Sacajawea (126 page)

“And so—what happened to you?” Pronghorn demanded sternly of the unfortunate one.

“I stumbled and swallowed the water,” he said miserably.

“Go. Your tepee.”

The boy turned away without a word. His father, sitting among the other men, rose and followed him silently. He was much ashamed.

Sacajawea half ran to catch up with them. “Do not feel too badly,” she said. “There will be other times. Your boy can be a leader of the Quohadas. There will be many changes before he is a grown man. Tell him to keep his eyes open and watch the changes and understand them. He will find his own opportunity to show his worth.”

The man stood stock-still. Never had a woman talked to him in such a bold manner. Sacajawea realized she had acted on impulse and out of empathy for the father and son. She did not hang her head; she looked the man in the face and smiled. She felt a strange elation at breaking a strict code. Or, she thought, was the elation for causing the father of a fine boy to think not just of the present but of the future? She turned and made her way back to Spring; yet her head did not bow.

Spring had not missed her. Two twelve-year-olds were wrestling. They wrapped their wiry arms around each other and struggled for a hold. The men and other boys squatted, watching silently. Soon bets were made as the boys twisted and tightened their holds. A boy called Wolf grabbed his opponent’s wrist and, twisting his arm around his back, began to exert an upward pressure. The smaller boy, Turkey, fought to get away, but Wolf continued to force the arm upward and Turkey beganto bite his lips. Wolf raised the arm another degree, and the smaller boy’s face contorted in pain as he strove to keep himself from crying “Enough.” The men watched stolidly. Wolf kept up the leverage until Turkey thought his arm would break. Then quickly he managed to twist around and catch Wolf under his leg with his free arm and throw him down. Before Wolf could recover, Turkey was on top of him, his knees digging into his groin, his arms pinning Wolf’s shoulders to the ground. Then the smaller boy moved swiftly and got a headlock on Wolf and wrapped his legs around his waist and began to squeeze. Wolf’s face filled with blood, and his eyes began to bulge.

The men and boys watching made no move.

Wolf suddenly relaxed, but he still did not cry quits. Turkey squeezed still harder; then Wolf fainted, and his head rolled loosely on his shoulders. Turkey rose, and Pronghorn threw water on Wolf’s face.

“It was brave,” Sacajawea said so that all could hear. “The boy you call Wolf did not give up.”

“Ai,”
Kicking Horse said. “He is my son. I will pay all bets.”

“But he did not give up,” said Sacajawea.

“And so—it is true he did not utter a word,” agreed Big Badger, standing up and facing the men. “And so, then—let all bets be canceled for this contest. We will go to another.”

Next the boys were given slings and led to a flat place where there were many small round stones on the ground. They lined up with four on one side and four on the other. They separated to a distance of about twenty-five feet and then, at a signal from Pronghorn, picked up stones, fitted them into the leather slings, and hurled the stones at each other. They had to hurl the stones and try to dodge the stones thrown at them. The stones were not light, but they were expertly thrown. Some hit arms and legs. One boy was hit on the chest. Another struck a boy near his eye. Blood streamed down his face, but he did not stop. With one eye blinded, he continued to hurl and dodge stones. Wolf, a little groggy from his wrestling, was not as fast as he might have been, and a stone struck him on the wrist, causing it to snap back. He tried to continue to pick up stones andthrow them, but the pain was too great and he dropped out of the contest without a word and walked away.

Sacajawea noticed that he went to a small creek. When she was sure no one would follow him, she moseyed toward the creek. She spoke firmly to Wolf, who was staring at his hand; it dangled oddly at the end of his arm. She held the arm and hand gently in the cold water, then quickly pushed the broken bone together and tied it, with the tongues of her moccasins serving as a sheath, and the lacings the bindings. She pushed the arm and sheath in the creek, explaining to Wolf, who lay beside the creek, his face pale, that when the sheath dried, it would become a tight band holding the bone in place until it was well grown together.

“Come back to me when the winter wind howls around the tepees,” she told him. “Then your arm will be like it was when the sun shone on it this morning.”

Wolf shook his head. Never had he known of a woman who took over the healing. He would tell his father, Kicking Horse, about this Medicine Woman.

After the sling contest, the boys took small bows and arrows and shot at each other. Then there was a footrace to a point four hundred yards away and back. Wolf came to watch, sitting not far from Sacajawea. The boy with the bloodied eye moved close to Wolf. Soon Wolf motioned for her to follow them back to the creek.

At Wolf’s request, Sacajawea cleansed the boy’s face. The eye was not damaged, but the soft skin underneath was cut so that a flap hung loose. The bleeding had subsided, but the boy was quite weak from the loss of so much blood. With his eye closed he said, “This will make a large scar when it heals.”

“Ai,” murmured Wolf. “That is life.”

“No,” said Sacajawea. “I will show you how to sew it with a fine bone needle.”

“Sew it?” asked Wolf, even more curious about this woman who had not been in their village long, who spoke so boldly and acted with confidence. He followed her to her tepee, where she found a small bone needle among Spring’s sewing. Quickly returning to the creek, she told Wolf to push a wad of soft grass under the injured boy’s head.

“It will hurt a few moments, but your face will notbe scarred when it heals. After one full moon, pull out the stitches.”

“And you do this for the son of Twisted Horn?” asked Wolf incredulously.

“Ai.
Who is this Twisted Horn?” Sacajawea asked, taking several long hairs from the boy’s head.

“He can no longer hunt or go raiding because his legs grow weak and he cannot stand. His woman must beg food for her lodge.”

The boy groaned and rolled his head to and fro on the ground. “I will be able to hunt soon,” he said weakly.

“Hold him so that he will not cry out or thrash me with his arms,” she ordered Wolf. She sewed the boy’s face together with his own hair as sutures. When she was finished, she laid the fine bone needle in the hand of the son of Twisted Horn. “Put this in your medicine bag. Always use the hair from the head of the wounded one.”

She got to her feet and was moving toward the crowd to see other contests when she was aware of a woman standing near. It was Gray Bone, the mother of Wolf. The boy indicated to his mother that Sacajawea was a friend. “She is Wadzewipe,” he said.

“A brave boy,” murmured Sacajawea. “He will one day be a medicine man or a brave warrior.”

“You heal his arm? You did not let his father do that?”

“And so—I did not know his father to ask. His father did not step forward to look after your boy.”

“His father is Kicking Horse! You are a she-dog!” Gray Bone moved on hurriedly, her face red with anger.

Wolf was already on his way to other contests, holding his broken wrist close to his chest. The son of Twisted Horn had walked slowly to his own lodge.

Gray Bone turned back and faced Sacajawea, her lips tight against her teeth. “You want my son to be a baby?”

Sacajawea did not know what to say. “Well, so—of course not. Your boy will be strong and endure all things. He cannot grow strong if he is broken before he grows into manhood—if he has only one hand to use.”

“Aha,” spat Gray Bone. “You draw attention to yourself and disgrace our sons by treating them like babies. Their wounds will heal without your interfering.”

“There is a thing called rotten flesh that makes wounds grow large and red and slowly kills a strong body. Surely you have seen it. This can be kept small by a wash in clear water.”

“Aha, what do you know? You are a stranger, not one of us. You are a woman who does not keep her tongue tight, but lets it hang loose for all to hear.” Gray Bone spoke in a tight, high-pitched voice.

“The Great Spirit does not wish fine Comanche boys to die. He does not wish for you to weep for your son because he has a crooked wrist.”

“Do not talk!” shouted Gray Bone. “It is enough to have Quohada boys treated like babies, their wounds healed by a squaw, a stranger, and not by the Medicine Man. Remember it was Kicking Horse who brought your health to you. Are you so ungrateful that you cannot call him for healing wounds?”

“He did not make a move to help the boys,” repeated Sacajawea, trying to plead innocent in the face of these loud accusations. “He sat with the men, watching the contests and betting.”

“You did look at him?”

“Well, so—
ai,
I did look to see if he was going to help.”

“You—you flirt, Nyahsuqite!”

“My eyes are clear,” Sacajawea said, her anger up now. “A cloud has descended and now covers the vision of some people.”

“How would you know what I see? You do not have a man. You do not have a child. You could not feel as I do about my son. I do not wish him to grow into manhood being treated like a baby or a girl.”

“I treated him neither way. He was not disgraced. The others know of his bravery.” Sacajawea tried to control her rage with this crazy woman who could not seem to understand that she had only wanted to help. “There was no intent to insult,” Sacajawea said, hating herself for speaking so before this woman.

Gray Bone continued, “You leave my man and boy alone. Or I will see that Hides Well knows about your flirting. Perhaps Chief Pronghorn will have your nose cut off. Then you would be good for nothing except to satisfy the passions of men who have no women. Yourface would not be so beautiful, ha-ha. They would take you in the bush only on moonless nights so they could not see what they had. You—you Nyahsuqite!”

Sacajawea turned and walked away, keeping silent.

For most of the early winter, Sacajawea kept busy helping Spring and Hides Well make clothing with the buffalo hair on the inside, even on the moccasins. Strips of buffalo and elk meat were dried. When they were stiff, hard, and almost black, they were carried to a ledge at the back of the village and pounded in shallow holes in rocks until they were a powderlike meal. Then the meal, whitish with a few dark fibers, was put in large rawhide boxes, covered with a layer of pounded meat, a sprinkling of shelled pecans, a layer of dried plums or sand cherries, and another layer of pounded meat. When the boxes were full, the women poured boiling tallow, rendered out clear, over it all and let it soak in.

“There is no need to be a stranger here,” Hides Well said. “You can be one of our people.”

“Ai,”
Sacajawea said, looking from Hides Well to Spring. “Your family has been kind to me.”

“It is said that there is a new name by which some call you,” mentioned Hides Well, swinging her close-cropped hair back and forth.

“Ai.”
Sacajawea hung her head. “I do not behave in the manner expected of a woman. I have been too long without a village of my own people.”

“Pah, it is a name bestowed by jealousy.” Hides Well’s words were not emphasized, but Sacajawea flushed.

“I have gone by several names, as the custom of our people is to have a name that fits the appearance or some deed we committed.”

“So—Gray Bone is a wise and brave woman; the name she awarded is the name you prefer?”

Sacajawea looked around in discomfort. She felt she was losing face, and she did not know how to stop it.

“Do you wish to talk of my name?”

“Ai,”
said Spring, coming for more hot tallow. “You have not forgotten the ways of your people. You have been among others and seen more. You do things in adifferent manner—with a different attitude. And so—it is the attitude.”

Hides Well growled at Spring, and then suddenly there was a crack of her hand against the young woman’s thigh. Sacajawea jumped. Though watching, it had taken her by surprise, but Spring did not wail. Instead she giggled, a sort of chuckling, water-over-stones sound that made Sacajawea smile.

Hides Well seemed to fill out until she was larger than herself. She threw back her shoulders, and her face grew stern. “My daughter, Spring, will keep silent. I speak to just one here.” Then, turning to Sacajawea: “You lived among the whites?”

“Ai,”
Sacajawea answered. “I suppose it must be told. I had a man who was part white, part Sioux. I lived near the white village, Saint Louis. I saw two boys grown. One was all mine. The boys went to the white man’s school and understand markings on paper. They work for white men.” Briefly she told about her trip to the Great Western Waters. Hides Well looked at her with disbelieving eyes. Sacajawea could not go on. She bit her tongue.

“You say this of yourself?” Hides Well’s face, dark already, went darker still.

“I do not hide anything from you. You have asked me a straight thing, and I have answered straight, as a man speaks to another man, to explain himself.”

Hides Well was long in replying. As if the sight of Sacajawea bleakened and soured her, the cords of her neck tautened and her mouth became flat. Her black eyes seemed to look at Sacajawea from across a great distance.

This distance is the difference between myself and these people, Sacajawea thought, and it has to be crossed now if I am to remain here. She twisted her hands together. She had to get to Hides Well from where she was.

“You are a brave woman to tell me of this,” Hides Well said at last. “You speak with a straight tongue, maybe.”

“Good Lord! There is no fork in my tongue,” said Sacajawea. “If permitted, I will live with your people a few winters. Then I will leave to find my own son andlive with him. I cannot go to him now. He is gone to a land across the Great Eastern Waters, but only for two or three winters.”

Hides Well looked from the west to the east, then shook her head.

“I have spoken to you not knowing whether I will be permitted to look for my son. The end of my time may be today—or tomorrow. Only the good Lord knows, damn it to hell!”