Sacajawea (152 page)

Sacajawea was so overwhelmed that she could not make a sound for several long moments. Her mind searched for some supernatural explanation. Slowly and deliberately she lowered her arms and turned for another side view. Awestruck, she felt the presence of the Great Spirit all around as she reverently gazed at the image of mother and child with a spectrum of violet-through-red around their heads.
¹

The sun rose higher and the shadow slowly disappeared. The wall of fog evaporated and Sacajawea clearly saw the river and another game trail.

For many days after that her mind dwelt on the shadow picture. She was unable to connect it with anynatural cause and effect, such as relative position of the sunlight, thick fog, and where she stood on the rock ledge or reflection, refraction, and dispersion. Thus, she turned to superstition, to some powerful, magical force that was a sign to her. She decided it was a sign that she was to have a large, full life, that she was headed in the right direction and that she would be protected by this rainbow light. This explanation satisfied her.

Each night Sacajawea was more exhausted. She climbed from the horse, pulled the packs off, and lay on the earth with her child sheltered in her arms. Each night she looked for the North Star in order to start out in the right direction in the morning. Crying Basket licked cracked lips and asked for water more often. Sacajawea longed for meat to put flesh on the bones of Crying Basket and herself. Their diet had become one of bare subsistence.

There was a breath of winter in the sharp, dry air as they rose into the shaggy foothills bordering the plains. Now they found berry bushes with ripe fruit. They crossed old beaver dams, but saw not a beaver. The beaver had once been rich in the small streams, but by this time were gone. Unknown to Sacajawea, the spot was too accessible to trappers. She guided the horses through black junipers and scrub piñon, then back to the grizzliness of blade-leafed soapweed, grease-wood, and cactus. The going grew rough. Eventually they forded another river. It was hard now to separate one river from another, or how or where the crossing had been made.

One day she saw dust feathering out against the sky. She knew it meant men on horseback.

Forgetting the riders that night, Sacajawea built a fire to keep the chill away. Crying Basket’s legs were covered with scabs, and her feet were scratched and cut. Sacajawea cut an old tepee skin to bind them. The child’s nose seemed pinched and pointed, and her scrawny fingers all thin bone. The horses were thin and gaunt. She looked at her own feet, which were bruised, swollen, and torn, with blackened nails. Her hands were rough and cracked. As she cut bindings for her feet, shethought neither she nor her child could travel many more days; even the horses were ready to drop.

Sacajawea lay in a stupor with Crying Basket in her arms. She had heard the horses coming, but had no strength to hide. And then she heard the horses stop, and opened her eyes, and saw Mexican soldiers with broad hats staring down at her. There were many of them.

“Con su permiso,”
the nearest soldier said. ”
Pobrecita.”
He pointed to the starving child, then to the two thin horses. Most of the soldiers were mounted on fat black Mexican horses.

“Agua?”

Frightened, she slowly sat up with as much dignity as she could muster. She answered, “No water. It is gone.”

A man offered her a drink from a
copita,
a small silver cup. She gave it to the child first. In a few moments the soldiers, or dragoons, had all dismounted and were setting up a rest camp.

“We travel again, before sunup,” explained the first soldier in slow Spanish and with hand signs. Someone brought a plate of pinto bean paste and
panocha,
a gluey brown pudding made from dried wheat sprouts. Crying Basket dipped fingers into the food, then licked them noisily.

“Are you lost?” another soldier asked in Spanish, also using hand signs.

“I am going north to the white man’s fort,” Sacajawea answered, less frightened and more curious about these soldiers who had found her path. “I look for my son.”

“Your
muchacho
is lost?”

“No, he is cholo—too grown to be lost.” She measured a full-grown man with her fingertips held high.

“Ah, he is half-white. You have a white husband?”

“No.” She shook her head, wanting to ask the man questions herself, but a deep weariness overcame everything and her hands dropped back in her lap.

A man with a red serape came to her. “I’ll take the papoose.”

Her mind woke, and she felt ill from eating much too fast.

“No, no! Do not take the child! No!”

“I am sorry,” the man’s face was reddening. “I did not mean to frighten you, señora. I only wanted to help so that you could rest before we travel. You may ride with us to the fort. We will call when we start. I will leave the child. But if she is hungry, we have more food.”

He was gone before she could reply. Crying Basket was asleep, curled beside her. Sacajawea tried to think her situation out, but fell asleep long before the sun set.

Long before the sun rose, the man in the red serape was back. “I mean for you to ride this horse, señora,” he called softly. She stirred and rubbed her eyes. Patiently he held the reins of a sleek black mare. “You will ride with us. Your horses will follow in our pack train.”

“Where?”

“We go looking for
americano
fur traders in Mexican Territory. The men who steal mules from Mexican towns. We ride to Bent’s Fort.”

“Bent’s?” she asked, fully awake.

“Who else, the white
conquistadores
!” shouted one of the mounted soldiers.

She saw her horses being led to the back line, the travois in place. She nudged Crying Basket.

“I will ride beside you and hold the child for a while,” the man said. “You do not look too strong.”

Sacajawea mounted the black mare and tried to keep up with the man who carried Crying Basket.

That evening one of the soldiers gave Sacajawea a pair of huaraches in place of the leather bandages on her feet. Another Mexican soldier gave her some soothing oil to rub on the child’s dry skin and parched lips. For the first time she saw the pack train and the mules and muleteers. Their conical hats were covered with oilcloth peaked above their long dark hair. Their heads were thrust through holes in coarse, bright-hued blankets, and their leather pantaloons were split down the sides, revealing a loose pair of cotton drawers beneath. Enormous spur rowels jangled on their heels; their saddles bore sweeping leather skirts and wooden stirrups. To her they were ridiculous-looking. As soon as the mule team was hitched the next morning, one muleteermounted the right-hand wheel mule, and another climbed aboard the left-hand mule of the span behind the leaders. The rest of the hands armed themselves with whips and took positions on either side of the team. At a shout from the chief muleteer, all fell to, whooping, spurring, whipping. The mules brayed and plunged. This was brutal but effective; they set themselves into the collars in fine, smooth style. Sacajawea’s thin horses were tied behind.

The next evening, she was given a
capita
, a small cloak, to ward off the night chill. And a soldier dug deep into his pack to find a bright yellow shawl for the child.

In a few days Crying Basket’s eyes were bright in the night firelight. She danced while the men sang. She is like Pomp was, Sacajawea thought to herself.

Slowly the dragoons moved over the northern Mexican Territory until midmorning one day when the horses were stopped. Someone pointed, and all eyes were on the north bank of a river.
“Americano’.”
someone shouted.

Sacajawea squinted her eyes and saw an American flag, red-and-white stripes, similar to the ones used by Captain Lewis and Chief Red Hair. It was flying in the front of an adobe structure. She had never seen anything like this. Beyond the white-walled fort were low sand hills; at one side were small chalk bluffs and ledges of rock. Bordering the river were bottomlands that high water might flood, but in good seasons there would be enough grass for many horses. The man in the serape pointed far southwest to two humps. “Spanish Peaks,” he said. He pointed far northwest to a dim dome. “Pike’s Mountain,” he said. Directly in front were sunflowers and the lark sparrows dipped. “Bent’s Fort,” said the soldier.

The rectangular fort faced eastward toward the approaching train of Mexican dragoons. Sacajawea noticed that on top was a high watchtower with holes to look through. She did not know that in the tower was a large telescope through which one could see for miles around. Musketry and small field cannons were mounted on top of the walls. They approached the main door made of wood and almost completely covered with headsof nails to prevent Indians from cutting through it or shooting their arrows into it.

Sacajawea could see that this was not ordinary. The fort stood out like beautiful white walls of a canyon. The door opened, and the dragoons went in, followed by the muleteers.

A small man, walking briskly, came from the back part of the buildings inside. He had a tanned, clean-shaven face. “Bill Bent,” said someone. He shook hands with the dragoon captain and talked several minutes, then smiled and motioned for the men to lead their horses and mules to the corral. Sacajawea saw her two horses being led to water and a meager pile of hay. Crying Basket clung to her mother’s tunic once they were dismounted, her eyes wide.

Bill Bent was aware that this year, 1841, Governor Manuel Armijo had denounced his fort, together with all similar American posts near the Mexican border, as “shelters of thieves and contraband, instigators of Indian forays against Mexican citizens, and a constant menace to the welfare and independence of New Mexico.” Bill Bent was friendly. He wanted to trade with Mexicans, for the fort needed flour and salt.

The dragoon captain had come to trade flour, beans, salt, and pepper for American guns and ammunition and to look at the mules in the corral. Some just might have been stolen in Mexican Territory and brought here. It was his business to find out.

A young Cheyenne woman, neatly dressed in a long-skirted gingham dress, came out to the
placita
and, seeing Sacajawea standing apart from the men, opened the swinging iron gate. She motioned for Sacajawea to come through.

“That’s Owl Woman, Bill Bent’s wife,” said the man in the serape as she walked past the gate.
²

“Ai,”
said the woman softly to Sacajawea. “You have come a long way. I would like to hold your child. She seems so small.” They sat together on a wooden bench on the narrow porch. Sacajawea tried to talk in Comanche, then Shoshoni, and then with hand signs and a smattering of Spanish and English she was able to make herself understood. Owl Woman used her handsconstantly as she rocked to and fro with Crying Basket on her lap.

“My man will see that the white medicine man takes a look at your baby. He will have a salve for her legs and feet.”

“The Mexican soldiers were kind and gave us some oil,” Sacajawea said.

“Do you go back to Taos with them?”

“Oh, no,” said Sacajawea.

“Is one of them your man? The one in the red serape?”

“No.” Sacajawea grinned. “I came alone. Our paths came together. I am looking for one called Jean Baptiste Charbonneau.” Sacajawea’s heart beat faster at the mention of her quest. She watched Owl Woman.

“No, he is not here.”

Sacajawea’s heart fell. So—it was a wild-goose chase after all. Her son had never been here.

“He was here a few moons back, at the ending of winter.”

“You saw him?” Sacajawea’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Ai, Bap Charbonneau gets supplies and packs his buffalo robes here. He goes by boat down the Platte River to Saint Louis.”

Sacajawea’s hands flew to her face, covering her mouth. Tears stung at the back of her eyes. Baptiste had been here. At this place! She was not able to be stoic and hold the flood of tears back. They poured down her face.

“That Bap—he did something terrible to you?”

Sacajawea could only raise her hands in the Comanche manner and look toward the heavens and give prayful thanks to the Great Spirit for keeping her tired and worn moccasins on the right path. Finally she whispered, “He is my firstborn. My own.”

“You? You are Bap’s mother?” asked Owl Woman in amazement. “Once he told me his mother carried him to the Great Western Waters on her back. I think he joked with me.”

“Ai, he told the truth. We were with white soldiers and one black one called York.”

“York?” Owl Woman looked puzzled.

“At, and Chief Red Hair. We have lived in Saint

Louis, and my boys went to the school. They can use the talking leaves and make marks on paper.”

“Read books? Your boys?”

“Ai.
Baptiste and Tess.”

“Tess?”

“Did one called Toussaint come with Baptiste?”

“No,” said Owl Woman, shaking her head in confusion. “I know all who come here. And I know Baptiste. Handsome. Cheyenne girls make eyes with him. But he does not take a woman. He is strong. Good on a horse. Old Comanche woman, is this your son? True?”

Out in the corral there was an argument going on. Bill Bent was trying to calm several dragoons. “None of the men who work for me make runs in your territory,” said Bent. “They are aware that you will confiscate their money and furs and jail them.”

“Señor Bent,” said one dragoon, “we had mules stolen near Santa Fe. We overheard the men say they were coming this far north. We have tried to follow them.”

“You know who they were?”

“No, we do not know the names of these mule thieves.”

“No doubt they are renegades and a long way from here by now.”

The men seemed satisfied for the time being and moseyed back into the
placita.
³

“See,” said Owl Woman. “Small White Man there? He is my man and will feed those soldiers and their muleteers and they will buy supplies and go on by tomorrow. There will be no trouble here.”