So Wild a Dream

by Win Blevins

  After dinner they lounged on the great bluffs, Coy curled up on Sam’s lap. Hannibal got out his pipe, and offered Sam some tobacco. Sam lit his white clay pipe for the first time in months. He could hardly believe the brittle thing had survived all his adventures. Smoking felt good.

  When he’d finished a pipe and refilled his bowl, Sam decided that what he wanted to tell Hannibal about was the prairie fire, and the buffalo.

  At Sam’s description of the fire itself, its maniacal raging, Hannibal said, “I’ve seen them. Never from downwind, though. Hardly anyone who saw one from downwind lived to tell about it. You were lucky, and you were good.”

  “Yeah. And Coy led me.”

  Hannibal raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Coy led me into the buffalo belly. I wouldn’t have thought of it.”

  Hannibal nodded and smiled with satisfaction. “I guess you owe him a lot of helpings of meat then.”

  After a moment, Sam asked, “What starts prairie fires?”

  “No one knows. Probably lightning. Might be Indian people, though. They burn grasslands off from time to time. Believe it renews them. You know the story of the phoenix?”

  “No.”

  “The Egyptians, you remember them from the story of Pharaoh and Moses?”

  Sam nodded.

  “The Egyptians believed in a bird called the phoenix, big as an eagle, all scarlet and gold. It had a song so beautiful no one who heard it could ever forget it. Only one of these birds could ever live at any one time, and they lived a thousand years. When time came for it to die, the old phoenix flew to the temple of Re, god of the sun. There it sought out the altar, and burned itself to death on the altar fire. From its ashes the new phoenix arose.”

  Sam nodded.

  “Kind of like you, one man went to the buffalo altar, another came away.”

  “Yeah.” Sam thought a minute. “I want to learn to read.”

  “Good idea.”

  “You read a lot.”

  “I told you, my father was a classics scholar. I read English, Latin, and Greek.”

  “What’s it good for?”

  “When you can’t drop off, you recite verses until you bore yourself to sleep.”

  “What else?”

  “You can insult people and they don’t know it.”

  Sam looked at him quizzically.

  “Copro cephaly,” quoted Hannibal.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Someone’s got shit where their brains should be.”

  Sam chuckled. Then, “Is it good for anything really?”

  “It is. Lets you hold things up and look at them from different angles. Even lets you see you’re like a myth, a man that went into the belly of a whale, or a buffalo, and rose from the dead.”

  Sam pondered. “I feel like a buffalo sometimes.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I need to tell you about my dream of being a buffalo.”

  “All right.”

  “But after I sleep.”

  “It’s a clear night,” he told Hannibal. “I’m going to sleep outside.” He was worried about Coy’s reception anywhere inside.

  “Me too.” They found a place by a cedar, under the stars but on the fort grounds.

  Sam got to sleep in blankets. Half a dozen men offered him covers. They felt good, like luxury.

  “You didn’t say how you happen to be at Fort Atkinson,” Sam said.

  These were the first words of the morning. They’d both been awake for a few minutes, watching the morning sky.

  Hannibal yawned, then grinned. “I was waiting for you.”

  Sam gave him a disgusted look.

  Hannibal corrected himself. “I make some money trading to the river tribes. About half the year. The rest of the time I do whatever I feel like, including go see my parents.”

  “What do you like?”

  “Seeing people. Lending a hand where needed.”

  “You trade alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “That sounds dangerous.”

  “People along the river know me. Red and white.”

  Coy stirred, shook himself, and came to lick Sam’s face. Sam felt a little embarrassed about that, but it was the way they began most mornings.

  “You were going to tell me about dreaming of being a buffalo.”

  “Back in a minute.” Sam rolled out of his blankets, grabbed their tin cups, strolled into the barracks, and poured coffee from the speckled pot hanging over the fire. He was going to get all he could as long as he could.

  As he told the buffalo dream, new details came out. He wasn’t sure whether he was remembering more of the dream or his mind was filling the dream out more now. Didn’t seem to make any difference which.

  Sam began with his feeling coming up to the cow, as if he knew exactly what to do. Which was odd, because he couldn’t know, yet he did.

  He couldn’t tell whether she was dead or alive when he came up—that was a mystery.

  Spreading his arms and then getting down on all fours to approach felt humble, in a way. Backing up to her seemed at first like rejoining his mother—this stuff was embarrassing to tell—but when he went into her, like being absorbed, it wasn’t mothery at all.

  He expanded into the buffalo. He became more than he was, larger of dimension. It was very satisfying to fill her rump with his, and wildly exciting to melt into her head. Now the thinking, the seeing, the tasting was all one.

  The uniting of heart, loin, and lung, blood and breath—especially breath—these felt …

  Sam didn’t have the words. “Mysterious,” he said. “Very wonderful.”

  He chuckled, remembering. “I called myself ‘Samalo.’”

  Hannibal just looked into his coffee.

  After a long moment, Sam asked, “Hannibal, why did I dream that?”

  Hannibal shrugged. “The dreamer knows. Somewhere in there,” he tapped Sam’s head, “you know.”

  The next day convinced Sam he never wanted to work for the U.S. government.

  They would give him a set of clothes to cover his hide and boots to protect his feet, they said, if he agreed to enlist in the U.S. army. Purely for the records, the officer assured him. Sam also had to go in and out of every office at the post, it seemed like, check with every officer, get every permission, and wait, wait, wait. They had to pretend Coy was a dog and belonged to Hannibal. The army wasn’t about to let a mere private have a dog.

  Since Hannibal wandered around with him most of the day, it wasn’t too boring, and Sam got to tell a year and a half’s worth of adventures. “It’s all your fault,” he began. “You told me to follow my wild hair.”

  He began with Grumble, Captain Stuart, and Abby, not failing to include Ten and Eleven. He had fun telling about the French woman who got humiliated by losing her wig in Abby’s bar. About how he met Governor Clark, got referred to General Ashley, and became a mountain man, or was becoming a mountain man.

  Hannibal had heard about the Ashley troubles at the Ree villages, but not how Sam got his leg broken by a ball and nearly got caught and scalped. Hannibal had not heard of Jedediah Smith, and listened with wonder to the stories of the young leader’s coolness, capabilities, devout Christianity, and high ambition. He knew of Edward Rose, whom he called a good friend. Sam didn’t know Rose was good friends with anybody, and couldn’t help wondering if that was because they were both breeds.

  “No, it’s because Rose is an unusual man. Totally, fiercely what he is.”

  Then Hannibal laughed. “And don’t look at me like that. Your thoughts are easy to read, and understandable.”

  Sam reminisced about the best friend he’d made, Gideon. And commented that French-Canadians seemed to get along with Indians a lot better than American mountain men did.

  Sam told about starting over the Southern Pass too early and damn near freezing to death and starving to death and getting blown all the way to Missouri. About the beaver-hunting haven of the Siskadee River, and th
e Snakes who put them afoot. About missing Jedediah Smith at the cache, Sam scouting downriver while Fitz and the others waited, and never seeing his friends again.

  He had to admit he was damn worried about them. Maybe he was the only one who came back alive.

  “Sure you want to go back?” asked Hannibal.

  Sam shook his head. “Not sure of anything except having a partner.” He nodded at Coy.

  He told about getting so crazy on the way downstream, and aching so lonely, he wanted to walk into a hostile camp. How he really did damn near get killed by the Pawnees. He didn’t have to tell, again, about getting baptized in the fire, and resurrected.

  Mostly, though, he spent the day standing around waiting for officers to figure out if they’d get into trouble for treating a young man decently. By the time he stood in the mess line that evening he was damn tired of human company, except for Hannibal, and almost wished he was lost in the wilds again.

  They pulled themselves out of the river, dripping, padded onto the sand, and flopped down naked. The Missouri gurgled by restlessly—always whirling, dervishing, roiling its way down, down, down, ever moving, that river, whooshing its way to St. Louis and an even bigger energy of water.

  “You’re a red and white man,” Hannibal said, teasing. Sam looked down at his body. Alternating bands of color. Chest white, lower arms red, belly red, thighs white, calves and feet red.

  His body needed some time off.

  “Your body adjusts to it, always being outdoors. Human beings are born to it, actually.”

  Sam looked at Hannibal. Though his skin was all bronze, it was darker in the hands and face, where it was exposed.

  “What did you learn about red and white men out there?”

  Sam thought. “Strange.” He recounted in order. “Ten and Eleven became friends. The Osages were tame, kind of intimidated. The Sioux were proud, haughty. The Rees did their damnedest to kill us. The Crows befriended us, kind of gave us a home. But they’d rob you blind and laugh about it. The Snakes took the food we gave them and then stole our horses. The Pawnees, well, they were for me and against me. Most of them wanted to do me in nice and slow. One said he liked me and saved my life.”

  “What were the big differences you saw between the mountain men and the Crows?”

  “The Crows were glad to share their women. White men wouldn’t. Crow men do a hell of a lot to toughen themselves. They have some warrior attitude. Take blistering hot sweat baths. Go around in the winter naked to the waist. Wash off in the river even when there’s ice along the edges, morning and night.” Sam laughed to himself. “Come to think of it, they’re a lot cleaner than we are, too.”

  “So how do you feel about the Indians you met?”

  “Mixed up.”

  “How’d the men you were with feel?”

  “When you travel, you ride watchful, camp with a guard, keep your horses close, and always assume that Indians are hostile. When they’re not, you’re grateful.”

  “If one rode into your camp alone, how would you treat him?”

  “Invite him to sit by the fire, have coffee.”

  “How would Indians treat you?”

  Sam laughed. “I don’t mean to risk it.”

  “If you saw a white man being chased by Indians, what would you do?”

  “Save his hide.”

  “If you saw an Indian being chased by white men?”

  Sam got it, and it made him uncomfortable. “Watch, I guess.”

  “Tell me more about the attitude of the mountain men you were with.”

  Sam thought. “Diah Smith wants to be kind to them, but he treats them like children. Come to think of it, like unpredictable, dangerous teenagers. Fitzpatrick and Clyman?” Pause. “Mostly the same. Most of the men? Micajah? Branch and Stone? Indians are enemies. Or else they’re like animals. You tolerate them. Mount their women if you can. Kill them when you need to, and don’t think twice about it.”

  “When you know Indian people,” said Hannibal, “they’re not unpredictable.”

  Sam blinked at the sky.

  “History tells us that this stuff of different people living on the same land, it doesn’t work. One drives the other off. Or enslaves them.”

  Sam thought. “Sounds like troubled waters ahead, two peoples here.”

  “Three peoples.”

  Sam looked at him.

  “Red, white, black. And the white has already enslaved the black, and is maybe killing off the red.”

  Sam considered his friend. “What about those who are two colors?” Or three, he thought, like Edward Rose?

  “I spend a lot of time telling white people I’m a human being, just like you. Same wants, same frailties, same pleasures. Spend a lot of time saying the same to Indians.”

  Sam thought that maybe Hannibal had a harder row to hoe than even Ten and Eleven did.

  Sam got up, stood on the rock, and jumped into the river, knees to his chest, bottom first. After a few strokes out and back he beached himself some yards downstream. “That thing’s swift.”

  He sat back down next to Hannibal. “I’ll trade you a big story for a big story.”

  “All right.”

  “You first. I don’t know much about you. What did you do when you got out of Dartmouth?”

  “I ran away from Dartmouth, actually. I had the heebie-jeebies, wanted to get out of Latin and into the real world.” He laughed. “So I joined the circus.” Now his voice got dreamy. “My father took us to see John Bill Ricketts’s circus in 1799 in Philadelphia. I was just a boy. When I got old enough, but still full of boy dreams, I ran away to the circus.”

  “I’ve heard of circuses, I guess they’re big shows, but I don’t really know anything about them.”

  “They started as riders doing tricks on the backs of horses, and that’s still the main thing. I worked taking care of the horses first. Then they let me help train them. Finally I got to ride and do tricks myself. You ride bareback, standing up. One of the main tricks is jumping through a hoop. You’re riding at a canter, circling in a ring. Your assistant holds up a big hoop at the edge of the ring—maybe it’s covered with paper, or maybe it’s flaming. As the horse approaches, you leap up and forward, pass through the hoop, do a somersault, and land on the horse’s back.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not a bit. The landing is the hard part to learn. You also ride two bareback horses at once, a foot on each back.”

  Sam felt, as he sometimes did around Hannibal, that he was transported into the world where the big stories happened, like Bible stories, or tales of knights and fair maidens.

  Hannibal went on, “But then you start doing other things to please the crowd. For instance, after Peter, that was the man who taught me the horse tricks, after he did three or four tricks, his horse would come out riderless and prance around the ring. John Bill, or whoever was running the show, would tell the audience that Peter got just got kicked by a horse and couldn’t perform. Then a drunk in the audience would stand up, waving his bottle, and shout that the program was a bust.

  “Indignant, John Bill would challenge the drunk to ride the horse.”

  “The drunk came running out of the seats, staggering. He climbed on the horse and fell off the other side, and had some more troubles, and drew a few laughs before he finally got seated.

  “Then John Bill would let the bridle go, and the bareback horse began to canter. Up jumped the drunk, riding the horse standing up. The audience applauds. Right quick the drunk begins to do tricks, first somersaults, then bouncing down to the ground and sailing back onto the horse. At the same time, he throws off his shabby old clothes, and underneath—behold!—is a beautifully muscled Indian in nothing but a gorgeously beaded breechcloth—me.”

  Hannibal grinned. “That was fun. And I made lots of money, lots of money.”

  “Is this real?”

  “Absolutely. A Brit named Philip Astley, he was a trick rider himself, started the modern circus in the 17
60s. It spread all over Europe, and John Bill Ricketts opened the first American circuses in New York and Philadelphia in 1793.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “The circus changed. All shows change, to suit the audiences, but I didn’t like some of the new ways. We got a tiger and an elephant for people to look at. They liked that. We’d even parade the animals through the streets before a performance to draw people in.

  “Then we got a dromedary, which is like a camel, and a monkey. Then, and this is where it turned, we got a huge, powerfully muscled black man, a little, shrivelled up Chinaman, and a woman who weighed three hundred pounds and had a beard.”

  Sam deliberately gave Hannibal a queer look.

  “We would parade them through the streets, too, like they were prize animals, or freaks. John Bill paid me extra to be one of them. He lined us up like we represented God’s creation culminating in white people—all in a row the chimpanzee, the black man, the Indian, the Chinaman, the fat lady, and next to them the crown of creation, John Bill himself, handsomely decked out.

  “A step on the way to white folks—that was more than I could stand.

  “Now it’s your turn, Sam.”

  “I fell in love with a Crow woman.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  So he told Hannibal about Meadowlark, all about her. How she looked, how she sounded, how she moved. About the ceremony she was waiting to do. About how they stood in the blanket together. How he learned Crow so he could talk to her. How she gave him, on the last day, the gage d’amour now carefully laid on top of his new army-issue shirt. How he promised to come back and didn’t.

  Hannibal regarded him. It seemed like a wise look, but Sam had no idea what it meant. “What should I do?”

  “Whatever you really want to.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever you really want to.”

  “Been thinking about going back to Crow country. But not alone. Too dangerous, and Meadowlark doesn’t want to see me a pauper, no horse, no nothing.”