora. I only wanted to help so that you could rest before we travel. You may ride with us to the fort. We will call when we start. I will leave the child. But if she is hungry, we have more food.”
He was gone before she could reply. Crying Basket was asleep, curled beside her. Sacajawea tried to think her situation out, but fell asleep long before the sun set.
Long before the sun rose, the man in the red serape was back. “I mean for you to ride this horse, señora,” he called softly. She stirred and rubbed her eyes. Patiently he held the reins of a sleek black mare. “You will ride with us. Your horses will follow in our pack train.”
“Where?”
“We go looking for americano fur traders in Mexican Territory. The men who steal mules from Mexican towns. We ride to Bent’s Fort.”
“Bent’s?” she asked, fully awake.
“Who else, the white conquistadores!” shouted one of the mounted soldiers.
She saw her horses being led to the back line, the travois in place. She nudged Crying Basket.
“I will ride beside you and hold the child for a while,” the man said. “You do not look too strong.”
Sacajawea mounted the black mare and tried to keep up with the man who carried Crying Basket.
That evening one of the soldiers gave Sacajawea a pair of huaraches in place of the leather bandages on her feet. Another Mexican soldier gave her some soothing oil to rub on the child’s dry skin and parched lips. For the first time she saw the pack train and the mules and muleteers. Their conical hats were covered with oilcloth peaked above their long dark hair. Their heads were thrust through holes in coarse, bright-hued blankets, and their leather pantaloons were split down the sides, revealing a loose pair of cotton drawers beneath. Enormous spur rowels jangled on their heels; their saddles bore sweeping leather skirts and wooden stirrups. To her they were ridiculous-looking. As soon as the mule team was hitched the next morning, one muleteermounted the right-hand wheel mule, and another climbed aboard the left-hand mule of the span behind the leaders. The rest of the hands armed themselves with whips and took positions on either side of the team. At a shout from the chief muleteer, all fell to, whooping, spurring, whipping. The mules brayed and plunged. This was brutal but effective; they set themselves into the collars in fine, smooth style. Sacajawea’s thin horses were tied behind.
The next evening, she was given a capita, a small cloak, to ward off the night chill. And a soldier dug deep into his pack to find a bright yellow shawl for the child.
In a few days Crying Basket’s eyes were bright in the night firelight. She danced while the men sang. She is like Pomp was, Sacajawea thought to herself.
Slowly the dragoons moved over the northern Mexican Territory until midmorning one day when the horses were stopped. Someone pointed, and all eyes were on the north bank of a river. “Americano’.” someone shouted.
Sacajawea squinted her eyes and saw an American flag, red-and-white stripes, similar to the ones used by Captain Lewis and Chief Red Hair. It was flying in the front of an adobe structure. She had never seen anything like this. Beyond the white-walled fort were low sand hills; at one side were small chalk bluffs and ledges of rock. Bordering the river were bottomlands that high water might flood, but in good seasons there would be enough grass for many horses. The man in the serape pointed far southwest to two humps. “Spanish Peaks,” he said. He pointed far northwest to a dim dome. “Pike’s Mountain,” he said. Directly in front were sunflowers and the lark sparrows dipped. “Bent’s Fort,” said the soldier.
The rectangular fort faced eastward toward the approaching train of Mexican dragoons. Sacajawea noticed that on top was a high watchtower with holes to look through. She did not know that in the tower was a large telescope through which one could see for miles around. Musketry and small field cannons were mounted on top of the walls. They approached the main door made of wood and almost completely covered with headsof nails to prevent Indians from cutting through it or shooting their arrows into it.
Sacajawea could see that this was not ordinary. The fort stood out like beautiful white walls of a canyon. The door opened, and the dragoons went in, followed by the muleteers.
A small man, walking briskly, came from the back part of the buildings inside. He had a tanned, clean-shaven face. “Bill Bent,” said someone. He shook hands with the dragoon captain and talked several minutes, then smiled and motioned for the men to lead their horses and mules to the corral. Sacajawea saw her two horses being led to water and a meager pile of hay. Crying Basket clung to her mother’s tunic once they were dismounted, her eyes wide.
Bill Bent was aware that this year, 1841, Governor Manuel Armijo had denounced his fort, together with all similar American posts near the Mexican border, as “shelters of thieves and contraband, instigators of Indian forays against Mexican citizens, and a constant menace to the welfare and independence of New Mexico.” Bill Bent was friendly. He wanted to trade with Mexicans, for the fort needed flour and salt.
The dragoon captain had come to trade flour, beans, salt, and pepper for American guns and ammunition and to look at the mules in the corral. Some just might have been stolen in Mexican
Territory and brought here. It was his business to find out.
A young Cheyenne woman, neatly dressed in a long-skirted gingham dress, came out to the placita and, seeing Sacajawea standing apart from the men, opened the swinging iron gate. She motioned for Sacajawea to come through.
“That’s Owl Woman, Bill Bent’s wife,” said the man in the serape as she walked past the gate.2
“Ai,” said the woman softly to Sacajawea. “You have come a long way. I would like to hold your child. She seems so small.” They sat together on a wooden bench on the narrow porch. Sacajawea tried to talk in Comanche, then Shoshoni, and then with hand signs and a smattering of Spanish and English she was able to make herself understood. Owl Woman used her handsconstantly as she rocked to and fro with Crying Basket on her lap.
“My man will see that the white medicine man takes a look at your baby. He will have a salve for her legs and feet.”
“The Mexican soldiers were kind and gave us some oil,” Sacajawea said.
“Do you go back to Taos with them?”
“Oh, no,” said Sacajawea.
“Is one of them your man? The one in the red serape?”
“No.” Sacajawea grinned. “I came alone. Our paths came together. I am looking for one called Jean Baptiste Charbonneau.” Sacajawea’s heart beat faster at the mention of her quest. She watched Owl Woman.
“No, he is not here.”
Sacajawea’s heart fell. So—it was a wild-goose chase after all. Her son had never been here.
“He was here a few moons back, at the ending of winter.”
“You saw him?” Sacajawea’s heart jumped into her throat.
“Ai, Bap Charbonneau gets supplies and packs his buffalo robes here. He goes by boat down the Platte River to Saint Louis.”
Sacajawea’s hands flew to her face, covering her mouth. Tears stung at the back of her eyes. Baptiste had been here. At this place! She was not able to be stoic and hold the flood of tears back. They poured down her face.
Sacajawea Page 117
