“Astor had men in the Territory then,” the earless one said.
“We know of Boston,” Sublette said, “but we ain’t from there. We ain’t King George men, neither. We’re Americans, from the twenty-four nations that lie toward the rising sun.”
Black Eagle’s eyebrows rose: “When Red Hair came, he said there were seventeen nations.”
“We’re growin’ fast,” Sublette said with a laugh.
The earless one caught Smoke staring at the spot where his ear used to be. Grizzly bear, he signed. Nearly took my head off.
The blue-eyed one turned to Smoke and signed: I saw your father just three moons ago.
Smoke’s eyes widened. Where?
In his village. Seventy sleeps toward the rising sun.
You go there?
When warm moons end. Then I bring supplies back here after cold moons.
Smoke turned to Swan. “Only seventy sleeps’ journey.”
A Soyappo handed Smoke a cup of firewater, and Blue Eyes lifted his own cup and shouted something. Swan recognized the word “Clark” as he reached down for Smoke’s hand and lifted it up. The Soyappos all shouted and threw their hats in the air. Smoke looked startled, but the whites’ good cheer pleased him.
She glanced at the ruddy one, Fitzpatrick. Red Hair, she signed, he is married?
The Soyappo nodded.
Children?
He turned to Blue Eyes for an answer, then turned back and signed: Four or five.
He travels to Shining Mountains?
The Soyappo shook his head, then signed: He is chief for dealing with many, many nations. Too busy.
Smoke touched her arm: “Perhaps we could travel there with these Soyappos.”
Swan looked away. She did not want to discourage her son, to let him know that the only husband she truly loved was her first. It might be fun to see Red Hair again after so many snows. But to travel 70 suns—no, she had no desire to endure that.
Daytime Smoke’s head felt light as they walked, almost as if it were floating. He had heard about the effects of firewater, but he had never felt them before.
The Soyappo tipis were spread in a large square at the northern end of the meadow, near the lakeshore. He could smell manure from their horses, which grazed to the east of the camp. At the west end of the square was a trading area, packs of furs stacked as high as a man could reach. But what caught his eye as he grew closer were the other goods for trade: bolts of red, blue, yellow, and green trade cloth; thinner, shiny cloth; heavy blankets with three black stripes, the kind he knew from King George trading posts. He walked over to examine them, and Black Eagle followed.
On blankets, next to the clothing, the Soyappos had laid out instruments for sewing: needles, awls, strange cutting tools made of two knives crossed. There were metal knives, axes, tomahawks, traps, flints, powder, balls, and fishhooks. Smoke picked up one of the axes and ran his finger along the sharp edge. He already had a scalping knife and a butcher knife, but he did not own an axe. “My mother wants one of these to cut down lodgepoles,” he said to Black Eagle.
“Sell a horse and buy her one.”
Farther down Smoke found what he was searching for, on a blanket surrounded by women: brightly colored beads, finger rings, earrings, necklaces, brass armbands, ribbons, shiny round silver balls, and vermillion. He wanted gifts for Darting Swallow. He watched as Nimíipuu women picked up the shiny round balls and shook them, making a tinkling music he had never heard.
He picked up a handful of beads and felt a hand clap him on the shoulder. It was Fitzpatrick, the Soyappo, with a cup of firewater in his hand. He handed the drink to Smoke, who took a swallow. It had a taste like falling leaves, like the end of the warm moons, and it burned as it went down.
Shopping for your wife? Fitzpatrick signed.
He shook his head no.
Girlfriend?
Smoke grinned. I hope so.
The Soyappo clapped him again. Indian ladies love blue beads.
Beaver Head and Bat That Flies appeared, on their buffalo runners. “Dog Lover,” Beaver Head called, “get your horse. We will win some trade goods from these pale skins!”
Smoke glanced at Fitzpatrick, who seemed to understand. You have a fast horse? the Soyappo signed.
Yes.
Go race. We’ll bet on you. If you win, we’ll buy you some plunder.
Surprised, Smoke glanced at his uncle.
“Where is your courage, Soyappo Boy?” Beaver Head shouted. He turned his black-spotted mare and strutted in front of Smoke, signing as he spoke, so everyone could understand: “Have these Soyappos turned you into a woman?”
The Soyappos jeered at him, and a thick one with wild black hair on his face and head seized Beaver Head’s bridle and shouted at him. The Soyappo looked even stronger and wider than Beaver Head.
Fitzpatrick put an arm around Smoke’s shoulders and said something.
“The Soyappos want you to race,” Black Eagle said.
Smoke handed his tin cup back to Fitzpatrick: “Then I will race.”
“Just be careful. Firewater affects your balance.”
He found his buffalo runner grazing in front of the lodge Black Eagle’s wives had set up. He untied her and attempted to leap up on her bare back. He felt clumsy, but he managed to clamber on and take the reins. The big roan turned and moved easily under him as she loped back toward the sparkling turquoise of the lake. She was a fine, strong mare, obedient to the slightest pressure. He fingered the medicine bundle that hung against his chest, said a brief prayer to Himíin, asking for help in the race.
The Soyappos cheered when he returned, and he could see them beginning to make wagers. The earless one approached and took his reins in one hand, stroked the mare’s neck with the other. Good horse, he signed. Fast?
Smoke nodded. The Soyappo turned and said something to the others, and they let out a series of whoops.
Three Soyappos joined the race. When the gun went off the roan leapt forward; it was all Smoke could do to hold on. He bent low over her neck, everything a blur as the horse moved beneath him, hooves barely touching the earth. Beaver Head and Bat That Flies, on his left, fell behind, and now it was just him and a Soyappo to his right. He leaned forward even farther, speaking into the roan’s right ear, urging her on, and she surged ahead, as if she were running buffalo. They flew past a group of Soyappos, and a cheer went up; out of the corner of his eye he saw the Soyappo who’d been at his side sit up and his horse slow. It took him a moment to realize the race was over, and he had won.
When he slowed the roan and turned back toward the finish line, he could see Soyappos celebrating. The one who had finished second waited for him, grinning at him. Fast horse, he signed. He leaned forward and thrust out a hand: “William Craig.”
Everyone was shouting, and someone thrust a cup of firewater up at Smoke. He raised the cup to the Soyappos, as he had seen them do, and they howled. He brought it down to his lips, threw back his head, and drained it.
His head swam as Black Eagle helped him down off the roan. Fitzpatrick clapped him on the back, exclaiming in his ear while the other Soyappos shouted their approval. Smoke noticed a group of women who had gathered, and his eyes found Darting Swallow’s. She smiled at him, and a surge of warmth moved through him like a storm.
Fitzpatrick pulled at him and said something, then signed: Come with us. You’ve earned us some good plunder—you deserve a reward.
He left the mare with Black Eagle, his head floating now as if detached, his lips numb. Fitzpatrick and William Craig led him to a blanket covered with soap, tobacco, and chunks of something hard and brown he had not seen before. Craig picked up a square of this and handed it to him, motioning for him to put it in his mouth. When he did the sensation shocked him: it was sweet, smooth, and rich. He savored it as it melted on his tongue, and his eyes showed his wonderment. “Chocolate,” Craig said with a grin.
Fitzpatrick laughed and clapped him again. He handed something to th
e trader, who gave each of them a square and another to Daytime Smoke.
We gather to trade every summer, Fitzpatrick signed. You will always be welcome.
He smiled and nodded.
Perhaps you could guide our trappers, Craig signed. You must know this country.
Smoke nodded again: Our people travel often in Buffalo Country. We visit our Flathead and Crow friends, and we fight Blackfeet.
We fight bloody Blackfeet, too, Fitzpatrick signed. He grabbed the bottle Craig held and thrust it into the air, shouting something about Blackfeet. Then he tilted it to his lips and took a long swallow.
Craig took the bottle back, held it to his own lips.
Find something for your girl, Fitzpatrick signed.
He moved down to the blanket with blue beads and picked up a handful.
They work for me every time, Craig signed, grinning. He reached down and picked up a small hide bag. She’ll like vermillion, too.
Daytime Smoke nodded.
Your wife?
He’s workin’ on her, Fitzpatrick signed, and the two men bent over and howled.
When he had recovered Fitzpatrick draped an arm over Smoke’s shoulder and pulled him close. He spoke in Soyappo, and Smoke did not understand. Craig threw him signs: Out here, a man never knows when he’s going under. You want a woman, you best go get her now.
Yes, Smoke nodded, he would take the beads and vermillion to Darting Swallow.
Craig raised the bottle in the air, threw back his head, and took a big swallow, then handed the bottle to Smoke, who did the same. He felt happy. These Soyappos were not like King George men, who wanted to trade but never to share their meals or their lodges. These Bostons had big hearts, and they knew his father. With them, his red hair and light skin gave him a place of honor.
Fitzpatrick took the bottle, then motioned and began walking toward the Nimíipuu camp. Smoke took a couple of steps, weaved, and stopped, his head spinning. Craig and Fitzpatrick each took one of his arms and slung it over their shoulders, and the three of them staggered toward the Nimíipuu camp. The sun had slipped behind the western hills, leaving the sky a fiery red. The two Soyappos began to sing. Smoke could not understand the words, but he liked the sound; their voices rose and fell in a pleasing manner. They were true friends, he thought. He would come here with them every year. Perhaps he would even show them where to find the beavers they loved so much, and they would take him to meet his father.
How they located Darting Swallow’s lodge he was not certain. But he found himself in front of her, the two Soyappos suddenly silent. She had been stirring a pot over the fire, but now she stood before him, an amused look in her eyes. He could smell burning sage and the red-hot rocks she used for heating soup. He unwrapped himself from his companions, smiled, and thrust his hand out toward her.
Her brow wrinkled in confusion. When he dropped the beads into her hand her eyes widened. “For you,” he said. Then he remembered the vermillion and held out the pouch with his other hand.
She took the vermillion, looked inside the pouch. “I cannot accept these,” she said, regaining her composure. “Not from a man made crazy by firewater.”
The two Soyappos spoke to her in their tongue, cajoling her and laughing, and she laughed in response.
“So, Dog Lover,” he heard, “firewater has given you courage to finally court this Cayuse girl you have been following around like a puppy!”
Why was Beaver Head here? Smoke turned and stared at him, then noticed all the Nimíipuu standing behind him, and it dawned on him that their singing had drawn a crowd. “So, Skunk Lover,” he retorted, “your brains have finally shrunk to the size of your balls?”
The young men with Beaver Head howled, and Darting Swallow laughed as well. Then the Soyappos were talking loudly in his ears and seizing his arms. They pushed him forward, and he understood that they wanted him to kiss her. She pushed him away, the beads and pouch still in her hands, a teasing smile on her lips. “Come back when your head is no longer full of firewater.”
She turned her back and walked toward her lodge. Beaver Head was bent over, laughing so hard tears were running down his cheeks. Fitzpatrick shrugged, then handed Smoke the bottle, and Craig slid down into a sitting position by the fire. Smoke was not sure what to do. He looked at the bottle in his hand, took a drink, and lowered himself to the ground. He knew she still had the beads and vermillion, and dimly, this seemed like a good thing. He would marry her, he thought, and together they would travel with these Soyappos to meet his father.
SIXTEEN
November 1827
Darting Swallow lay on her side, her right hand tracing patterns in the hair on Daytime Smoke’s chest. He was drowsy after lovemaking, but she was still flushed and fully awake. “Where shall we live, my husband?”
“We live here,” he mumbled. “We live where we are.”
“When we leave here, silly. Where will we go? To my village, or yours?”
This unspoken question had eaten at her every day in the almost two moons since their marriage. He had courted her all through the fur hunters’ gathering, meeting her every day at the lake when she went for water, buying her more gifts, playing his flute outside her family’s lodge. She had finally given in and kissed him in the cottonwoods near the lake, so he had left two of his best horses behind her family’s lodge. Her parents had left a buffalo robe and an axe for him in return. Swan Lighting on Water had moved in with Darting Swallow’s family from one full moon almost to the next, to observe Swallow and see if she would make a good wife. Then Smoke had come to live with them as they traveled north with the Soyappo fur hunters, to prove to her parents that he was a good hunter and could provide for her. Those days were torture—watching him sleep across the fire, dying to slip under his robe in the middle of the night. It was the same for him, he later told her; his body was on fire for hers. But if they were found together, marriage would have been out of the question. Her days dragged by as she waited for the Time When Tamaracks Lose Their Needles, which opened the season when marriage was allowed. Finally, when the tamarack turned yellow in the mountain valley they and the fur hunters had chosen for the winter, her parents gave their assent. They held a ceremony, a feast, and a giveaway for all who traveled with them—Cayuse, Nimíipuu, and Soyappos.
Smoke opened his eyes and looked over at her: “Among my people, if both families have plenty, it is customary to live with the husband’s family.” He hesitated. “But you may prefer another path. You would miss your family.”
She loved this about him. Most young men thought only of their own needs, but Daytime Smoke was not so blind. Perhaps because of his pale skin, because he had learned what it was to be looked down upon, he considered the needs of others. “We could stay with these Soyappos,” she said. “Hunt beavers.”
“Or go visit my father.”
She smiled at him. “Why not?”
Smoke woke early and went outside to relieve himself. As he made his way back toward camp, still half asleep, the night sky was just beginning to show gray in the east. Ahead, something moved among the tipis. He saw the rump of a horse; he hurried forward, spotted a man leading the horse out of camp.
“Tewelkas!” he shouted. “Stealing horses!” The stranger leapt on the horse and galloped east, toward the herd. Smoke could just make out the Nimíipuu horses, saw that they were moving north, away from the camp. He raced to his lodge, untied his buffalo runner, grabbed her mane, and jumped on her back. As he galloped toward the herd he heard a shot behind him.
He angled northeast to cut off the herd, his heart beating wildly. He fingered his medicine bundle, and his mind cleared. In the darkness, the thieves would not know he was unarmed. He looked behind him; men were pouring out of the tipis, and gunshots began to punctuate the night.
The herd loped north but he cut it off, pushed it east, kept pushing the lead horses to the right, to turn them back south. A few of the thieves were pointing at him now, but they had not charged him. M
ost had turned to fight the onrush from camp.
As the herd turned south he saw a rider racing toward him, something laid across his horse, in front of him. It was a person, struggling—a woman! The man raised an arm and struck her across the face, and she went still. Smoke turned his horse toward the man, who looked up, saw him, and dumped the woman to the ground. He lifted his rifle from a scabbard, and Smoke yanked his horse to the right, swung low beside her, hiding himself. It was difficult, without a saddle, and he could not get all the way over without a stirrup to support his weight. He flinched at the crack of the rifle but felt nothing. He peeked over the horse, saw the man was down. Black Eagle rode toward him, his firerock gun smoking.
Smoke pulled himself upright and watched the thieves flee. The fallen man did not move, so Smoke loped past him, toward the woman. When he dismounted she was sitting up, her hand to her cheekbone, one eye swelling shut above a red and angry cheek. It was Darting Swallow!
“Where is that Schemer dog?” she screamed.
“Schemer?”
“Blackfoot! Where is he?”
Smoke pointed: “Black Eagle shot him.” Darting Swallow rose and marched toward the fallen warrior, kicked him hard in the face. He groaned, and she leaned down, pounced on his bow, and wrenched it off his shoulder. She reached into his quiver, notched an arrow, and drove it through his heart.
They celebrated that night. They had lost no horses and taken three Schemer scalps, which they hung from a pole in the center of the longhouse. Everyone treated Smoke as the hero who had saved their herd. But he felt indebted to Black Eagle, who had saved his life. As the two of them painted themselves in preparation, William Craig and Jim Bridger brought a gift for Smoke, a bottle. They opened it and toasted him, and he convinced them—after a few drinks—to join the dancing. Craig’s Nimíipuu wife had braided his hair, which hung almost to his shoulders now. He wore no beard, but his mustache was so long and bushy it almost obscured his mouth.
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