Sacajawea (159 page)

Sacajawea turned to her and said in Shoshoni, “Take the girls to the lodge. I will be there soon. It is important to talk with these men. I have to talk now.”

Toward Morning shrugged her shoulders and walked to where the little girls were petting a large yellow dog. She beckoned to them, then left through the open front gate, still puzzled by the behavior of her new friend.

Jake leaned toward Sacajawea just a little, saying, “Now, just tell me a thing. What you want to get by tracking someone you haven’t talked with in thirtyyears, besides maybe a kick in the backside and a heartache?”

Sacajawea looked thoughtful and bland. “So what?” She made quick hand signs. “He is my papoose. I can rest easier if I see for myself that he is a man.” She shook herself and disturbed a dozen flies that had settled on the blanket covering her.

Louis Vasquez came to the other side of the counter and frowned. “Jake is right. Let me ask you, old woman. You ever think about what’s in front of tomorrow?”

This French-Spanish trapper and trading-post operator was glum and serious. He pointed his finger accusingly. “You’re not so young anymore, and you might find it hard to reckon with the way your son lives and thinks. Haven’t you ever thought that he might not want to meet up with his mama particularly?”

Sacajawea looked skeptical as her mind worked. “Do you ever think about having somebody look after you when you can do nothing?” She looked at Vasquez appraisingly. “My people,” she went on, “take care of fatherless children and the old. They are proud to help. When I am old, it will be in my own way and I won’t beg from my son.” For a moment Sacajawea’s eyes clouded with anger; then they were devoid of expression.

“I understand what she’s saying,” said Jake. “If she no longer belongs with her son, she wants to know, and she’ll make out best she can. Happen she gets hurt, she’ll crawl off to lick her own cuts.”

Vasquez grunted. “Well,” he said obliquely, considering Sacajawea, “it’s none of my business.”

Sacajawea smiled as if to acknowledge an apology.
“Ai,”
she said. “It would give me a fine feeling to know someone worries about me.”

Jake smiled and nodded, motioning her to follow him into the blacksmith shop. They left Vasquez trading with the remaining Shoshonis. Sacajawea put her hand over her mouth, not able to speak as she looked at a suit of armor hooked up on pegs by the inside door. Jake lifted the metal visor to show there was no one inside. Never had she imagined such clothing. She wondered how a man could walk or ride a horse in such asuit. Finally she asked, “What manner of tribe wears this?”

Jake spat between his feet. “I only know that the man who financed Bill Sublette’s party, that Scotsman, Sir William Drummond Stewart, brought it from England and gave it to Jim Bridger for letting all his party rest at this here fort. Thought you’d enjoy seeing the suit Bap rigged Jim Bridger in. When he had him locked inside, Bridger tried to mount a horse. He fell. Bap rolled in the dirt with laughter. And that same day I heard Stewart tell about them Sioux at Fort Laramie—thirty, forty lodges of ‘em. Some of the chiefs—Red Bull, Bull Tail, Little Thunder, and Solitary Dog—came to visit the party when it stopped. Those chiefs recognized young Jeff Clark right off because he looked so much like his old man, Bill Clark—red hair and everything. They all knew old Bill Clark.”

Sacajawea drew in her breath.

“And I remember Bap adding something to that there conversation. He said he’d been on a long trip with his old man, and Bill Clark was leader of that trip. Then he said the funny thing. He said he and Jeff were given the same baby name—Pompy.”

“Pomp!” she gasped. Her hand slapped against her mouth in astonishment.

“Yea, that’s it!” shouted Jake. “That’s what Jeff said it was. Them chiefs were so impressed they invited Jeff Clark and Bap Charbonneau to a real feast of boiled dog.”

“Non,
not dog,” said Sacajawea, her eyes large.

“Oh, it was. The Sioux think it the greatest kind of meat.”

Sacajawea shook her head.

“The etiquette of them Sioux would not allow a single scrap to be left in the wooden bowl each guest had. After that there feast, the pipe was smoked and the oldest chief, Red Bull, made a speech, through an interpreter, who was your boy Bap. The speech was mostly about that Chief Red Hair, who was Bill Clark.”

Sacajawea could not speak.

Jake spat between his feet again and went on. “That man Stewart would have made your eyes bug. He dressed like a fop, in a white shooting jacket, colorful shepherd’splaids, and a broad-brimmed white hat. The trappers at the fort laughed at such an outlandish outfit. But even more surprising, he had wagons piled with tins of meats, jars of pickles, and wines, and tea and coffee in packages straight from England, plenty of sugar, and barrels of flour. When the trappers were not guffawing, they gaped in wonder. How could such a dude get along in the woods? Their ridicule turned to respect and liking. That man was a rider and as good a shot as the most expert trappers—near as good as Bap hisself.” Jake winked at Sacajawea. She was still thinking about meat in tins and could not make a mental picture of such a thing. “And when it came to skirmishing with the Crows or Blackfeet, he was just as brave and cool as the most experienced mountain men. Best of all, he was hospitable and shared his supplies with all. And they came to accept him on equal terms. Now, I think in the same way you’ll get along with Bap. You have the patience to trap him down, and he’ll be on equal terms with his ma once he gets to know her again.”

Sacajawea’s eyes were on a distant place. “You are right,” she said. “Things change. But the mountains are still here, and the green spring hole where trout hang and look as big as a man’s arm.” She looked up at Jake, and her eyes softened. “There are things he won’t forget, and we can start there.”

Jake chewed on the end of his cold pipe and mulled this over.

A door slammed, and Jake jerked guiltily.

“Why, where’s Louis?” demanded Juanita Vasquez. She was short and plump. Her apron was freshly starched. “What are you doing? How dare you hide back here with this—this squaw.”

Sacajawea felt confused.

“Miz Vasquez,” said Jake. “I was just showing Miss Charbonneau the iron suit. She’s the ma of Bap Charbonneau. You know, the cart driver with that fancy Stewart party?”

“Jake, you fetch Louis right now and tell him to come for supper. Then you close the blacksmith shop. You know it’s off limits to Indians.”

Jake was discomforted. “I meant no harm, ma’am. She’s a friend of Louis’s, too.”

Sacajawea seemed unsure of what to do next. She moved out of the doorway and toward the gate in the wall of the fort.

“Good night,” she said in clear Spanish. She moved slowly away from the fort.

“Well, she speaks Spanish. She can’t be all Indian. What did you say her name was?” asked Juanita Vasquez.

“I called her Miz Charbonneau. She speaks fair English and a smatterin’ of French, too. She lives with them Shoshonis outside the fort.”

The days were hot. The midafternoon sun stabbed through the opening in the dense leaf canopy of the cottonwoods. Flies buzzed sleepily in the muggy air under the trees, and locusts sawed endlessly in the summer heat. The camp dogs panted and Sacajawea felt her tunic wet across her back as she carried water from the spring, wishing she’d done this earlier in the day. There had been news in the camp that Bridger was coming in any day, accompanied by Shoshoni hunters. These hunters were led by a man called Nowroyawn.

Sacajawea was like a child, so great was her anticipation. Nothing moved in the camp but the insects as she trudged in with her water jug. Toward Morning had been sewing, but she now was sleeping. Crying Basket and Suzanne were asleep near the tepee flap where a breeze could touch them if one came. Sacajawea gazed across the blue haze of distant hills. She could smell the ancient odor of the far, undisturbed, virgin forest duff, never burned, planted, or grazed. The land of the People existed for only an instant, suspended in a void of long-expired emotions. She was in her father’s camp, looking at the sun-spotted trees, hearing the sounds of horses and of women chattering as they worked after a summer hunt. The feeling was so strong that for a moment she could taste the air, rank with blood and fur where the venison hung in the sun drying under a pall of writhing cedar smoke. Sacajawea shook her head. These were memories she thought were long forgotten. And it had been happening more and more lately—the recalling of the old times when she lived with the People. It was curious that these memoriesshould come now, when she was looking forward to the new time when she would talk with her son, who was more white than Shoshoni and whose thoughts might be foreign to her own.

“They are coming! They are nearly here!” called a camp crier. Women were moving about, already putting on their best clothes and paint. Sacajawea laid out the pink calicos for Crying Basket and Suzanne as soon as Toward Morning sleepily explained that it must be Bridger’s party that was coming in.

Sacajawea carefully put on her yellow dress with two petticoats, and on impulse opened the leather pouch at her waist and took out the now-tarnished peace medal. Long ago she had planned to give this to Baptiste. It was her gift from Sun Woman. She examined the likeness of the man called Jefferson on one side and the hands clasped in friendship on the obverse. The gold outer edge shone in the sun. She fingered her sky blue stone, then left it in the pouch and hunted among her clothes for a piece of thong to slip through the suspension loop on the medal. She hung the medal around her neck, satisfied that it was the thing to wear, even though long ago Charbonneau had said no woman had a right to wear this.

As the riders came on their horses across the valley, she was certain of the man they called Bridger. He was big—more than six feet tall—with a dark beard and eyebrows. He rode his horse with the ease of his Shoshoni companions, legs dangling straight down, back half-bent, shoulders hunched forward.

Toward Morning, with fresh vermilion on her cheeks, tugged at Sacajawea’s arm. “Look, he is the most handsome. And look, there among the women, the one with arms waving. She is his, a Flathead. And there is the child, called by his name for her, Mary Ann.”

The Flathead woman was large, mainly because she was expecting another child very soon. Her hips were broad, her legs large, matching her puffy hands and arms. She was dark-skinned, almost swarthy, and her hair black as a moonless night. She was a handsome woman, without being pretty.

Mary Ann was about the age of Suzanne. She had no clothing, but there was a bear-claw necklace abouther throat. Her hair was ragged and unkempt. She jumped up and down at the sight of her father. The Shoshoni riders coming in whooped and hollered so that the camp dogs began barking. In front of the Shoshonis rode another big man with an eagle-feather headdress. He looked from side to side and around at the crowd gathered to welcome them. He waved his arms and hollered. He stood up on the back of his gray horse and waved again. The crowd cheered. He drew up to them, making the palms-out sign of peace.

“That one is our great civil chief, Washakie,” said Toward Morning, close to Sacajawea’s ear, “and behind him comes his subchief, Nowroyawn. And look! There is Nowroyawn’s cousin, Shoogan! And here comes Bitter Water and Rock Rabbit! They have all come back!”

It was strange, so nearly miraculous, that Sacajawea was held motionless for a moment. There in front of her was Shoogan, one leg shorter than the other, the smaller foot twisted a little against the flank of his cream bay. Sacajawea thought she’d prepared for every eventuality, every surprise, every strain on her emotions. She knew that what could be dreamed about was capable of happening. She had not dreamed of this. To see the man here before her was such an astounding piece of fortune that it took a moment for her to come to herself.

“Kiii-yiii!”
called Crying Basket with the crowd. Suzanne was dancing up and down to see the riders better.

The usual feasting and games began immediately after the meat from the hunt had been divided. Sacajawea noticed that Bridger generously gave Toward Morning a hindquarter of a mule doe for her lodge. Toward Morning said something to him about her new neighbor and friend and pointed in the direction of Sacajawea. Bridger then pushed the other hindquarter toward her, smiled broadly, and left quickly for the fort’s gate.

Toward Morning tugged at the meat to get it to her lodge, but Sacajawea had not thought of helping. She took a hand of each little girl and moved through the crowd. She had decided to watch carefully to see which lodge Shoogan went into. As if caught in time—a slow-moving dream that etched itself against the brown earthand skin tepees—the brown hulk of the man with the long, sad face moved in and out of the lodges. The man limped exactly as he had when a child, with an easy confidence, sure of his footing and where he was going. Sacajawea knew this was the son of her dead sister. She clearly recalled the day she had first seen Shoogan in the Shoshoni camp when she had been the interpreter for Chief Red Hair. He was a naked child, with a pushed-out stubborn lower lip. His left foot was turned in slightly and smaller than the right, a cursed clubfoot, but he moved without aid, stepping high to clear the stiff, dry grass around the camp. Even then his face resembled that of Sacajawea’s brother. Spotted Bear.

Sacajawea knew what she was doing. Shoogan would go into his lodge, speak to his women and relatives, and come out again, waiting to be fed; then he would relax and sit idly, smoking and telling about the hunt.

The greatest problem was the little girls. Whatever she did, she would have to keep them perfectly quiet. If they coughed, giggled, or cried, the man would take his family inside the lodge. Sacajawea made up her mind. She waited until the man had gone inside. She sat the two girls down and told them they must not speak unless she told them, and they must not move. She sat herself down at the side of the tepee with the girls and picked up the bare foot of Crying Basket, pretending the child had a thorn in it that must be pulled out.