by Karen Kay
Chapter Five
These ranges (Indian reservation lands) are needed for our cattle and they are of no use in the world to the Indians.
—The Helena Herald in the 1880s
She watched as his survey of her changed, watched as the flames from his eyes became something softer, watched as it appeared as though he might relent. But still he remained impassive. After a moment, however, he seemed to come to some decision, and he sighed. His voice was still a little harsh as he said, “You will not like what I have to say and you will probably call me a liar.”
She gulped. “I promise I will try to be as fair-minded as possible, if you will only give me a chance. Please talk to me.”
He shrugged off her hold and said, “I cannot.”
“Please. Please, won’t you?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Good manners forbid me from doing that.”
“It would be ill-mannered if you didn’t. Please. I beg you.”
His lips thinned into a line as a frown settled over his features. He said, “All right. If I do this, however, if I tell you true what is happening here, you cannot come back to me and say that I didn’t warn you. Do you promise?”
“I do.” She smiled at him, hoping it would give him encouragement.
But if he noticed, he ignored it. He said, “You have freedom.”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“Because of your white skin, you can come and go on the reservation.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you think I can? That any Indian can?”
“Can’t you?”
He didn’t answer. “Am I free to live my life as my people have always lived it, close to the land? Am I free to hunt? To bring in meat for my family?”
“Aren’t you?”
“This treaty land that you speak of, did you know that if the Indian does not use this land as the whites see fit, these whites—the ranchers who surround us—claim that we Indians are inept and incapable? Did you know that they scream how ignorant we are until they are heard in the land far away—in Washington?”
“No, I—”
“And who does the white government protect? We Indians, who are ‘wards’ of the government? Who have rights by treaty?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Or does the government protect the wealthy ranchers who see in Indian land more wealth for themselves?”
Kali didn’t answer.
And he continued, “The truth is, the government protects the whites. Oh, yes, we have an Indian agent. But his best friends are ranchers, who want more, always more land, and where do they get that land?”
“Surely not—”
“And so other treaties are made with us, these giving the Indian fewer and fewer rights. More land is taken. But never is it enough for the white man’s thirst. No, the more land we give these ranchers, the more land they want.”
“But I don’t understand. You can’t be talking about the reservation land which was ceded to you by treaty.”
He didn’t say a word.
“Could you show me these new treaties?”
“I do not have these papers. The agent keeps these things for us—to ‘protect’ us.”
“I will have to see it,” she said. “I find this rather hard to believe.”
He grunted and looked away from her. Casually he shrugged. “That is easy to understand. You are what you are. Certainly you are not Blackfeet.”
He made the fact sound like an insult. “And not being Blackfeet makes me…”
“Not Blackfeet.” He grinned.
“Yes? And…”
“Always when outsiders come, they take. So it has been from our first meetings. A very old, wise man of our tribe once said that when the whites come, they will first want your trade, then your women and next your land. Soon, he said, they will want what no man should have to give: the very spirit of your people. The first three are done.”
The implication was obvious. Still, Kali hesitated, until finally she mustered up the nerve to ask, “Are you thinking that by my being here, I am trying to take away your spirit?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No,” Kali said, backing away from him.
He stared at her. “Perhaps these words are too harsh for you, but I think, if you are having a problem instilling trust for your cause amongst my people, this is the reason.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” His glance was doubtful.
“I think,” said Kali, not answering the question, “that if you were to be honest, you might see that this old, wise man could have been a little prejudiced himself.”
“And yet,” he replied, “those things he predicted have come to pass.”
“I am not speaking of that.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“My father and I have visited many, many native peoples of the world,” she said, “and if there is one thing I have learned, it is that one should never generalize about an entire people. A society is made up first of individuals; some strong, some brilliant, some weak, but individuals—all different. In fact, in all the world, there are no two people alike. Yet this man, though I do not doubt he was wise, would generalize and tell you that because of the color of my skin, I feel and have viewpoints in me that, until this moment, I never even realized existed?”
He gave her a questioning look. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“You say that I should look at this thing with eyes that can see both ways. Perhaps you should do this yourself, for if you did, you might find it easier to comprehend my words.”
He stood back from her, crossing his arms carefully over his chest. “Perhaps you can tell me why you are here, then, so I might understand it better.”
“I already have.”
He gave her a smile, amazingly laced with tolerance, before speaking. “Humor me,” he said.
She sighed. “All right. My father and I are here to record your tribe’s history. We are not here to judge you, take your land or imprison you on your reservation. We were hoping to be invited to some of your ceremonies so that we could record these for future generations. That’s all.”
He paused. “Did you know that my people believe that if an image is drawn of them, or if a picture is taken, you are carrying away a part of their spirit?”
“I…no, I didn’t.”
“Do you know that legend has it that those who allowed their pictures to be painted in the past died within a matter of a few months?”
“No, but I can show you—”
He held up his hand, saying, “It doesn’t matter.” Again, he spun around as though he might leave, but once more, he was too slow in doing so.
“It does matter.” She moved around him quickly, coming face-to-face with him. “I can’t explain why those people died. I’m sorry, but I can conjecture that perhaps they did so because they believed that they would. Let me assure you that in the white world, hundreds of pictures are taken daily. None of those people died shortly thereafter. Why is that?”
“I do not know, except maybe the white man’s medicine is different than the Indian’s.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, “but if that is true, then your people have nothing to worry about, for I am white and, by the same logic, my ‘medicine’ would protect my subjects.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point? That you wish to stop me simply because of the color of my skin?”
He glowered at her.
“I can’t help who I am,” she went on to say. “Listen, please, you must see that the white world is here to stay. There is no escaping it, and only by understanding and tolerance will your people be able to live well in it or next to it. But understanding and tolerance do not come easily. It’s something you have to work at. One has to educate, one has to communicate, one has to show what it is that should be understood. That is where my father and I can do you a service.”
He didn’t speak, altho
ugh contrarily, he didn’t seem in any urgent hurry to leave either.
She continued, “Just as you would like the whites around you to accept and respect your way of life, so too should you be willing to let the white man live as he sees fit.”
“Never!”
“Otherwise,” she went on, as though he hadn’t spoken, “you are as guilty of doing that which you protest against. Personally, I can’t see how this makes you any better than what the white man is. In fact, it’s like admitting defeat, isn’t it? You’ve become him.”
Kali studied Soaring Eagle’s expression closely, trying to determine what possible effect these words were having on him, if any. But when he remained silent, she continued, “Understanding can’t occur unless both your people and the white people know each other a little better. These pictures I’m hoping to produce will be an attempt to tell your side of the story, to relate your legends, your way of looking at life. Only a person who had something to hide would be unwilling to share this kind of communication. Only a person who didn’t want the conflict resolved would push for strife rather than understanding.”
Silence. Deadly, horrible silence followed these words. And it was perhaps a full minute before he said, “You speak well.”
“I know my subject well.”
“And yet you do not know what the conflict is that is going on here.”
“But I would like to learn. I would like to help.”
“Would you? That is hard for me to believe.”
“Why is that so hard?” asked Kali.
“You do not wish to know.”
“I don’t? I don’t think I would have asked if I didn’t, nor would I be here if I didn’t want to—”
“Enough! I will not talk to you about this anymore. I should not have spoken to you in the first place.”
“Why not?”
“Because we are throwing harsh words at one another, yet we hardly know each other.” He paused as though to catch his breath. “In the past, this sort of talk from a woman would not have been tolerated.”
“True, but also in the past a woman like me would not have been easily suffered.”
He grinned, and unfortunately for her composure, it was a beautiful thing to behold.
“Perhaps not,” he said, “although a woman who had something to say was always heard in the past, was never interrupted and was never refuted. Plus, her advice was always considered before decisions were made.”
“If that is true,” she said, “then we should talk about this more, not less. We should speak to one another about this until we understand each other. At least if we talk, we have a chance to settle our differences. But if we don’t… Please tell me what is really happening in this territory.”
Stepping away from her, he came to lean against the veranda’s railing, his gaze catching on to hers. He said, “It might be hard for you to grasp.”
“Fine,” she said. “Try me.”
He slanted her a frown, yet for all that, he went on. “Very well.” He turned around, presenting her with his back and leaning his elbows against the railing. He began, “It started long ago, more than a hundred years back. At that time, there were few white people who came to our country. As time went on, more and more people came here. They have been religious people, traders, government men, agents. All these people have been white; all have told us they have our own ‘good’ in mind and that they wish to help. So it was with the first traders, then with the missionaries, and now with the Indian agents. My people have rarely been bettered. Instead, we see our land broken up into pieces, our way of life destroyed, our families scattered, our lives ruined. Many of my people are starving, yet you have seen the grandness with which the Indian agent eats. Several years ago, the government parceled up our land, making my people live on smaller and smaller tracts which are too small to farm or raise cattle, even if the red man wished to walk in the white man’s shadow. Yet even with these small tracts, if the Indian does not use his land as the whites believe is right, this becomes good enough reason to grab it.”
“But surely—”
Looking over his shoulder, he held up a hand, silencing her. “You look to the written records before you tell me how this is not true. You see for yourself, then we will talk more about it. If I am wrong, then maybe you can show me the error of my thinking.”
Kali inhaled deeply. “All right. I will do this.”
He nodded.
“But…”
He quirked an eyebrow.
“But is it necessary to hate me in the meantime?”
He shrugged, turning around so that he faced her. “Hate is a strong word. Have I not already said that I don’t dislike you too much?”
“Yes, but—”
“I do not give my trust easily. For the Indian of today, it is a matter of survival.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Then let me explain. We learned many years ago that when a white man speaks on something that has to do with his own interest, he is usually lying. I admit this is not a good state of affairs, or a good frame of mind to be in. But thus far, for good or for bad, we have only failed when we did not keep this in mind; when we trusted the white man blindly.”
Kali paused. What he said held a note of truth. Nevertheless, putting people into particular categories simply by the tint of their skin seemed hardly fair either. And so she found herself countering, “Then an Indian never lies, I suppose?”
“No, that’s not true, although in the past,” he said, “the days of my grandfathers, a man did not lie and live well. If a man was caught in a fib, he was berated by the women and never trusted again, ever. But the old ways are dying. More and more of my people are following the example set by our conquerors. And even those of my people who are still truthful have become careful, saying only what they think should be heard—and of course, in all societies there are those of weak spirit, who deal not in truth but in lies as a matter of course.”
“Then you admit there are differences person to person, even in a race of people?”
“Aa,” he said. “You spoke true. We are not all alike.”
“Which was the only point I was making.”
“Was it? I thought you also wished to take pictures of my people.”
“I do.”
“And if you take these pictures, what will you do with them?”
Kali felt herself relax. On this subject, she was on familiar ground. She said, “My father and I will make them into a book, which will be sold back East.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then this is how you and your father make your living in the white man’s world?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is your wish to make money off us Indians.”
Kali shrugged. “Yes,” she said. “In a way. But in a way, not.”
“And how will we Indians profit by your pictures?”
“By bringing more understanding of you and your people’s plight to the world. After all, if the native people of America were better understood, you would be able to enlist more aid to your cause.”
He raised an eyebrow, his glance at her hard-hitting. “You are a wise woman,” he said, “yet I don’t think you are wise enough. You tell me that you wish to take our pictures, tell our stories, relate our adventures, yet you do not offer the Indian anything in compensation, though these adventures are rightfully ours.”
“I hadn’t thought about it. It’s not something that has ever been brought up to us before.”
“Always,” he said, “the white man has explanations.”
Kali shook her head and pulled a face. “That’s too bad, really.”
“Too bad?”
“You are a very prejudiced man.”
“I am a realistic man.”
“All right, then. I suppose you are too realistic to take a dare, then, as well?”
“A dare?”
“Yes. I must admit that I have come into this project blind. I should have learned more
about the situation and what was confronting the people I wished to contact—before I arrived. However, I didn’t. Be that as it may, I am prepared to parlay with you.”
“Parlay? In what way?”
“Tonight I was besieged with bigotry not only from you but from the agent’s wife, Mrs. Black. It leads me to believe that there is something going on here that needs investigation. Therefore, I am prepared to make a bargain with you.”
“Humph.”
“Here it is. I will acquaint you with what I do so that you can more fully understand why I am here. You, for your part, will show me what is going on between you and the ranchers who share this land with you. Then we will examine the facts and make our own judgments. If I am right, and my pictures do not do harm, you will do all you can to help introduce me to your chiefs and your people, perhaps talk them around to meeting me and letting me take their pictures. If, on the other hand, you convince me that I am hurting people by doing this, I will leave.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand.
“You will, for your part, show me what is happening on your reservation. If you are right, and the white ranchers are trying to push you out, I will do all I can to help you fight this. If, however, you are wrong and the ranchers have just cause to do as they are, you will do all you can to convince your people to help them.”
“I will never help the white ranchers. And I will not put myself into a position where I might ever have to do so. No, I don’t think I will bet with you.”
“I see,” she said, biting down on her lip. “You’re afraid.”
He frowned at her. “Only at the prospect of being hoodwinked by a small redheaded woman.” He softened the words with a grin. Then, after a moment, “Who would decide if the white ranchers have ‘just cause’?”
“Why, both you and I, of course.”
“And you will listen to me?”
“I will listen to you.”
“And if we don’t agree?”
“We will examine only the facts and keep examining them until we do agree,” she said. “In truth, I would be willing to bet that you have simply misunderstood the actions of those who live around you. If it’s not a case of simple misunderstanding, then—”
