So Wild a Dream

by Win Blevins

  Sam remembered the giddy exhilaration of the chase, the blinding moment of the kill, the sadness of life turned into emptiness. “Damn right,” he concluded, “It shines.”

  That night the fur-man camps were full of meat and feasting. Tongue, roasted under coals. Hump ribs, spitted above flames. Gideon and other Frenchies took sections of gut, turned them inside out, stuffed them with chopped meat and herbs, and roasted them like gigantic sausages. Gideon offered Sam a slice. “Wonderful,” he exclaimed, though he could hardly believe it.

  “Boudins,” said Gideon.

  Every man ate all he wanted, and hugely overate. They’d been hungry sometimes on the long ride from the Missouri, and knew to eat big when they could.

  The Crows, though, didn’t eat big. Half of them, it seemed like, stayed out all night with the fresh meat. “Keeping the wolves and coyotes off,” someone said.

  “How many buffalo do you think we killed altogether?” Sam asked.

  The big man considered. “The Crow hunters near us, maybe twenty of them, they kill I see kill thirty or forty. So … way up in the hundreds?”

  Incredible.

  The next day the village was a hubbub of meat-making. The women cut the buffalo meat into long, slender strips and laid the strips on racks of cottonwood branches head high, so the dogs couldn’t get it. They built low, smoky fires beneath the racks.

  Sam walked around camp, gawking. This was meat for the whole winter, at least. “How will they save it?” Sam asked Gideon and Clyman.

  “Those strips,” Gideon said, “they make charqui.”

  “Jerked meat,” Clyman pronounced it.

  “Much of the charqui, they make pemmican. Permit me to show.”

  In a few minutes they found a woman willing to trade a hide sack of pemmican for some vermilion. Gideon pulled back the edges of the sack and sliced some off. It looked like fine-shredded meat mixed with fat.

  “They pound the meat fine against a stone. Pour on fat so hot is liquid. Stuff.” He made a motion of putting the meat into the casing. “Sew up sack.”

  Sam pointed to something else in the mixture. “What are those?”

  “Wild cherries,” Gideon said. “Best pemmican, it have berries. Try.”

  It tasted … not bad.

  “You can roast, fry, put in stew, whatever you like. Last forever. The women of my people, they make the best pemmican, trade it to Northwest Company for good, good price.”

  Soon Cut-Eye brought Sam a deer hide full of jerked meat and pemmican. When he thought how much work she did, and how little he did, it seemed like a bargain.

  All that meat-making used up the local firewood, so everyone moved camp again, farther down Wind River. Some of the mountain men built brush shelters. Several, looking down their noses at the shelters, put together rough lean-tos or cabins. Gideon and Sam were considering when Edward Rose said, “Why not trade for a lodge cover? Make a tipi. It’s better.”

  “Good idea,” said Sam. “Why don’t you come in with us?” Privately, Sam was thinking he could learn the Crow language from Rose.

  Rose and Gideon looked at him in mild surprise. “I have a woman,” said Rose, “in the village.” Meaning he was housed for the winter. Everyone had noticed the Crows treated Rose like a hero, and trusted his word.

  “Where can we get one?”

  Rose gave Sam a sly smile. “I think Needle would trade you one.”

  “Needle?”

  “The woman with the cut eye.” Rose indicated the cut with a finger.

  “Oh, yeah.” Which meant he’d get to see Girl Walking on Sky some more.

  Except that her name, it turned out, was Meadowlark. Her sister was named Turnip. They had two older brothers who weren’t home at the moment, Rose said.

  Through Rose, Sam and Gideon struck a deal for a small lodge cover for a kettle, some beads, tobacco, and vermilion. Sam noticed Gideon carried the vermilion in his shot pouch. As they walked away with the cover, he asked why. “Willing women,” Gideon said with a sly smile. “I keep it handy.”

  Sam shook his head.

  “Why you not like?” Gideon asked pointedly.

  “What kind of woman would sell herself for a little color to put on her part?”

  “They don’t sell themselves,” Rose said. “Crow women love to fornicate. A gift or two, such is a natural part of courting.” Gideon gave Sam a wink.

  The cover was old buffalo robes, hair scraped off and stitched together. Rose went with them to cut poles for the lodge, saplings of lodgepole pine. When it came time to rig it, though, he begged off. “Women’s work. They’d lose respect for me.”

  So Gideon set to rigging it.

  That was when Needle and her daughters turned up, merriment in their eyes. Sam tried to do what Gideon said while watching Meadowlark from a corner of his eye. They tied three poles together and raised them into a tripod. They fit other poles into the crotches. Gideon stomped around a bit, trying to remember how it went. “Among the Blackfeet my squaw, she done this,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you’d been married.”

  “Country wife and city wife,” said Gideon.

  Sam decided not to ask.

  They raised the lodge cover into place, tied onto the end of a pole, and stretched it around the framework. Staking it down, they felt quite proud of themselves until they saw how it sagged in big folds.

  The Crow women were giggling. Sam looked toward them, unable to think of even the simplest of his few words of Crow. Please, he signed. Meadowlark wouldn’t look at him, but Needle came forward brassily, and both daughters followed their mother. They took the cover down, rearranged the poles, put up the cover so it was taut, tied the whole rig down to the earth, fixed the ear flaps and showed Sam how to adjust them, and dug a center fire. Sam took in everything with hungry eyes.

  Then the women laughed and ran off.

  From a distance Jedediah said, “It looks good.”

  Sam hadn’t realized the captain, Fitzpatrick, and Sublette were watching. He grinned at them and used an expression he’d heard from Gideon. “When in Rome …”

  “I wouldn’t push that one too far,” Jedediah answered. “Let’s get a fire going.”

  They built an inside fire and an outside fire and soon were eating warmed-up buffalo stew inside.

  Other mountain men checked out their tipi. Most said nothing. A couple sniffed like they didn’t approve. Tom Eddie mumbled, “Going native.”

  Gideon didn’t let that one pass. “My people, they always been native,” he said in a cadence that mocked Eddie. This was in fact true only of his mother’s people.

  “That’s why I’ll never be sure about you,” said Eddie.

  Micajah grinned and said he didn’t see the point in a tipi without a woman. “Plenty of room,” he said. “Get two women.”

  “Ten,” replied Gideon, taking Sam off the spot. “One a night.”

  Sam and Micajah laughed, but Sam’s laugh wasn’t easy.

  Over the next few weeks Sam learned what a winter camp was like. Three mountain man camps, separate. Circle after circle of tipis. No trapping in the winter. Occasional hunting, on fine days, but on the flat, not in the mountains, where the snow got deep.

  Games of every kind. With whites and Indians together, shooting rifles and pistols, shooting bows and arrows; throwing spears, throwing tomahawks; foot races and horse races; tobogganing on lashed buffalo ribs; kicking the ball games, dart-throwing games. Among the whites, endless card games.

  Also making things. The Crow men, expert in their craft, made weapons. The women made clothing and domestic articles—buffalo robes for blankets and for trade, spoons, ladles, dolls, needles of bone, thread of sinew, hide suitcases, and much, much more. The mountain men studied these crafts from the Crows—the utility items, the weapons, everything. Doing it, though, they felt like fools while they bumbled along, and most decided to trade a few beads for something instead of making it themselves. Some whites said stubbornly that
studying on Indian crafts was foolishness, aping the backward methods of a savage people.

  Sam pressed himself to learn. He felt sure that knowing was better than not knowing, and that applied to almost anything. Still, he felt uncomfortable with the teasing of his comrades, and sometimes wondered if he was disloyal to his own race.

  On Christmas Eve—Captain Smith kept a careful journal and told them when Christmas and New Year’s came—the brigade captains broke out kegs of whiskey to celebrate. Sam drank one cup and traded off the rest of his allotment. The brew was raw alcohol mixed with creek water, tobacco, and spices each captain believed in, good to give the mind a whirl, but to Sam acid on the tongue.

  Micajah announced that the occasion was enough for him to break his rule against liquor. “Hell,” he said, “I don’t have to worry out here. A coon cain’t be a bad drunk when there ain’t hardly any whiskey nohow.” Sam went back to his lodge, nervous. He sat in front in the sunshine and used his mold to make fifty-caliber balls for his rifle and pistol.

  At midday a big crowd assembled in the Missouri Fur camp, with some shooting and lots of cheering. Sam went to see. Micajah and a buddy from the Missouri Fur camp, Iz, had drawn the crowd. Iz, a short, skinny Kentuck with a body like a knotty tree, stood legs astraddle facing Micajah, a queer grin on his face. Also, Sam saw now, a tin cup on his head.

  Micajah leveled his rifle, steadied, and blew out a cloud of black smoke and a huge BLAM!

  Also blew the tin cup off of Iz’s head.

  The queer grin turned to a big laugh. The men rushed forward and embraced each other.

  Sidling up to Sam, Gideon said, “They started out filling the cups with whiskey. Now it’s water.”

  The two grabbed their jug, took big swigs, and lined up again. This time the tin cup was on Micajah’s huge head.

  BLAM! Iz barely even came to steady, but the shot was dead-eye—the cup sailed clear into the crowd. The watchers erupted in cheers, Crows as well as mountain men. That fellow was a marksman.

  Again the ceremonial swig of whiskey.

  They lined up. Here came the queer grin. Sam thought he’d be nervous too, damn nervous.

  Smith, Fitzpatrick, and Sublette joined Sam and Gideon.

  As the shooters walked back to their places, Sam said, “Where’s this going to end?”

  “Not until one of them decides he’s too drunk to shoot,” said Gideon.

  Diah answered, “We know when that will be.”

  “Want to make stop?” said Gideon.

  Smith nodded.

  Gideon strode straight through the cleared spot toward Micajah. When he got close, they made an impressive brace, probably the two biggest men in camp, though Micajah was bulkier. “Whoo-oop!” said Gideon. “Look at me!” He posed in front of Micajah. “I am the old, original ball of flame from Red River, with the roar of a lion and the meanness of a wolverine! Take a look! They call me Sudden Death, though I prefer to be known as Hell Beast of the North! I was sired by a hurricane, dam’d by an earthquake, half-brother to the cholera, and related to the smallpox on the mother’s side! Micajah, lay low and hold your breath, for I am about to turn myself a-loose!”

  Micajah set down his rifle, and his eyes gleamed. “Sich big words.” Even in the winter cold, he stripped off his coat and shirt, laid his pistol, knife, and shot pouch on them, and began to bounce up and down on his feet. He wavered a little, and Sam could see he was tipsy.

  Suddenly Diah Smith stepped between them. “None of this fighting until one quits.” He looked back and forth between them. “How about falls?”

  “That’s chicken droppings,” said Micajah.

  “Mon ami, he is try protect you.” Gideon’s grin was something to behold.

  “Chicken droppings.”

  “Falls!” yelled Fitzpatrick and Sublette from the back of the crowd.

  “Falls!” echoed Sam.

  “Falls then,” said Diah loudly to the circle of watchers. “Best of three falls. Any way you can get the other man down.” He turned back to the combatants. “Any way at all. I’ll call it.”

  “Who will bet?” called Gideon to the crowd. “Who will bet against me?” He circled and called in a singsong voice, “I am bet this knife.” He pulled his butcher knife out of his belt and held it high. With Rose translating, he bet the knife against two pairs of beaded moccasins, then made bets for tins of vermilion, and put up one of his two pistols for robes to use as blankets.

  “I bet you pistol against pistol,” Micajah called in a taunting tone. Pistol came out pishtol—Micajah was drunk.

  Gideon turned and eyed him hard. Suddenly he smiled, shrugged, and said, “Sure,” as though it was no moment to him.

  “Rifle against rifle,” Micajah went on.

  But Gideon turned his back to make a bet with a comely woman.

  “You wanna fight or flirt?” growled Micajah.

  Gideon smiled at the woman and answered, “I prefer flirt.” But he turned to Micajah, stripped off his shirt and gear, and walked toward the other big man.

  Micajah charged, head angled for a butt.

  With amazing agility Gideon dived into Micajah’s legs. Micajah went topsy-turvy through the air and landed on his back. Gideon rolled and came up on his feet.

  The crowd roared.

  Micajah lay flat on his back, heaving for air.

  “One,” said Gideon.

  “Fall against Micajah,” said the captain coolly.

  When Micajah got his breath, he asked Diah, “Didn’t he go down too?”

  “You didn’t knock him down,” said the captain. “On with it.”

  Sam loved it. It was like watching a buffalo bull fight a mountain lion.

  This time Micajah approached slowly in a crouch, arms out. Gideon just stood at the ready. From six or eight feet Micajah lunged.

  Gideon dodged, but Micajah somehow changed direction. He caught one calf in a huge paw. From his knees he seized the foot and twisted it hard. Gideon hollered, spun to keep the ankle from breaking, and flopped on his face.

  Micajah jumped up, snorting.

  “Fall against Gideon,” said Diah.

  Gideon eased to his feet and limped around on the twisted ankle.

  Suddenly Micajah walked forward with a broad smile. “I think I messed up your ankle. Didn’t mean to,” he said. “Let’s call it off.” He stuck out his paw for a shake.

  Gideon reached for it, and as the fingers of the hands neared, Micajah grabbed for his upper arm.

  Gideon was ready—he spun fast all the way around and sprang onto Micajah’s back. Micajah stumbled forward. Gideon tried to trip him. Both men flailed. Micajah bucked like a wild horse, but Gideon stayed on. Finally Micajah tried to throw himself over backward. Gideon jumped clear and dragged Micajah onto his back.

  “Fall and match to Gideon,” cried Diah. Most of the Kentucks cheered. The Crow women mouthed their high trills.

  Gideon went straight to Micajah’s gear and took the pistol. When he held it up toward Micajah, who was getting up, Micajah looked like he was about to boil. “That was your bet,” said Diah.

  Gideon walked up to Micajah holding the pistol out in both hands. “I was very lucky,” he said. “You had too much to drink. I can no take advantage.”

  Micajah hesitated. He fumed. He thought. Finally, he said, “Naw, you won her fair and square. But I tell you what. Tomorrow we compete shooting and I’ll get her back.”

  Gideon looked delighted. “Good. Tomorrow. Good.”

  Sam knew there was no way Gideon would win that contest.

  Gideon came up to him. “Collect the winnings, will you? One buffalo robe is yours to sleep on.”

  “Good idea to go easy with Micajah.”

  “Idea more than good. He’s as strong as he look and much more quick. Unless his head is full of liquor, I can no whip him. Make friend, not enemy.”

  With that he stepped over to the comely woman, the last he’d bet with. She was smiling lustily. “Sam, I collect from t
his one in person. Don’t come back to the lodge for maybe one hour, hmmm?”

  Above all, winter was a time for telling stories.

  One morning Edward Rose came to Sam and Gideon’s lodge with an invitation. Would Sam and Gideon like to have supper tonight with him, his woman, and the Gray Hawk family? The family of Needle and her daughters, Rose explained.

  They accepted eagerly. Sam wondered if Rose knew he had eyes for Meadowlark.

  Good. They would eat and then Gray Hawk would tell a story. The Crows loved stories, and Gray Hawk was a well-known raconteur.

  The supper, unfortunately, couldn’t have been more chaste, without even a chance to flirt. Rose, Sam, and Gideon sat by the center fire with Gray Hawk and his older sons, Blue Medicine Horse and Flat Dog. Magpie, Rose’s woman, sat in back with the girl Sam wanted to see, her mother Needle, her sister Turnip, their little brother, and Magpie’s children. Sam never even caught her eye.

  The conversation drove Sam crazy. Rose spoke Crow with Gray Hawk and Blue Medicine Horse, and signed most of what the two Crows said to Sam and Gideon. But, beyond pleasantries, they spoke only to Rose. Sam just sat there wondering what the hell was going on. Maybe he should put himself to school in the Crow tongue.

  Finally Rose invited Gray Hawk to tell a story.

  “Winter is the time for people to tell stories,” Gray Hawk agreed, “after the first frost and until thunder is heard in the mountains. And they should be told at night. This is because the morning star comes only in the winter, and the stars come out at night.” But then the invited speaker turned the invitation back. “First, why don’t you tell us a story? We hear you are very funny.”

  Apparently this was what Rose was waiting for.

  “When I was a very young man,” he began, speaking first in Crow and then in English. He looked around at his audience Several Crows piped up—“E!” Later Sam figured out this meant, “Go on, go on.”

  “When I was a very young man, I went on the mountain.” He explained to Sam and Gideon that this was a way of saying, ‘I sought a vision to guide my life.’

  “I didn’t prepare properly, though. I didn’t ask the guidance of a medicine man or other older man, I just went.”