Lewis stood and shoved the man backward, away from Clark, and now everyone was on their feet, facing each other. The old man screamed at them. Angry warriors pressed in behind him. Clark glanced at Cut Nose, who stood to the side, making no effort to protect them. “No weapons!” Clark yelled. “Don’t start anything!” Still facing the old man, he backed slowly away, pulling Lewis with him. “Just follow me.”
The Indians let them go, and they slowly made their way to the door. Clark waited for everyone else to go through, then took one last look. Cut Nose glowered at him, and the medicine man shouted something, his painted face twisted in anger. Clark ducked out the door.
“The gall!” Lewis exploded.
“Stay calm,” Clark said. “Boys, back to camp, double-time. We’ll post triple guards tonight. And sleep with your guns.”
Black Eagle arrived soon after and seemed to settle the Indians’ wrath. To the corps, he delivered an invitation from his father and Broken Arm, the other leading chief, to visit Broken Arm’s village, several days’ ride to the south.
Two days later, Cut Nose loaned them his canoe to make the river crossing, and they climbed for half a day up to the high rolling plains that lay above the canyons. Near the top, the mountains they had crossed last September came slowly into view, blanketed in white.
Twisted Hair met them the second night on the prairie and informed them that they could not cross the mountains for another month, because the snow was too deep. Clark heard the men grumbling, saw their downcast eyes. He shared their frustration: they had been dreaming of buffalo meat for weeks.
On their third night, eight inches of snow fell on the prairie. The next morning the men slogged through on foot. Wet snow balled up on the horses’ hooves, forcing the animals to trip and stumble. Long before noon Clark’s stomach was rumbling, but they had no more food.
The sun was still high when they came over a rise and the land dropped off. Clark stopped and stared. It was as if the prairie simply fell off, like the edge of a bed. Shields rubbed his beard: “I never seen nothin’ like this place. Prairies are supposed to rise up into mountains; they ain’t on top o’ mountains.”
The canyon appeared to be at least a thousand feet deep. Halfway down the snow gave way to lush grass and the trail turned into slick mud. When they reached the creek that ran through the narrow bottom, Clark spotted the largest longhouse they had yet seen. In front of it flew the American flag they had left last fall, the 17 stars and 13 stripes rippling in the wind.
“Have the men keep their weapons at the ready,” Lewis told Sergeant Gass. Clark glanced back at his friend, whose gray eyes scanned the landscape, searching for an ambush. Oh how he wished Lewis’s mood would lift. The wretched, thieving Indians along the Columbia had deepened his mistrust until it was like an affliction, and the troubles with Cut Nose’s people had only reinforced it.
They approached the village in single file, weapons drawn, as dogs and people poured out of the lodge. Twisted Hair pointed out the chief, Broken Arm, standing by the flag. Clark rode toward him and dismounted, men, women, and children surrounding his horse. My heart is full of joy, Broken Arm signed. I have waited many moons to see you.
Clark returned the chief’s greeting, then shook his hand. An outsized man with a wide face deeply lined with years, Broken Arm wore a white buckskin shirt down to his thighs, trimmed with blue beads and painted quills, and an otter tippet with the fur and head still attached. Six inches wide, it fit over his great head and reached his knees.
When Lewis and Twisted Hair had dismounted, the chief beckoned them to follow and walked slowly through the knee-high grass to a spot by the creek. You may camp here, he signed.
Women brought buffalo robes and laid them out in a circle on the wet grass, and a dozen men sat with the captains and passed a pipe. The women then distributed roots and bread. Lewis took a few bites, then turned to Clark: “You recall the effect of these roots last fall. Ask them if we can trade one of our horses with a sore back for a young horse we can butcher.”
When Clark put the proposal into sign, Broken Arm frowned. You are our guests, he replied. We have many, many horses. If you wish horsemeat, we will give you as many horses as you desire.
He spoke to a young man, who returned in a few minutes and presented the captains with two fat young mares.
Clark and Lewis exchanged glances. The tribe was on the edge of starvation, they knew, yet had not killed its own horses for food. We are grateful for your hospitality, Clark signed. Our hearts are full knowing we are welcome among your people.
Broken Arm nodded proudly. As the sun slipped behind the hills, he ordered a large tipi made of hides put up and signed to Clark that they should consider it their lodge for as long as they cared to stay. Women covered the floor with buffalo robes, stacked firewood outside the door, and built a fire in the middle. Lewis ordered his men to slaughter a horse and roast it, and Clark invited the chief and his warriors into the tipi to eat with them.
They ate and smoked and talked, through the translators, into the night. Clark asked Cruzatte to bring out his fiddle and entertain them. Soon the corpsmen outside the tipi, their spirits raised by bellies full of horsemeat, persuaded Cruzatte to bring his fiddle to their fire, and they began to dance. Inside, Indians stretched out where they sat, their feet toward the fire, and fell asleep. By the time Clark dozed off, still marveling at the welcome they had received, the floor was littered with sleeping bodies.
The next morning he was besieged with requests for healing. Black Eagle, it turned out, had told everyone how Clark had healed his leg. “Tell them we will need payment,” Lewis whispered.
Clark gave him a sidelong look. “I can’t heal all these people.”
“We need food, Captain.”
Clark hesitated. “I don’t suppose I can do much harm.”
“Indians steal, we exaggerate our medical powers. Which is the greater sin?”
“So be it.” Clark turned to the supplicants and signed that if they brought food or a horse to his camp, he would do his best to treat them, after breakfast.
While Lewis gave the chiefs his usual talk about making peace so his people could build trading posts among them, Clark treated the dozens of natives who had lined up. Many had sore eyes, others skin ulcers, abscesses, and fistulae. A few seemed to have rheumatism in their joints, and many women complained of weaknesses in their backs and loins. Clark did what he could, using zinc sulfate, sugar, and lead acetate for sore eyes, volatile liniment for rheumatism and back pain, and a gentle purge and basilicon ointment for the ulcers and abscesses.
About noon 50 mounted warriors wound their way up the valley floor, their horses decorated with paint and brightly colored robes. As they drew near, Clark recognized his friend Black Eagle and his father, Red Grizzly Bear. Behind them rode another familiar figure. She sat tall and erect, her hair still unplaited, but longer now, on her shoulders.
Clark moved toward the column, unable to suppress a grin.
The men dismounted and Clark greeted Black Eagle and Red Grizzly Bear. Swan Lighting remained on her horse. Black Eagle pointed at an old man lying on a travois, signed that his name was Black Horn and he could not move—had been unable to for five snows. Their medicine men had been powerless to cure him, but they hoped Clark could.
Surprised, Clark bent down next to him. The man’s fingers were contracted into partial fists, but he had no complaint of pain. Clark felt his pulse, which was normal, explored with his fingers along his spine. What does he eat? he signed.
Black Eagle looked up at his sister.
Roots, bread, fish, meat, she signed. Like all our people.
This started with an injury? Clark asked.
No. Her eyes were flat—almost hostile.
Clark thought for a moment. If there was no pain, it could not be rheumatism. And the man’s limbs were not diminished the way they might have been were it a paralytic attack. He had no idea how to help the man, he realized, but if he t
ried something perhaps they would stay long enough for him to overcome the woman’s hostility.
I will return with medicine, he signed.
He hurried to the tipi and rummaged in his medicine pack for the liniment he had used on Black Eagle’s leg. He brought cream of tartar and flour of sulfur as well, and at the last minute picked up the bottle of laudanum—the opium in it would make anyone feel better. As he ducked out he spotted Labiche, seated by a fire, whittling. “Get the interpreters,” he said. “I’ve got an important patient.”
When they had all assembled in front of the old man, Clark opened the tin of liniment, squatted down on his knees, and rubbed it into Black Horn’s back, along his bony spine. “This may help,” he said.
The woman was off her horse now. “That is all?”
Clark could see he was being judged wanting. He picked up the cream of tartar and flour of sulfur and handed them to her. “Limit his diet to meat or fish, and bathe him in the river every morning. Have him take this medicine, one dose every three days.” He opened the laudanum, poured a capful. “Hold him up,” he said to Black Eagle. “This will make him feel better, but it will not cure him.”
When the translation reached her the woman turned to Sacagawea. “You know this man well?”
Sacagawea nodded as the translators repeated the words for Clark.
“He is only pretending to heal my people?”
“No. He cured me when I was near death.”
“Why does he say he cannot cure my husband’s father?”
Clark watched as Sacagawea thought about this. Finally she spoke: “White healers have only their medicines. Sometimes they work, sometimes they are useless. They do not enter the realm of spirit to ask for help.”
Swan Lighting pondered this while Clark listened to the translation. Then she turned to him: “You are not a real healer.”
Clark smiled. “I am not a medicine man.”
“White men have a different way,” Sacagawea said. “They have power, but it is power with worldly things, not power with spirit.”
Swan glared at her brother and said something that no one translated. She walked to her horse, put a foot in the stirrup, and swung herself up into the saddle.
As she turned the horse away, Clark signed to Black Eagle: Your sister doesn’t like me.
Black Eagle looked uncomfortable.
Why? Clark signed.
The Indian hesitated before replying: You have given her offense.
Stung, Clark asked how.
Among our people, a woman in mourning is not to be touched by a man.
Clark felt his face flush as he watched her ride away.
While Red Hair treated the sick, his partner offered a demonstration of other Soyappo powers. Black Eagle watched Captain Lewis squat next to a pile of shavings, twigs, and leaves, holding a strange object over the pile and glancing up at the sun. Red Grizzly Bear turned to his son and gave him a quizzical look, but Black Eagle shook his head—he did not understand either.
Soon the pile was smoking. Murmurs spread through the crowd. The wisps of smoke thickened; then the leaves and shavings burst into flame. As the crowd exclaimed, Lewis stood up, took off his headdress, and bowed low.
Red Grizzly Bear stepped forward and Lewis handed him the strange object. It had a handle made of wood, but the main part was a square piece of hard material, about as big as the palm of his hand. Black Eagle could see right through it, as if it were a thin sheet of ice. Red Grizzly Bear turned it over, felt its smooth surface, his massive brow furrowed in confusion. Then he handed it to Broken Arm, who held it close to his nose and sniffed it.
Now Lewis showed them a thin, wooden object almost as long as his arm. He held it up to one eye and peered through it, in the direction of the Soyappos’ lodge. Then he handed it to Black Eagle, who peered through it. The lodge was suddenly close by. He lowered the object, and the lodge was back where it belonged. He looked through it again, and there it was, up close. He moved it around, looked in the direction of the river. He could see the top of the hills on the far side as if they were close enough to reach in a few minutes’ ride. He lowered the object and examined it closely. In each end it had a piece of clear, hard material, like the fire starter. He put it up to his eye one more time, thinking of how useful it would be when hunting.
As Black Eagle handed it to his father, Lewis called to his men, who brought him a firerock gun and set up a target so far away the strongest bow could not reach it. He took aim and pulled the trigger, but there was no explosion or cloud of smoke—only a quick spitting sound. The target, a piece of bark propped up by a stick, toppled over.
Lewis fired twice more, hitting the target each time. Then he handed it to Broken Arm, who inspected it carefully. “Three of my men visited a village of Knife River Hidatsas last summer, with a Crow trading party,” Broken Arm said. “Hidatsas told them of these Soyappo powers, but they did not believe them.”
“I would not believe them either, if I had not seen them,” Red Grizzly Bear replied.
Speaking Eagle, a tall, fine-looking man of 20 springs, appeared leading a mare and her colt. He addressed Lewis: “My father, a great chief of my people, was killed by Big Bellies last fall, while hunting buffalo. My heart has ached for revenge. But I have opened my ears to your words, and these words have made my heart glad. I no longer want to avenge the death of my father. I give you this mare and her colt as a sign of my intention to heed your talk of peace.”
Black Eagle thought about the young man’s words as the Soyappos translated. Perhaps the Soyappos were messengers, sent by spirit to convince the Nimíipuu to make peace with their enemies.
Lewis thanked Speaking Eagle and departed with the horses. Black Eagle turned to his father and told him his thoughts.
Red Grizzly Bear gazed after the Soyappos, fingering the scalps and fingers that dangled from his tippet. “I too am tired of war,” he said. “My heart aches to see my daughter suffer as she does.”
“Last fall, while you were still away, she performed a ceremony of ‘isxíipit to look into these Soyappos’ spirits,” Black Eagle said. “She says Red Hair’s heart is good, but his people, who will come later, are aggressive, like grizzly bears.”
His father looked at him in surprise. “Then we must use this opportunity to forge an alliance with their nation. So when other Soyappos come, they will see us as friends.”
TEN
May 1806
“Someone has been asking about you,” White Feather said. She and her near-sister, Winter Walking, were scraping hides with Swan Lighting. The three worked side by side, on their knees, under the shade of a cottonwood.
“Asking what?” Swan said.
“When your mourning will end.” White Feather gave her a mischievous smile.
“Someone we know well,” Winter Walking chimed in.
Swan sat back on her heels: “If you want to tell me so badly, tell me.”
“You can’t guess?” White Feather teased.
“I don’t care.”
“Would you care if he were related?” White Feather asked.
Swan’s mouth set in a grim line. She had feared this. She had no interest in being Spotted Wolf’s second wife, doing the heavy work and enduring the jealous anger of the first. “Have you forgotten I still mourn my husband?”
“How could we?” Winter Walking gestured at her old, faded dress.
“I wash and mend it.”
“Yes, and soon it will fall apart.”
“That is my concern.” Swan leaned forward on her knees and returned to her scraping, as if to end the conversation.
Winter Walking ignored her. “Then tell us about this red-haired Soyappo who admires you. His healing power is widely praised.”
“It is not wise to believe all you hear.”
“For Black Horn he did nothing?” White Feather asked.
“He still cannot move.”
“The Soyappo is handsome, I have heard,” Winter Walking said
.
Swan glared at her: “If men with hair on their faces appeal to you.”
“I heard Curlew coupled with one with dark skin,” White Feather giggled.
“Soyappos eat dogs,” Swan said. “And horses.”
There was an instant reaction from the other two, an outburst of revulsion. Swan rose, walked to the fire, and poured the warm mix of deer brains and salted water into a larger basket. Reaching in, she mashed the soft brains with her hands, watched them dissolve into the water. As it thickened, she added warm water, until she had the right consistency. The smell, slightly salty, brought back the last time she had tanned a hide. She had made her husband the tunic he wore the day he departed.
She forced herself to her feet, carried the basket to the hide, which she unstaked, gathered up, and began to work into the basket. She rubbed the mixture into the skin, working it hard, kneading her emotions into the hide. It was stiff now, but the brains would soften it. When the whole thing was finally in the basket, she carried it back to the fire and added hot water until the hide was covered. She reached in, then cried out in pain as the water burned her hands. She kicked over the basket, watched the precious mixture run onto the ground. Tears slid down her cheeks. Finally she jerked the wet hide out of the basket and flung it toward the fire.
When she looked up, her father stood watching. Startled, she rose to greet him, her stinging hands clutched close to her breast. He took her in his massive arms and held her as she wept. “What troubles you, my daughter?”
She shook her head, tried to choke back her tears.
White Feather, who had run to the lodge, returned with a wooden bowl, held it out to her. “Bear grease, for your hands.”
Her father let go, and Swan looked at her hands. They were red, but already the pain was subsiding. They were only slightly burned; she was more embarrassed than wounded.
“Rub some on your hands,” White Feather said.
She did as she was told. Winter Walking had retrieved her hide and was cleaning off the dirt.
The Coming Page 6
