Sacajawea

by Anna Lee Waldo

Contrary Woman poked her head out, followed by two boys, who recognized Sacajawea immediately. “Dirty is with you?”

  “No, I have not seen her since morning,” said Sacajawea.

  “She said she was going out to see her dead child.

  But we had not heard that she had actually died until this moment.”

  “Nor I,” said Sacajawea.

  Contrary Woman helped Sacajawea wrap the body in a buffalo robe and tie it with thongs until it was only a large bundle.

  “She was not really a bad child. She was shy and had few friends. She seemed lonely, sad at times. Is it really bad, loving one of the enemy?” said Contrary Woman.

  “I do not think so,” said Sacajawea. “They have the same feelings as we.”

  The two women sat with tears shining on their cheeks in the firelight and sang a low song over and over so that this daughter would have courage on her journey to the Spirit World.

  After a while, Toussaint came to the tepee and suggested that Sacajawea give away her most prized possessions in honor of the granddaughter who had died there. “I will take the silver medal,” he said. “Joy was my daughter, and I ought to have some payment for her death.”

  Sacajawea looked at him, stunned. “I have nothing but sorrow now,” she answered. “When this day goes to the Spirit Land, I will look to see what I wish to give you.”

  Toussaint placed the bundle on a drag behind his pony and started for the hills. Behind the drag were Contrary Woman and her boys, Squirrel Chaser and Race Horse, and the toddler, Yelling Falls. Sacajawea followed. As they walked, they wept.

  In the fading sunlight on the hilltop was a new scaffold that Dirty had had Toussaint build a week before.

  Toussaint unhitched the pony and leaned the drag against the scaffold. He climbed up and pulled the bundle to the top and tied it down with thongs. That night the coyotes heard the weeping and moaning and raised their high, sharp song of sorrow. When they stopped, the night was large with the howling wind, and Dirty sat among them, and nothing mattered.

  The next day they sat where they were and felt bad, and the young women squabbled between themselves.

  The old times were better, thought Sacajawea, wandering alone and mourning and praying. Then it was like dying with the dear one and coming back all new again and stronger to live. Now when someone dies we do not go anywhere, and we quarrel; we have forgotten how to learn.

  After a while, they went back to the village.

  Late that afternoon, White Curly Bear called out to Sacajawea, “I can wait no longer, but must tell you about Washakie.”

  Inside the tepee, she seated herself in front of Sacajawea, saying, “This morning my man came into camp holding seven scalps. The men came out and greeted him. Shoogan held his horse as he dismounted. Women and children came and formed a circle around their chief, and circled him from left to right. ‘Let him,’ said Washakie, ‘who can do a greater feat than this claim the chieftainship.’ And he held the scalps high above his head. ‘Let him who would take my place count as many scalps.’ Then he told that he had been out on the warpath single-handed to test his skill, that he had come across a band of Sioux, and that each scalp was his own trophy.” White Curly Bear had a mock-serious crinkling about her eyes. “I am glad to find you back among the living.”

  Sacajawea smiled broadly at her friend. “Ai, it is good to be here. It is even better to hear the news about your man.”

  When Toussaint heard the news of Washakie, he stayed in his tepee, avoiding the other men of the tribe. He wished to speak to no one about his foolish talk with Washakie. He told his women his grief was large and he could not bear to go out among people.

  So—from that time until his death, Washakie was the unchallenged leader and chief of the Lemhi Shoshonis.

  The next day, Washakie rode his horse to the agency to meet in council with Sorrel Horse, Medicine Man, Friday, and other important Arapahos.

  Many waved to him as he left. He sat high on his horse, wearing his medallion and shaking his good-luck token, an old dried buffalo scrotum filled with small pebbles and sewn back up. When he could no longer be seen, Sacajawea went about her daily chores, wishingthat Crying Basket had left little Berry for her to look after. Crying Basket and her man had gone by horseback to Fort Hall to trade Joe Coiner some beaver furs for a few bear skins to use on the floor of their lodge. Joe was well known as one of the best skinners. His hides had no slash marks nor splits. Suzanne had learned to tan most any animal skin to perfection.

  A dark figure came to her side and pulled her blanket. “Porivo, my umbea,” said Toussaint, “my heart is heavy. To lighten it I would like to wear the medal you have. I will look distinguished then.”

  Sacajawea stumbled once, then caught herself, saying, “I think there is something the matter with you. I think you have been drinking too much whiskey.”

  “Oho!” he said, uttering with explosive force the syllable of emphasis. “Oho! So what about it? I want Washakie to look at me and say, ‘He must be a big man to wear such a neckpiece.’”

  “You mean you would wear my medal to make you look big? You who would not keep your woman from causing the death of your own daughter?”

  He was silent. He blinked, then stared at Sacajawea. He let go of her blanket and stumbled backward. Swearing, he picked himself up. “I will come for the medal when the sun slants across the sky. I will have it then.”

  Sacajawea sat in her tepee alone, drawing hollow-cheeked upon the stem of her pipe. She smoked awhile and brooded in the little cloud she made. Then she got up and went to see Dancing Leaf.

  “But won’t you let me tell your son where you are going? They will worry,” said Shoogan’s woman.

  “No, those women will not miss me. They would only say I should act my age and sit in my tepee before the fire all day. I go now to think. I will visit Suzanne myself and see my grandchildren there. I will be back before the moon is full.”

  Sacajawea walked to the road that ran through Camp Augur, the white soldiers’ camp near Fort Bridger, carrying an old leather case that held her calico dress and a clean skin tunic. The stage stopped in front of the headquarters’ building. It went on to Fort Hall.

  The stage driver recognized her as the old Shoshoni squaw who, some said, guided some white soldiersthrough the Rocky Mountains. He had never heard her tell it personally; in fact, he had not heard her say any English except, “Hello, Chief,” “Thank you, Chief,” or “Goodbye, Chief.”

  “The soldiers here tell me you ride without fare. So, get in, Old Grandmother.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” she said.

  He squinted in the sun and spit a long brown streak of tobacco. “I heard a week or so ago President Johnson was impeached,” he called to her as he was rubbing down the horses. “General Grant might be the next President.”

  Sacajawea knew that Jefferson had been the name of the Great White Father at one time. But she did not know the name Johnson nor impeached, and so she tried not to hear things she did not understand. The driver came around to put away the baggage and help the womenfolk into the coach. Sacajawea put a moccasined foot on the step and was boosted. The stage had an arched roof and a thin, brass railing around the outside.2 Under the driver’s seat was the treasure box, which held tools, a water bucket, a dusty buffalo robe, and mail pouches. On the back was a platform covered with leather flaps. The driver tossed Sacajawea’s case on that platform along with the other grips and packages.

  Sacajawea sat facing forward on one of two benches inside. The seats had leather cushions and padded backs. Between the seats was a leather strap fastened crosswise that could be used as an extra seat if necessary.

  She nodded and smiled as the other passengers seated themselves. Fort Hall was a two-day, one-night ride. Each station was about twelve miles apart. At the swing station the horses were changed; the home station was larger and there the drivers were changed and the passengers had an opportunity to eat. No matter what time of day the meal
s were about the same: bacon and eggs, biscuits, tea, coffee, dried peaches, apples, and raisin pies. Sacajawea carried several silver dollars tucked in the bottom of the possibles bag that she had tied to her belt.3 The price for any meal was a dollar.

  There was always the chance that Arapaho or Sioux might attack a stage in this area, but there was also achance that the attack would come from robbers interested in the mail or packages of currency going from one bank to another. The miles of telegraph poles strung with lines, called “talking wires” by the Indians, and the miles of railroad tracks laid for the “iron horse” caused the Indians to hate the whites for intruding on hunting lands. The intruding whites feared the wrath of the local Indians.

  Sacajawea closed her eyes. She looked forward to some time spent with her memories. One of the men sitting on the same seat with her said in a hushed tone to his companion in the seat opposite, “It’s a wonder they permit Indians to ride on the stage. That squaw could attract Injun raiders.”

  “Oh no,” said the other fellow wearing a tall top hat made of beaver fur. “I’ve seen her on here before.” The man spoke in a normal tone as though they thought Sacajawea were hard of hearing or could not understand a word of English. “She’s just some squaw that likes to visit relatives. She may be the wife of some important chief, because I hear she rides free. Her presence means a safe ride. No war party or horse raiders will be after this stage. And you can bet they know. They have a communication system that is uncanny. It’s faster than the telegraph.” Both men laughed knowingly.

  Sacajawea gave no indication that she understood.

  At the end of two days everyone was weary and very irritable. Sacajawea was glad to pick up her leather case and head down the road that led into the walled fort. Just outside the fort was a row of log cabins and in front of the cabins was the inevitable line of tepees. She grinned when dogs came out to bark and smell at her heels, but not follow her. The old trick of putting a dab of skunk urine on the back seam of her moccasins had worked. She hoped that Crying Basket and her family were still here. She counted three in from the west to make sure she was headed for the right one. She passed a cabin with a tin roof, home of the Chinese laundryman. The next had a large canvas tent attached to one side; this was the local hotel for itinerant miners who came to the fort. The mercantile or trading post was located inside the fort. She saw Little Joe swingoff the porch of the third cabin and run to meet her. He wore leather boots instead of moccasins and he had on a cloth shirt.

  “Granma, come in! We gots another baby. He looks terrible.”

  Sacajawea gave the five-year-old a hug and handed him her leather case. She almost forgot her stiff legs in the rush to get inside. From the open doorway she saw Crying Basket sitting on the floor holding a newborn. Berry, who had grown so pretty, was helping put bear’s grease on the red, wrinkled body. The other little boy, also with boots instead of moccasins, stood beside his father, Joe Coiner. Joe had one foot resting on a packing crate, his arm around the boy. Smell of Sugar sat on another wooden crate. Suzanne was asleep on the rope-and-lath bed built into one corner. A red and green cotton comforter was under her chin. Dark circles were under her eyes. White man’s pillows of blue strouding, stuffed with goose down, were pushed to one side.

  “Umbea!” called Crying Basket as soon as she saw Sacajawea in the doorway. “We have a new boy! He arrived not so long ago.”

  “What is wrong with him?” she asked fearfully.

  “Nothing. Come and see, sit down and hold him. I will pack and wrap him so he cannot wet you.”

  “But—Little Joe said he was terrible,” she insisted.

  “Mother, Little Joe is feeling left out. Besides, he wanted a brother at least as big as Jack. He does not remember they come little. He had one look and stuck his tongue out in disgust, saying that the baby was shriveled up like an old man with no teeth, weak legs, and no control over wetting and messing itself. He wanted to send it back.”

  Sacajawea chuckled and examined the papoose. It was well formed and had a head of thick, black hair and seemed far from being an old man. She was about to put the baby over her shoulder when she felt Little Joe nudge her thigh. “Wait till he wails. You’ll have to hold your ears. I’m going to pinch his nose so he can’t breath if he does it once more.”

  “You hold him.” She pushed Little Joe down to the floor. “Hold him while I tell you about riding the stageand show what I have in my possibles for you.” She opened up the little bag and suddenly the other little boy, called Jack, was there standing next to her. She gave Joe a biscuit. The other little boy held out grimy hands.

  “Tell me which one of you is Jack and I’ll tell you which is Joe,” she said. The smaller child pointed toward his chest. “There.” She gave him a biscuit also. Then she took the silver dollars out and shook the crumbs and dried fruit from the beaded pouch. She picked up the dried chips of peaches and passed them to Berry. “You are not too old for gifts.”

  “Grandmother, of course not. Tell us about the stage ride.” Now the adults crowded around as she began to tell how it felt to ride on something that lurched back and forth and rumbled like thunder for two days and a night. She used her hands and facial expressions and frequently looked at Little Joe, who rocked his upper body back and forth so that the papoose slept in his care.

  Joe Coiner smiled. He was as much at home among this adopted family of Suzanne’s as he was with his own family. He was impressed with their easy ways and special concern with each other’s feelings. He had seen how this grandmother had made his oldest son feel a part of the family once again, erasing sibling jealousy as if it had never been.

  After a supper of boiled potatoes and jerky, Sacajawea took Crying Basket aside and scolded her for giving Suzanne meat. “It is not like the old times when there was no mistaking the rules and they were all kept.” She clicked her tongue. “And so, I suppose these men and children were here while Suzanne moaned and bared her teeth and clenched her fists and pushed to pop out the papoose. Oh, my daughter, it is from bad to worse.”

  Crying Basket tried to explain that Suzanne took the white man’s path and did not even go to a special birth lodge. The afterbirth was thrown out with the bloody wash water on the garbage heap and white lime was sprinkled on top to speed decay and hold off the stench.

  “Pah, that should be buried or thrown in a creek and the cord wrapped in a soft cloth and hung in a tree orelse wrapped and buried in the ground. The life of the new papoose will be short if the old ways are so completely ignored.”

  “Mother, none of the whites follow those ways and some live a long while.”

  “Well, there must be something else they do. Do not let Suzanne cut the new one’s fingernails with anything metal. You bite them yourself, or I will, so his fingers will grow long and beautiful as his mother’s.”

  Suzanne called to Sacajawea. “I heard what you said. I know we do not do everything alike, but you will always be a mother to me. I will bite his fingernails. I bite my own, see!” Suzanne pulled Sacajawea down laughing and hugged her.

  “You also pick your nose,” teased Sacajawea.

  Suzanne sobered. “I have to tell you before I forget. Little Joe goes to school. One of the miner’s women has a school for the little children when she comes in for supplies. Her man has the trading post at Miner’s Delight and she gets the supplies from here about once a week. She spends part of the time talking and singing with the children. Little Joe goes each time, but Jack is too little to sit still that long. Before you leave promise me you’ll ask Little Joe what he learned. It is something you should hear.”

  Sacajawea nodded. She would try to remember. Little Joe was curled up on the floor asleep beside the papoose, who was still wrapped as tight as he had been before supper.

  Joe fixed her a corncob pipe with real tobacco. “It is better if the tobacco is pounded to shreds and mixed with crushed sumac leaves,” she told Joe with a twinkle in her eye. ‘There was a time when white men smoki
ng the brown-paper cigarettes irritated me. Maybe it was because I can almost remember the time when the People had little tobacco. Then I saw the Comanches trade for it with the Mexicans. They rolled cigarettes in leaves of catbrier vine because the Mexicans kept the paper for themselves. Now I’ve learned to enjoy a pipe in the evening. I think more things are changing than I would like to believe.”

  Joe smiled and puffed contentedly on his own pipe, and after a time said, “Buffalo are going. Beaver areabout gone—maybe all the coal will be dug out of the earth one day. People have to change. I will bet you that more people ride the iron horse by the time I am your age than ride regular horseback now.”

  She smiled and took his hand. “And they will all become stiff-legged from not using them. I do not want to live to see that.”

  Four days and a dozen cups of snowberry tea later it was decided Suzanne could take care of the new papoose and the others all right. Sacajawea dallied over the morning meal and asked Berry to bring in water for the dishwashing. She went out to the trash heap and poked around with a stick. Finally she found what was left of the placenta and cord. She pushed the dried, black mess onto a small square of hide, folded it up, and with the stick she dug a shallow hole in the ground by the northeast corner of the cabin. She put the package in the hole and she scraped the dirt over with her foot, tamping it firm. Just as she finished Little Joe slammed the back door. He was dragging a stiff buffalo hide along the ground and he motioned for Sacajawea to come sit on the crackling hide with him. He lay on his belly and reached out in the dirt to draw a wide ring. “I’m going to show you how to play white man’s marbles.” His marbles were rounded plum pits.

  “What did you bury by the house, Granma?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t anything. Just something the People did for long life years ago.”

  “Whose long life?”

  “Your new brother’s.”

  “Did you do something for mine?”

  “Ai—I did. If we go inside Berry will have the hot water ready. Help your old grandmother wash bowls and cups. I’ll tell you about a time before you were born.”