“Remember that first morning, when we met?” she asked. “You killed me a deer and we set out in the boat and I became rather impatient. I offered to put you ashore and proceed on my own, but you wouldn’t have it—then the Osage got after us and you saved me.”
Jim just nodded—of course he remembered. “If you’d just gone ashore as I wished, none of this would have happened,” she went on. “You’d have survived and I’d have been killed. Probably all of us would have been killed, and it would have served us right. We left our place—and a good place it was—for a place where we could not possibly belong. The Indians were right to try and kill us. We were just invaders—spoiled invaders.”
She paused—she knew she was just confusing Jim. And yet it was how she felt: better to have died than to have lived to bury her child.
Jim kept his mind on the route. Past times, such as Tasmin was talking about, didn’t interest him. He meant to kill several buffalo and have Cook and Little Onion jerk the meat. They might pass out of the buffalo range—they would need meat.
“I wish Kit was here,” he admitted. “Kit’s been a passel of places. He might even know something about Texas.”
Tasmin saw that he did not want to deal with the complexity of her regret, which was hers to suffer alone—yet she knew he grieved for Monty. As parent and child the two had got off to a slow start, but improvement had been rapid. Jim often took Monty up beside him on the mare—he had even tried to teach him one or two birdcalls—calls Jim himself didn’t do well.
Jim after all had the job of saving them. Why should he care about her moody recollections? And yet the fact that he didn’t made her feel lonely; she abruptly got up and walked away. She felt like giving up—what Vicky had done under the pretext of recovering her cello. Vicky could not stand what was—she had sought the cold, hoping it would all be over.
Tasmin stood at the edge of the camp for a long time—not particularly thinking, just being alone.
“I wish you’d go talk to Tassie,” Kate Berrybender said, to Father Geoff. “She might run away. Couldn’t you stop her? She likes you.”
Geoff got up and did what Kate asked. “Go away, Geoff—can’t you see I prefer to be alone?” Tasmin said at once, when he approached.
“Don’t leave—we all depend on you,” Geoff told her.
Tasmin looked at him so coldly that he turned and went away, fearing that he had failed in his mission.
Tasmin stood until her feet and fingers were numb with cold—the faraway stars were brilliant. Finally she went back to the wagon and made sure her children were covered up.
40
. . . an extremely irritating old fellow.
HIS NOSE IS TOO SMALL,” Greasy Lake told the Likeness Maker. “He’s proud of his nose—I think you better make it larger.”
George Catlin was both exasperated and frightened. He was attempting the portrait of a Comanche warrior named Flat Nose—the man had been kicked by a horse in his youth and was very flat-nosed indeed. But he himself was not a caricaturist—he did not like to exaggerate anatomical features and he also did not like to receive instruction from Greasy Lake, an extremely irritating old fellow. George had jumped at the chance to come out with the military to this great convening of Comanches and Kiowas on the southern plains, in an area of bumpy mountains, the prairies swarming with buffalo.
There was no real danger—he had Colonel Dodge’s troops to protect him. And yet there was always an element of the gamble, when doing portraits of Indians. George Catlin had done nearly four hundred such portraits—the risk that a savage sitter wouldn’t approve his own likeness was always there.
Still, he had come, and he was determined to paint—there might never again be such a gathering of tribes on the south plains. It was a golden, if a frightening, opportunity. He was, it was true, disappointed in Colonel Dodge, who had not brought nearly enough presents, and now, just as George Catlin was gaining the confidence of his subjects, the colonel seemed to want to leave. George had decided to take the dare and stay even without the troops. If anyone was to record the Comanches and the Kiowas in their undiminished splendor, it had to be himself and it had to be now.
He knew that he ought not to grumble about Greasy Lake—the fact that the tribes accepted him as a prophet made his own task possible. With Greasy Lake’s protection the tribes would likely not bother him, even if Colonel Dodge did leave. Toussaint Charbonneau, though much saddened by the death of his son, Pomp, had nonetheless been kind enough to travel to the Osage country, find Greasy Lake, and introduce him to George Catlin—the presence of Greasy Lake had been an immense help in enabling the Likeness Maker to secure his first sitters. The old prophet’s purpose in being on the plains had been to attempt to locate a white buffalo, a beast that was said to have been found by the Comanches two years earlier. The white buffalo was said to be as tame as a milk cow—the Comanches kept the animal in a cave and brought people to see him one or two at a time.
George was convinced that he had Flat Nose about right; he was convinced the sitter would like it. The great challenge, always, were the eyes. Flat Nose’s look was stony and suspicious—vanity had caused him to sit for the likeness, as other chiefs had sat—but like most of the native potentates, he was suspicious of the Likeness Maker. Early on George had learned never to do natives in profile—the Indian was apt to conclude that the Likeness Maker had stolen half his face. It was full face or nothing, when painting Indians.
Another small technical difficulty was that the Indians insisted on painting themselves elaborately before George was allowed to depict them; getting his colors to match their colors was very important—and no item of decoration might be neglected: he must get the bear claws right, the feathers right, the furs right. Sometimes a warrior might insist on being painted with his lance, from which might dangle two or three scalps—these grisly trophies must not be scanted. To omit even one scalp from the portrait would mean trouble.
Greasy Lake was a keen observer of George Catlin’s practice. He was not reluctant to offer advice, if he thought a portrait not bold enough. George Catlin seldom took his advice, it was true, and yet somehow, in most cases, the sitter liked the portrait and offered no violence to the painter.
In time Greasy Lake concluded that there had to be magic involved—magic and a kind of trickery. The painter managed to make the chiefs appear not so much as they were but as they liked to believe they were: noble, strong, brave, dignified. When he mentioned this aspect of the matter to Catlin, the painter laughed.
“It’s better than that—I’m anticipating,” George assured him. “I’m making them look like they will look, in a few years.”
When he studied the pictures closely and compared them to the living men, Greasy Lake saw that what the Likeness Maker said was true. He was skipping ahead, through time, to capture something that the sitters would become.
Then Greasy Lake had a troubling thought. What if the men died before they became the men caught in the pictures? The pictures would then be pictures of ghosts—a frightening thought, one that made Greasy Lake very uncomfortable. It might be that the ghost of the man might come back and inhabit the picture itself. The spirits of dead men might find their way into these likenesses.
In the case of Flat Nose, George had judged correctly. The moment when he showed a painting to its subject was rarely without tension. Almost all Indians were at first startled to see themselves on a piece of canvas. It was a grave thing, an important thing—many had to sit and settle their nerves while they considered the situation. When they were calm enough they took a long time studying the portrait. After all, a human being was complex—there were hands, hair, ears, feet, chin to examine. Were they accurately drawn? Would the image, if it was wrong, affect their bodies? The making of likenesses was a new thing. The tribal councils were divided about it. They were mainly against it—but in the end many of the young men and even some of the old men were unable to resist this opportunity to see exactly how th
ey looked.
Flat Nose sat with his portrait in his hands for many minutes. He brought his eyes very close to the canvas—he looked at every detail. When he was finished he nodded gravely and gave the Likeness Maker a dignified hug.
“See, I told you he’d like it,” George told Greasy Lake.
“Flat Nose doesn’t know how to look at a picture,” Greasy Lake replied. “But it’s just as well. If he had realized you made his nose too small he would have killed you.”
41
An old, half-blind Kiowa woman . . .
WHEN THE LIKENESS MAKER found out that Greasy Lake had traveled with the English party for a while he made himself a great pest, asking question after question about them. He wanted to know how many of them were still alive, and which direction they might be traveling. Greasy Lake knew they had been in Santa Fe for a while, and now, if Kit Carson was to be believed, were under escort and on their way to Mexico.
“I might need to go to Mexico myself,” George said. “At least, I intend to go to Texas. I hope you’ll come with me—I’d like to see a white buffalo too.”
The two of them had lingered near the Wichita Mountains for a few days, after the big convening. George found himself attracted to the low, humpy hills. He wanted to complete a few landscapes before moving on.
An old, half-blind Kiowa woman had been left behind by her people when the big gathering broke up. She had a small camp and a little food. Her name was Na-a-me. Greasy Lake did his best to make friends with her, but it was not easy. Na-a-me was bitter that her life was over. She did not want to be old and abandoned. She wanted to do life over again and she tolerated Greasy Lake because he claimed to be a powerful prophet. Perhaps he knew some way to help a person start life over again.
Greasy Lake had a motive of his own, when he tried to make friendly talk with the bitter Na-a-me. He suspected she knew where the white buffalo was—the beast he had been looking for for almost two years. The white buffalo had been born during a great shower of falling stars. Obviously the band that had captured the beast wanted to keep its whereabouts a secret. Greasy Lake was not even sure that the white buffalo was in a cave. That might be bad information, meant to throw searchers off. Many bands would like to have access to such a powerful beast. Many would seek to steal it, if they knew where it was. The band that had it was said to be small and poor—their best bet for keeping the buffalo would be to hide it. He had a suspicion old Na-a-me knew more than she was saying about the whereabouts of the important beast.
Old Na-a-me, however, was a tough customer. She said it was all a lie some Kickapoos made up. There never had been a white buffalo. Some Kickapoos had come on a white skin of some kind, that was all—perhaps it had belonged to a buffalo calf that had been eaten by wolves and coyotes. Some said it was a buffalo skin but others claimed it was only the skin of a goat. Old Na-a-me considered it a joke. She had lived amid buffalo all her life and had never seen a white one.
Then Greasy Lake became absolutely convinced that the old woman was lying. Probably the reason she was lying was because it was her own band that had the white buffalo.
“If you can make a picture of how a person will be, can you also make a picture of how a person used to be?” he asked the Likeness Maker. “Can you look at this old granny and draw her as she was when she was young?”
The possibility had not occurred to George Catlin—it had never crossed his mind to reverse his normal practice—that is, to show what a sitter had been like in earlier life. Of course, it should be possible. The fate of a face, like the fate of a man himself, was to change. From what was there, it should be possible to recover what had been there.
“Paint the old granny as she might have been when she had twenty summers,” Greasy Lake requested.
George squatted down and looked closely at the old woman—annoyed by the scrutiny, she glared at the white man. Why was he looking at her so?
“But she’s blind—she won’t be able to see my painting,” George said.
Greasy Lake had been watching the old woman closely and was not convinced that she was so blind.
“She just pretends to be blind so people will wait on her,” Greasy Lake concluded.
“Wait on her? They left her to die!” George pointed out. “Who do you think is going to wait on her?”
“I think she could see a picture if you painted one,” Greasy Lake insisted.
“Even if she doesn’t, it will be an interesting challenge,” George said. “I should have thought of it myself. Perhaps I can even make it a profitable sideline, when I get back home. The society matron as young belle! Why, my fortune will be made.”
At once he set to work, old Na-a-me glaring at him the whole time—she worked her gums and occasionally mouthed imprecations. George found the situation amusing; he wished Tasmin were with him to share the joke. He was trying to use his art to turn an old Kiowa grandmother into a young woman.
Despite the old woman’s irritation George took as much time with this portrait as he would have if he had been painting a mighty chief. When he finished he handed the picture to Greasy Lake, who studied it carefully before passing it on to old Na-ame. At first old Na-a-me was puzzled by what she was given. One of her eyes was gone but one was not quite so bad—peering at the picture, she decided the white man must be a powerful magician. From nothing he had made a picture of a Kiowa girl, such as her sisters and her cousins had been long ago. That the girl was meant to be herself, she did not grasp. Except for a rippling reflection in a stream now and then she had never seen herself as a girl. The Kiowa had no mirrors then—only lately had traders begun to bring them. The girl in the picture was only a girl to Na-a-me at first, and yet the white man had worked hard and brought it into being with his magic.
Then it occurred to her that the white man might be even more of a magician than she had supposed. Perhaps he was offering to make her into a girl again—young like the girl in his picture. Why would this strange magician want to do that?
After thinking about it for a few minutes Na-ame decided it was all about the white buffalo. The old prophet was trying to bribe her with the gift of youth, if she would only help him find the white buffalo. He wanted the power of the white buffalo so badly that he had gone to the trouble of finding a magician who was offering her what appeared to be a second life. Perhaps this time she would find better husbands than she had found the first time—but if not, she would at least get to live a great many more summers.
There was a problem, though: Na-a-me had no idea where the white buffalo was—nor was she even sure there was a white buffalo. But she had always been an accomplished liar, easily deceiving her husbands and her lovers when it pleased her to. It took no time at all for her to invent a big lie about the white buffalo.
“He’s in that big canyon over by the Rio Rojo,” she said.
“The Palo Duro, she means,” George said. “That’s not far from here.”
Greasy Lake was wary. He wanted Na-a-me to be more specific.
“If the buffalo is there, where do they hide it?” he asked.
“To the west, near the sunset,” Na-a-me told him glibly. She didn’t like the prophet. He reminded her of her husband Peta, who was always asking questions, hoping to expose her lies. Greasy Lake was the same kind of man. He wanted to pick her story apart, but Na-a-me didn’t let him. The buffalo was at the west end of the big canyon. That was all she intended to say. The prophet wanted to know if the white buffalo was well guarded, but Na-a-me refused to elaborate. She considered that she had told them a perfect lie.
That night Na-a-me slept little. She was waiting to feel herself become young again.
Bitter was her disappointment to wake up to find herself still old. The white man and the prophet were leaving. She had seen the picture. Why wasn’t she young?
Then it became clear to her. The white man was a clever trickster, but not clever enough to make old people young. He had tricked her into telling them about the white buffalo. Th
en she remembered that she had lied too. She had no idea where a white buffalo lived. The lies, she saw, had canceled one another out. She would just die, as the People had intended she die. There would be no second life, a realization that made Na-a-me bitter. She cursed and cursed, working her mouth in anger. The white man had left her some food, some matches, some tobacco. What he hadn’t left her was a second life.
42
It was easy enough for Charlie to prance around . . .
CHARLIE WILL THINK we’re lazy if we give up and go back this soon,” Willy Bent argued. “I expect he’ll dock your wages.”
Kit began to boil at the thought of such an injustice.
“If he tries to dock my wages I’ll give him a lickin’ he’ll never forget,” Kit said. “And if he tries to dock yours I suggest you do the same.”
“He can’t dock my wages,” Willy pointed out. “I’m his partner. I own as much of the company as he does.”
“Then you could dock my wages yourself—just try it if you want a lickin’,” Kit told him, still indignant. The high-handedness of the Bents frequently put him in an angry state.
“You deserve to have yours docked,” Willy observed. “You’re the one who got us lost.”
“I ain’t lost,” Kit protested. “Why are you standing there telling lies?”
“If you don’t know which river this is, then we’re lost,” Willy insisted. “You’re the one who wanted to follow it.”
The day before they had dropped off a high escarpment into broken country of gullies and washes and salt cedar thickets. They had chosen the rough country because of the abundance of Indian sign on the plains. In the gullies and washes there were places to hide. Charlie Bent had sent them on a scouting trip to the country below the Canadian River, country that was controlled by the Comanches and the Kiowas. Charlie saw it as a major immigration route and was determined to put a trading post somewhere in it. Kit and Willy’s job was to look for likely sites, and they had found several; but the likeliest site in the country didn’t eliminate the real problem with such a venture: the real problem, still, were the Indians.
The Berrybender Narratives Page 102
