Lawyer nodded, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth again. “Perhaps Major Lee is not as wise as Governor Lane.”
THIRTY-FIVE
June 1849
Little Fire waved her quirt at the mare, a young paint, white with large splashes of brown. The mare ran circles in the small pen Little Fire and her father had constructed. Little Fire moved closer, almost blocked the paint’s path, forced her to turn and run in the other direction. She had been circling for quite some time now, and Little Fire could see that she was fatigued.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Calf Shirt approach the pen, almost behind her. With his square jaw and the cleft in his chin, he was the best-looking young man among the Cayuse who traveled with them. All the Nimíipuu girls were enamored of him; they tanned his hides for him, made him clothes, smiled like idiots every time he appeared. Little Fire could see that none of this worked; Calf Shirt seemed bored by it. She could also see that his eyes were often on her. She knew she was attractive, and the less she flirted with him the more he watched her.
She ignored him, kept her back to him as she waved the quirt to keep the paint running. Finally she sensed that the mare’s fatigue was greater than her fear. She stopped waving and stood still, and the paint slowed down, watched her out of one eye, tossed her head. Finally she slowed to a halt and just looked at Little Fire. “You know me,” Little Fire said in a low voice. “You’ve known me since you were born. I’ve never hurt you. And I won’t hurt you now.”
The paint turned her head and stared at her with both eyes. Little Fire remained still. After a few minutes the mare took a step toward her, then another. Little Fire smiled, and the horse seemed to make a decision. She came close, let Little Fire reach out and stroke her face. “See, there’s nothing to fear,” Little Fire whispered. “Nothing at all.”
After Daytime Smoke and Little Fire survived the measles epidemic, they had left the Cayuse and joined Flint Necklace’s band. They had ridden into his village in midwinter, no food left, weak from the illness. Flint Necklace had taken them in, fed them, clothed them, and they had simply stayed. It had been the easiest path.
And now they were traveling with his band through the strangest land Little Fire had ever seen, toward Crow lands. The earth steamed and mud boiled. She was riding the paint when Calf Shirt loped in from the south. He pulled his horse next to hers. “Come with me,” he said. “There is something I want to show you.”
She tried to hide the thrill that ran through her. “That works with Cayuse girls?”
He laughed. “Red-spots disease took many Cayuse girls, so I must stoop to asking Nimíipuu girls.”
“Oh, I see.” She rolled her eyes and nudged the mare ahead, but Calf Shirt stayed beside her. They rode in silence, until her desire to be with him got the better of her. “What is it you want me to see?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I suppose that works with Cayuse girls, too?”
They both laughed, and she stopped her horse. He waited until the other riders were out of sight, then peeled off to the right, and she followed. Her dog, Likes Coyote, trotted after them.
Calf Shirt pulled up in a grassy meadow, and they dismounted. He took her bridle and tied the horses to a picket he drove into the earth.
“Sit down,” he said, beckoning to the grass.
“Now I know you are up to no good.” Likes Coyote sat a few feet away, ears pricked, alert for any sounds.
“You have never seen anything like this, I am certain.”
She glanced around them, then gave him a look. “No, we don’t have grass at home.”
He laughed: “Perhaps you can figure it out. Do you notice the circle of dirt where there is no grass?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that spot bare?”
She raised her eyebrows: “I have no idea. How long do I have to wait to find out?”
“I’m not certain.” His dark brown eyes held a mischievous look, and she could not resist him. She leaned toward him and kissed him. He kissed her back, put his arms around her. She started to lie back in the grass, but he held her up: “You’ll miss it.”
“This is not it?”
At that instant a huge geyser of water erupted, not far away. Her hand flew to her mouth, while Likes Coyote barked at the strange apparition.
“It happens several times each day,” Calf Shirt said.
The geyser sprouted for several minutes, then gradually subsided. “What is it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Some kind of water spirit we do not have at home.”
Daytime Smoke was gathering firewood when Calf Shirt approached him. Smoke glanced around, then asked, “You seek my daughter?”
Calf Shirt shook his head, dropped his eyes. He looked uncertain, the cockiness of youth nowhere in sight. “We are not related,” he finally stammered. “If you look in the trees behind your tipi, you will find gifts.”
Smoke stared, struck dumb.
Calf Shirt looked up at him, a question in his eyes, then turned and fled.
Smoke found two horses grazing behind their tipi. He untied them, walked them toward his daughter, who was making a fire. One was a buckskin, the other a bay, both long legged but slim in the withers. They would be fleet.
“Has Calf Shirt been courting you?” he asked.
Startled, she nodded.
“He has asked to marry you. These are his gifts.”
She stared at him for an instant, then burst into tears and embraced him.
“Daughter, how could I not know?”
She pulled back and laughed through her tears. “You did not know?”
“No.”
“Oh, Tota.”
He had been oblivious as his own daughter fell in love. He was still in a daze, grieving his losses, just managing to put one foot in front of the other. He hunted barely enough to feed them, talked little, smiled less. “Do you want to marry him?”
“Of course.”
“But what can we give in return? I have so little.” He had already traded most of his horses for food.
“Buffalo robes?” she suggested.
“And my bow.” Few Cayuse had bows made from the horns of a white buffalo, and they valued them highly.
“Yes.” She hugged him again. “Thank you, Tota.”
The next morning Widow Bird appeared at their tipi, in a traditional deerskin dress and basket hat. Dark of skin, with a wide face and high cheekbones, she was the elder sister of Calf Shirt’s mother. Smoke had known her husband, Grey Eagle, a powerful tewat in Five Crows’s band. A Soyappo bullet had killed him the winter before last, when the Cayuse fought the Soyappos; his death had sowed fear in Cayuse hearts, for he had proclaimed himself invincible in battle. Many Cayuse had since taken refuge with the Nimíipuu.
Smoke greeted her, brought out a folded buffalo robe for her to sit on, asked Little Fire to make mountain tea and bring out some qawas bread.
“We were pleased with your gifts,” Widow Bird said, still standing.
Little Fire beamed, crossed to her and they hugged, tears in their eyes. Smoke remembered feeling as Little Fire did, when Darting Swallow agreed to marry him. It had been the happiest day of his life. He turned away, shut his eyes against the pain. His daughter should not see him weep, not on this day.
“Calf Shirt is a fine man,” he said, when they were all seated. “I am sorry we did not have more to give.”
“We were grateful for your generosity,” Widow Bird replied. “I grew up with Little Fire’s mother; she was eight snows older than me. She was a fine woman.”
“I did not know.”
“Perhaps you know that Calf Shirt’s mother, my sister, also died of red-spots disease. I am her substitute.” She hesitated, glancing at Little Fire, then back at Smoke. “We face a delicate situation. You have no wife in your lodge. Were I to move in for a moon, as is traditional, people might …”
“Assume something they should not.”
“Yes.�
�
“Come and spend your days with us,” Smoke said. “You will see Little Fire’s work, how she keeps our lodge, how she cooks, makes our clothing, weaves our baskets. You will know soon enough that she will make a good wife. At night, go home to your own lodge.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “It is not how our people normally do this, but we no longer live in normal times.”
She met his eyes, and he could see his own sadness mirrored back to him.
They traveled through dense green forests and narrow river valleys. When they stopped, Widow Bird scraped hides with Little Fire, cooked with her, helped her weave baskets. Smoke learned that she had also lost her son to red-spots disease. Like Smoke, she was happy to be far away from Cayuse lands, where there was less to remind her of her losses. Smoke found her presence a salve, for she understood how he felt. She told him she still woke at night expecting her husband to be next to her, and her son visited her often in dreams. He had seen 12 springs when he died.
They camped that night in an open plain, under a star-washed sky. They were up high, so even during the warmest moons the nights were cool. Widow Bird was about to leave when a shooting star crossed the heavens. The two women smiled and pointed, and Widow Bird turned to say something to him, then stopped: “Are you all right?”
He fought to control his emotions. “A shooting star was my wife’s wyakin.”
Widow Bird’s eyes softened.
He picked up a log, threw it on the fire, watched the sparks fly upward. “I ask myself, why did so few Soyappos die? Was Man Above punishing us for abandoning our traditional ways, for harming Mother Earth with our farming? Or did their Jesus protect them?”
She took a long breath, let it out slowly. “I spent a long time asking why my sister and husband and son died. I am a healer, but I could not save my own son. Do you know what my wyakin told me?”
“What?”
“It is best not to try to understand these things.”
He gazed at her. It was the kind of thing his mother would have said.
“Perhaps you should stop trying,” she said.
If it were only that easy, he thought. But it felt good to talk to her. He had never talked with anyone about his loss, had kept it bottled up inside him. But it was easy with Widow Bird, because she had endured the same thing.
They wound their way down out of the mountains and camped by the Stinking Water, in a red rock canyon that led to the plains. The wind blew through the junipers, bending the dry grass, sending small pieces of brush scurrying across the ground.
In the morning, Smoke shot a prairie hen, and Widow Bird plucked it, cut it up, and made a stew. Little Fire had been watching her father and Widow Bird together, and what she saw pleased her. “You and Widow Bird get along well,” she told him.
He nodded.
“Perhaps you should marry her.”
His eyes grew large, as if he thought she had gone mad. “Can you think of nothing other than marriage?”
She laughed. “She would make a good wife. She is beautiful, and kind, and wise.”
“Yes, but …”
She waited. “But what?”
He shook his head. “I cannot remarry.”
“Mother would want you to go on with your life.”
“It is not that.” He looked away, searching for words. “I was meant for your mother.”
Little Fire put down her spoon and turned to him: “It is time to let her go.”
“How does one do that?”
“Find a way.”
“If it were only so easy.”
“But you are not trying. You live in your memories. You have done nothing to create a new life. It has been more than four seasons.”
He stared at the ground, and the breeze brought the smell of rotting eggs from the river. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.
“Next summer, Calf Shirt and I will return to Cayuse lands. We want you to come with us.”
He stared at her in dismay. “You cannot live on Cayuse lands. There are too many Soyappos.”
“I grew up with Soyappos. Why should I fear them?”
“Are you blinded by love? Their diseases kill us! If you plan to live with Cayuse, I withdraw my permission for you to marry.”
“Permission?” Her eyes snapped, just as her mother’s had. “I don’t need your permission.”
He glared at her: “You cannot have a wedding without my permission, and if you live with Calf Shirt without marriage, you will be an outcast.”
“An outcast with who? My Cayuse people?”
“You are Nimíipuu!”
“And Cayuse! And Soyappo, just like you! I have lived with all three nations, and I will live where I choose! Soyappos don’t ask permission to marry. And our Cayuse brothers will take us in with open arms!”
For three days they barely spoke. Little Fire told him he was being unreasonable, living in the past. He repeated that she could not wed in a Nimíipuu ceremony.
Finally Widow Bird sat down next to him, when he was smoking. Both of them gazed at the fire for a time, before she said, “Forgive me for intruding, but you must let her go.”
“My wife?”
“Your daughter.”
He stared straight ahead. “There is too much danger in Cayuse lands.”
“Calf Shirt can take care of her.”
“That’s what I thought with my family.”
They both knew he was right; Calf Shirt could offer no defense against disease.
“Go with her.”
“I cannot live there.”
“You would rather live in Buffalo Country, alone?”
“I would rather live in Buffalo Country, with my daughter and her husband.”
“That is not one of your choices.”
By custom, Little Fire and Calf Shirt had to wait until the Season When Tamaracks Lose their Needles before they could marry. This custom they chose to respect. Flint Necklace led everyone to his favorite Crow village, near the mouth of the Elk River, and the Crows greeted them with joy. They celebrated late into the night, drummers pounding out their rhythms and singing their Crow songs, dancers in wild costumes.
The Nimíipuu and Cayuse joined in, but Daytime Smoke’s heart was too heavy. The Crow chief, Two Buffaloes, came to him, invited him to join the dancing, but he declined. When Flint Necklace explained that Smoke was still mourning his wife and son and mother, the old chief disappeared into his lodge, then returned and handed Smoke a hollowed-out buffalo horn with a wood stopper. Smoke opened it, smelled firewater. He tipped it up to his mouth and felt the rich taste, almost like autumn. It was the first whiskey he had tasted in many snows.
Two Buffaloes put a hand on his shoulder, a small smile on his aged, furrowed face, and told him to take it all. He thanked the chief, sipped the whiskey, and watched the dancers until he began to feel its effects. Then he wandered away from the camp and climbed a grassy hill nearby. He could still feel the drumbeats in his chest, hear the shrill cry of the singers, but they grew more distant as he climbed, until he found himself at the top, under a canopy of stars. He took another sip, rolled it around his tongue. Then he sat down in the grass, lay back, and gazed up at the stars. He thought he had never seen a sky of such beauty and pain.
He remembered watching the night skies with Darting Swallow after lovemaking, waiting for shooting stars. She did not like his drinking, but she had never tried to stop him, only reminded him how he would feel the next day, always with a laugh. She had never let Takes Plenty taste firewater, though. The poor boy had never had the chance to get drunk, nor to make love, nor to steal horses, nor to prove his courage in war. Smoke choked back tears, thinking of all his son had missed.
He missed the boy more than words could express. He was a fine young man, tall and thin and strong, a brilliant horseman, good with a bow or rifle. He was kind to his mother and sister, a good provider. Hunting with his son had been Smoke’s greatest pleasure, and the knowledge
that he would never again experience it pierced his heart.
A shooting star flashed by in the west—a sign from Darting Swallow? A desperate longing filled his heart. Why could she not come down to him, for this one night? He called out to her, reached up toward the sky with his free hand. Could she hear him, from the Land Above? A breeze caressed him, like an answer. Was she here? With him? He wanted her so badly, wanted to talk to her, hold her, make love to her. He could see her slim body on top of his, her small breasts, the way she would shudder and cry out in pleasure. He could feel her, here, touching him. Her hands, her mouth, her body. He touched himself, and she pressed close upon him, moved gently. He could feel her warm breath, smell her soft skin. She moved faster, moaned, and he found himself gathering in urgency, his force mounting, more and more intense, until finally he burst.
He lay spent, his eyes closed.
Sometime later a wolf howled, and two more answered. Daytime Smoke wept.
THIRTY-SIX
May 1850
Timothy had volunteered to lead a force of 20 warriors into the mountains where Crawfish Walking Backwards and his people had taken refuge. The Nimíipuu found them and killed Crawfish Walking Backwards’s son, but they were unable to capture the group. Then Crawfish and his people ran out of food in the deep snows of winter, and when Five Crows and his brother sent emissaries offering food if they came in to talk, they finally appeared. They agreed to stand trial, as a way to save the Cayuse nation from destruction. When a Soyappo asked Crawfish Walking Backwards why he had given himself up, he replied, “Did not your missionaries teach us that Christ died to save his people? So do we, if we must, to save our people.”
Lawyer and Timothy sat through all three suns of the trial with Reverend Spalding, who now had a farm in the Willamette Valley. At least 300 people crowded the courtroom in Oregon City, which smelled of fresh pine. Every seat was taken, and many were standing in back.
Lawyer did not understand everything that went on, but he listened as the women and children from the Whitmans’ mission told their stories. He was impressed by how the Soyappos conducted the trial, carefully amassing evidence, attorneys for both sides questioning each witness, all in perfect order. Witnesses identified four of the five Cayuse as killers, but some of their statements conflicted. Lawyer did not believe they had proven that all four were guilty, and he was confident that at the very least, Left Hand would be released. None of the witnesses had even mentioned him, and Reverend Spalding agreed that he could not be found guilty.
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