FIVE
September 1805
The sun was almost down the next day when the rest of the Soyappos emerged from the forest. Swan Lighting on Water, who had been scraping hides, dropped her work and hurried toward the southern edge of camp. A few men mounted horses and raced for other camps to spread the word.
The Soyappo leader rode a large white horse through the deep prairie grass; most others were on foot, strung out in a long line, leading packhorses. Like the others, these Soyappos were pale and emaciated, their clothes filthy, their horses thin. If they were a war party, it was a defeated one.
A black dog almost as big as a bear trotted behind the leader. And one of the pack animals was not a horse: it was smaller, with large ears—like a pony with rabbit ears. It opened its mouth and made a hideous blare, and Swan jumped.
She counted as they straggled toward camp. Twenty and seven! And one was a woman! With a cradleboard dangling from the pommel of her saddle! But she was not a Soyappo; she wore a dress beaded in a pattern favored by Snakes. Quickly Swan scanned the others and saw that two of those on foot were Snake men. How dare they walk into a Nimíipuu camp after their people had murdered her husband!
She found Lone Elk and pointed: “Snakes!”
“Yes.”
“Chief Red Hair said nothing about Snakes.”
He watched in silence for a moment. “One Soyappo is painted black.”
She followed his eyes, saw that the largest Soyappo wore black paint all over his body. The Flatheads painted warriors black when they returned from battle if they had shown heroism. But why were Snakes here? Were they captured slaves?
She strode toward them; her rage demanded some reaction to this affront, this appearance of enemies in their camp. One Snake was old, she saw, the other just a boy. Both were shorter than her, and fear showed in their eyes as she bore down on them. You are slaves? she signed.
The old one shook his head. Guides.
You walk into your enemy’s camp! Are you fools?
The old man glanced at the Soyappo on the white horse, unsure how to take this; she was a woman, after all.
Her eyes flared at his lack of respect: Have you no hands?
We live across Shining Mountains. We make no war on your people.
Sheep eaters?
It was an insult, but he nodded.
Behind him a group of boys had surrounded the painted warrior. He pounced at them, and they scattered, shrieking. He made the whites of his eyes huge and round and growled like a bear—his teeth white in his dark face—and all the Soyappos laughed. Swan realized he wasn’t painted; it was his skin. Was he a man or some kind of monster?
Soon men began to arrive from other Nimíipuu camps. Swan and Lone Elk took them to see how many Soyappo warriors had arrived, showed them the firerock guns they had brought, the sharp knives.
Bear Head stared at the guns: “These would be ours if we killed them.” His people lived on the River of Hemp, where they regularly had to fight off Snakes who lived further south.
“This is not a war party,” another said.
“Swan Lighting on Water’s husband and his friends were not a war party either,” a third replied.
Heads nodded as the men contemplated this. Swan wondered if her father and brother had attacked yet.
“We do not know their customs,” said Low Horn. From Lahmahta, he had been a great warrior when he was younger, almost as feared as her father. “Perhaps they are a war party.”
“The black warrior,” began an old man she did not know—“we would be foolish to attack him.”
Bear Head scoffed. “They send him to do women’s work—to get water and build a fire.”
“We could trade with them,” said Low Horn. “They need fresh horses.”
“We should kill them while they sleep,” Bear Head said.
Swan stared at the Soyappos. They were rude, yes. But it was Snakes who deserved to die.
She heard a horse approaching from the west and turned to peer into the dusk. As it drew closer, she saw that its rider, a woman, was barely hanging on. Swan hurried forward to help her.
It was Returned From a Far Country. She was covered with dust, and she clung to the horse’s lathered neck like a drowning woman clings to a log. She must have ridden from Twisted Hair’s winter village, on the river far below. When Swan helped her off, she slumped into her arms. Swan reached down under the old woman’s knees and lifted her. She was as light as a child.
Everyone knew her story: as a girl, she had been kidnapped by Big Bellies, made a slave, taken far toward the rising sun. The Big Bellies had traded her to others, farther east, who had traded her to a Soyappo. He and his people were kind to her, and he married her and fathered her child. When he traveled across the Great Waters and did not return for a full snow, she had escaped, walked for many moons over great prairies, her son in a cradleboard on her back. She had forded streams and crossed rivers, holding onto rafts cut from willow bushes. Each day, she had managed to find a few roots and berries or wild onions. Whenever she lost her way, her spirit guide, a raven, had called to her.
But she grew weaker and weaker. Her body no longer produced milk, and her child died. By the time she reached the Shining Mountains, she was so weak she knew she could not cross, but she no longer cared. Wanting to be with her son in the Land Above, she lay beside the trail to die. Flathead hunters found her and fed her, kept her for the winter while she healed. The next summer, she joined a buffalo-hunting band of her own people.
Swan ducked through the flap into her lodge, a large tipi made of tule mats. Her sleeping area was behind the fire to the right, and she carried the woman over to that corner and lay her down. She unrolled her sleeping robes, then picked up the old woman and settled her on top of them. The air inside the lodge was still warm, though she could feel a breeze slipping between the tule reeds. She retrieved qawas bread from a woven bag that hung behind her sleeping robes and dipped a gourd into the water bag, which hung from another pole. The old woman took the water, sipped it as Swan Lighting held her up, but refused the food. Then she closed her eyes and slept.
Clark unfurled a large American flag and sunk the pole into the moist soil at the back of the circle. It was a new flag, and the red, white, and blue stars and stripes almost sparkled as they waved in the breeze. He could tell from the Indians’ faces—and their murmured conversations—that it impressed them.
Lewis had gathered the chiefs and their principal men under the noonday sun; they sat in a large circle on buffalo robes. He wore his military jacket, navy-blue wool with brass buttons up the front and two silver captain’s bars on the right shoulder, to deliver President Jefferson’s message. Clark didn’t see the point; they were no longer on American soil, and besides, all the chiefs and warriors were away. But Lewis had insisted; he did this with every tribe they encountered, and he was not about to stop.
“Children,” Lewis began, “the Great Spirit has given a fair and bright day for us to meet together in his sight, so that he may inspect us in all that we say and do. I take you all by the hand, that you may form one common family with us.
“Our Great Father, the president of the United States of America, who is benevolent, just, wise, and bountiful, has sent us to all his red children to know their wants and inform him of them upon our return. We have seen all our red children all the way to your lands, and we have taken them by the hand in the name of our Great Father, the great chief of our people.”
Lewis paused to give Drouillard, who was signing his words, time to catch up. Then he continued: “The object of my coming is not to do you injury, but to do you good. Our great chief, who has more goods at his command than could be piled up in the circle of your camp, wishes that all his red children should be happy. He has sent us here to know your wants, that he may supply them.”
The women standing around the edges exchanged glances, excited by the mention of trade goods. “Children, our Great Father intends to build a house a
nd fill it with such things as you may want and trade with you for your skins and furs. He has directed me to inquire of you, at what place would it be most convenient to build this house, and what articles you are in want of, that he might send them immediately upon my return.”
As Drouillard signed, the Indians began to exchange words and gestures. They always wanted plunder, Clark thought. For a few beads and knives, Indians would do almost anything.
Now that Lewis had the hook in, he gave his peace pitch, urging them to make peace with all tribes, so white men could travel safely to bring them goods. Clark could see skepticism begin to grow as Drouillard translated. For Indians, war was a way of life.
Clark’s eyes wandered to the women who stood around the edge of the circle, and he spotted the one he had talked to three nights before, half a head taller than the others. He would have to try his luck with her again tonight. He would give her something special—a piece of tradecloth, perhaps.
Clark waited until Lewis was finished, then rose and signed: We will now distribute some gifts. He walked to the flag he had sunk in the ground and signed that it was for their greatest chief, who, he understood, was on the warpath. He then unfurled a smaller flag, which he took to Twisted Hair, who had helped him find a good stand of immense trees, on a river, that they could cut down and hollow into canoes. He gave medals with the president’s likeness on one side to two old chiefs, explaining, in sign, that they were symbols of peace. Finally he made his way around the circle, handing a knife and a bandanna with a small piece of tobacco in it to each of the men in the circle. He could see Lewis scowling, and he realized too late his error: their store of tobacco was dwindling, and this was a high price to pay to win the friendship of old men.
In the dark, from the direction of the Soyappo camp, Swan Lighting heard a singing noise, a sound she had never heard before. It kept leaping up and down, changing notes, as if two trees were rubbing against one another in a furious wind. Her eyes met those of White Feather, and both rose to investigate. They walked through the long grass, the night air chilly, a chorus of crickets blending with the exotic new sounds.
As they neared the Soyappo fire she could see a small man with a black patch over one eye, bent over a piece of shining, reddish wood. She glanced at White Feather again, and the two of them hurried forward. When they got closer, they saw that the man made the high, sweet notes by drawing something across taut sinews on the wooden piece. The women of Twisted Hair’s camp had gathered, drawn by the strange music.
The black-skinned Soyappo rose and began to dance in front of the fire, hopping from one foot to another, tapping his hands on his feet as fast as he could move them. The Soyappos whooped and cheered, and the Nimíipuu women looked at one another in astonishment. White Feather giggled.
Swan could not even smile; these Soyappos might all be dead by morning.
She jumped when a hand touched her arm. It was the sorrel-haired Soyappo, who unfolded a soft red cloth and handed it to her.
She stared at it, confused, but did not take it.
He moved behind her and draped it around her shoulders. Then he showed her how to hold it with her arms.
She recoiled from his touch.
Come, sit by our fire so you can see it well, he signed.
She took off the cloth, pushed it into his hands, and brushed past him, her heart pounding. Who was this red-haired demon, and why would he not leave her alone? Perhaps these Soyappos did deserve to die in their sleep. She veered off in the dark, headed for Twisted Hair’s lodge, where the men were in council.
The sweet scent of burning cedar greeted her as she ducked into the lodge. The air was warm and smoky, and the fire threw shadows around the walls of the tipi. Twenty pairs of eyes stared up at her as hers searched for Lone Elk. When she found him, he nodded and gestured for her to sit behind him. She was Red Grizzly Bear’s daughter, after all, and she had once killed a Lakota. She was allowed into council, though not to participate in the deliberations.
Spotted Elk, the medicine man, had been speaking. His medicine bundle hung above his head, from a tipi pole. He talked about a dream in which he had seen the Soyappos led into camp by an elderly Nimíipuu woman. “I do not yet understand this dream,” he said. “But I know it is important.”
Twisted Hair cleared his throat. A tall man, he sat on a pile of buffalo robes, so he did not have to cross his legs. Swan Lighting could see that he enjoyed the authority that came from leading the council—when war leaders were present, he was nothing more than a minor village headman. “My friends, I tell you what is in my heart,” he began, his words forming slowly. “I agree that there are many reasons we need these Soyappos’ firerock guns. Not just to fight Snakes and Blackfeet and Big Bellies, but to feed our families. But I can feel Red Hair’s heart, and it is a good heart. He asks my help to keep his horses while he and his men find Great Waters where sun sets. He will pay me with two firerock guns.”
“We are not women!” Bear Head snorted. “These strangers have come to our country with three of our enemies and called us children. We do not have to beg them for guns!” He looked around the lodge at impassive faces.
“My brothers, what will happen if we kill them?” Lone Elk asked. “Let us speak on that.”
“They will die, and we will have their guns,” Bear Head snapped.
“What did we do when the Snakes killed three warriors we sent to talk peace?” Lone Elk continued. “What did our war leaders do?”
Swan thought of her father and Black Eagle, wondered if they were still alive.
“There are more Soyappos where these come from,” Spotted Elk said. “Chief Red Hair told us there were as many as there are stars in our night sky. What will they do when their party does not return?”
“We are strong,” said Running Coyote. “They call us children, but we can fight.” He picked up a war club that lay beside him.
“The Steelhead prophecy tells us that these white skins will teach us many things,” Low Horn began. “But other prophecies warn us that white strangers will bring us doom.”
Swan knew the prophecies: that buffalo would disappear; that the People would be confined in small places; that Mother Earth would be ripped open, forests would melt away, rivers would be held back.
“Like Low Horn, my heart is troubled by these prophecies,” said Talks With Buffalo, a pockmarked tewat from the lower Clear Water. “We know that Soyappos bring disease. Our people have twice been visited with white scabs. When I was a child, I lost two brothers. Perhaps these Soyappos who visit us now also bring disease and death.”
“Why do we debate like old women?” Running Coyote sneered. “If we take their firerock guns, we will be most powerful of all nations. We Nimíipuu are warriors, not children. Warriors do not have to talk for hours like old women to decide their path.”
Heads nodded around the circle. Swan could sense the spirit in the room; they were ready to kill. She wondered if these old men had ever lost someone they loved for no reason other than the blood lust of warriors. She poked Lone Elk, whispered, “Say something!”
Suddenly the lodge flap opened and Returned From a Far Country stepped in. The men frowned, glanced at one another with questions in their eyes. The old woman reached out and held a lodge pole to steady herself.
“Please forgive me,” she began, her voice weak but her eyes burning.
“Please,” Twisted Hair said. “Speak.”
“These Soyappos, they are like those who helped me when I was taken by Big Bellies. They were good to me.” She stopped, her eyes searching the circle. “Please. Do them no harm.”
The men stared at her for long seconds before Spotted Elk broke the silence: “In my dream was this woman. We must not harm these men.”
SIX
September 1805
Black Eagle stopped his horse at the river’s edge, and his father, Red Grizzly Bear, stopped beside him. They could just make out Twisted Hair’s winter camp on the far side of the river,
downstream. They nudged their horses into the water and began the long diagonal ford.
The river came up only to the horses’ bellies; it was always low in the Season When Salmon Spawn. Black Eagle reached down and cupped a handful of water, threw it over his head and back, and rubbed it on his face. The day was hot; he wore only a breechcloth.
He spotted the first Soyappos as the horses emerged dripping from the river. Even in the heat they wore leggings, but few wore tunics. He had not believed that skin could be so white. As they approached the camp, most of the Soyappos were lying on their robes, not moving.
At least 100 Nimíipuu were gathered north of the camp, near the slough. They stood around a giant yellow pine, the kind a man could reach only halfway around. As they drew nearer, Black Eagle saw a few Soyappos at the center of the crowd, striking the massive tree with tomahawks. He could not understand why they would do this until he saw the tomahawks biting into the tree and pieces of yellow wood flying away.
Twisted Hair’s face leapt when he saw them: “You have returned! Were you successful?”
“We took forty-two Snake scalps,” Red Grizzly Bear answered.
“And our warriors?”
“Three dead. A few with wounds.”
Twisted Hair looked beyond them, searching. “Where are the others?”
“Some stayed at their villages. Some will be here soon. We were anxious to see these white-skinned men, so we rode ahead.”
Twisted Hair gestured: “They are here.”
They dismounted and tied their horses to a small tree. The Soyappos were motioning for people to move back; two of them strung a long cord of twisted hide between two trees to keep people behind it. The big tree looked like a beaver had gnawed it almost in two. Suddenly there was a loud crack, and the top, as far above as Black Eagle could shoot an arrow, began to move through the sky. The Soyappos yelled and ran, and as the tree gained speed it made a loud whoosh, brushing against other trees, until it hit the ground with such force that the earth jumped beneath their feet. Everyone began talking at once, pointing and gesturing.
The Coming Page 3
