Sacajawea (165 page)

The day darkened. Wet scented the earth. The snow fell, but melted. The streams were full. Sacajawea shook her head to get rid of a vague anxiety. She feared no beasts; nor, exactly, did she fear men. But it was true she did not trust the Arapahos. She rode her horse a little to one side of the rest, listening. She laughed to herself, knowing full well that scouts were sent well ahead of the rest of the band. If there were any danger, they would come back to report. She took a bit of brittle jerky from a bag at her waistband and bit into it, then cocked her head, holding the mouthful without chewing.

“Fool!” she said. “There’s no one about.”

Sacajawea took another bite of dried meat. She chewed this mouthful, but did not swallow. She had not dreamed the harsh sounds—men were talking angrily. Their fast pace showed they must be walking in a trail. They passed, but did not go out of hearing. If they had been Arapahos, she would have announced their presence to the others, but these were Sioux. She dropped back from the others, going more slowly.

The hoarse voices grew louder. A faint glow appeared under the trees beyond a thicket. There, close to the stream, stood several conical tepees. The Sioux were squaws, she thought; they couldn’t hunt without a rifle these days. They had forgotten how to use their bows. Nevertheless, it was wise to know what they were up to. She tethered her horse and crept backward. The fire leaped; she could see many Sioux. Meat was cooking; she smelled also the odor of whiskey. Fifty Sioux at least had gathered, and there was one who looked like the headman reeling as he walked and talked.

Dangerous though it was, Sacajawea crept on and lay on her belly, her head in a bush. The Sioux sat in a semicircle near the fire. One spoke whiningly; the chief spoke angrily. Another leaped up shouting. His features were not altogether Sioux features; his face was rounder than that of any Sioux, and his thick black hair was long. His language was that of a white man who had lived with the Indians, who was perhaps part French. He used hand signs. The mannerisms of the man reminded Sacajawea of Charbonneau.

“I am your friend. Didn’t I give you plenty of the crazy-water and never asked anything in return? I’ll help you get back your land. The white men from the east took your land and made you women; now even the tribes you call friends drive you from that land on which you lived before the recollection of the oldest man. They believe you are women. They’d let any tribe chop you into fine pieces. It’s dog against dog.” His lips were thick, and his mouth drew downward.

Fierce shouts replied.

“Arm yourselves. First lend me one horse to scout ahead. You can see the horse on which I came to you is played out. He hasn’t moved yet. Maybe he’ll never stand on his feet again. I give him to you for your stew. I rode him fast to give you this news.”

A young Sioux began to leap around the fire. Others followed, lifting their knees high, screaming and whirling tomahawks. Sacajawea slid backward. When the Sioux shouted, she moved; when they were silent, she lay motionless. Protected by a loud outburst, she rose and began to walk slowly and carefully. A little farther and she would catch her horse and hurry on to her people. She would warn them to sit in a bushy hollow and wait for moonrise, then go through the valley to the Snake River and not stop until they saw Fort Hall before them.

That evening, Washakie sent a man out for the scouts. They shook their heads.
Ai,
they had known about the Sioux camp, but they had also known that the stranger who was in the camp had given them crazy-water and so none of the Sioux would move out for a raid or attack—in fact, they couldn’t even see well. They had not noticed a whole band of Shoshonis pass. And oneof the Shoshoni women had sat close to their fire and listened to them talk. Ha-ha, he-he, that was certainly funny. That Porivo had a lot of courage. The Sioux must be completely blind by now. He-he, ha-ha.

The remainder of the journey was uneventful. At Fort Hall the Lemhi band learned that their good friend the Blanket Chief, Jim Bridger, was in full possession of his fort once again. This caused some shouting and dancing in the evening. Many of the Lemhis wanted to go back to Fort Bridger for the summer.

Sacajawea showed Suzanne a pair of tiny moccasins and a carrying frame, together with a beautifully embroidered band to support the frame from her shoulders.

“Joe is too old for that now!” cried Suzanne, putting her arms around Sacajawea. “See, he walks.”

“Ai,
for the new one,” Sacajawea said, smiling. She looked Suzanne up and down. She counted six months on her fingers. “I know this time.”

“Girl, maybe,” said Suzanne.

“Boy,” said Sacajawea.

Before summer barely began, the Lemhi band was back on the old ground at Fort Bridger. And what a reunion that was. Even Bridger and Rutta, dressed in bright calicos, came to the feasting in camp that evening. Bridger was in one of his storytelling moods, and the morning stars were in the sky before he went back into the fort.

It was still early summer when a Lemhi scout rode into the camp, followed by another man on horseback. The other man was tense, looking here and there. His face was dark and round, and his thick black hair long. He wore a red neckcloth and seemed to be a man of middle years who had seen much of life. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, and his lips were thick. His shirt was blue cotton, and his trousers were made like the white man’s, from black wool. The scout went directly to Sacajawea’s tepee, calling softly, “Porivo, Chief Woman, come on out.”

As usual when anyone came into the camp, a crowd gathered. The leading men of the band were nearest; others stayed farther back. The stranger was greeted by Washakie, and noticed in turn by several of thesubchiefs. Shoogan looked strangely at the man, as if trying to recognize him from some other place.

“Is this the lodge of my
umbea,
Sacajawea?” the stranger asked.

‘There is no woman by that name here,” said Shoogan curtly. “Porivo lives here with her daughter and son-in-law.”

Sacajawea came out of her tepee and stared at the scout, who seemed to have a hard time explaining that the man he was leading seemed to believe she was his mother. The scout was apologetic and turned to leave.

“Wait,” she said, holding up her hand. “What did the man say? Whom did he ask for?”

Shoogan laughed. “Chief Woman, this man asked for some stranger called Sacajawea.”

“What?” Sacajawea asked. “Explain yourself. What is his name?”

“He says only that he heard you were looking for your son and that he is your son,” the scout said.

She looked hard at the heavyset man. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Baptiste Charbonneau,” the stranger said, drawing his eyes down to a fine line, so that only black shone through the slits.

A variety of shouts rose from the nearby men. “What’s he say?” “Is he her son?” “It can’t be true!” “He’s crazy!”

“I was called Sacajawea,” she said firmly.

“My
umbea!”
called the man, and dismounted from his spotted horse, whose tail was tied in the Sioux fashion, with wide leather strips. He embraced her.

“It’s impossible to believe,” Shoogan said.

“She’s my mother,” the stranger said. He spoke in a low voice, so they found it necessary to be quiet to hear him. “I have searched long for her.”

All around in the crowd people were asking, “Is she happy?”

Sacajawea’s eyes were filled with tears, so great was her joy. She could not see the face of this man who called her mother. She held his head close to hers, feeling his hair and face, his strong back and neck, the back of his head, under his ears.

“Umbea,”
he said again.

Slowly, numbed, she pulled away and blinked thetears back. It was like an apparition. This man resembled Toussaint Charbonneau so completely.

Shoogan watched the scene as Sacajawea dried her eyes with the back of her hand. The others were still talking, “See, he wears white man’s clothing—a cloth shirt and trousers and a big black hat.”

“I thought her son was a tall man,” said someone. “This man is short and runty.”

“Maybe he is a good warrior and a fine hunter, though,” said someone else.

With dry eyes Sacajawea again searched the round face of the man before her. She put her hand on his shoulder, searching for some familiar pattern. She moved her hand slowly behind his left ear, against the hard bone. It was smooth and warm from his ride to the camp. She closed her eyes to better feel any possible ridge or small bit of scar tissue. Nothing.

He grabbed her hands and murmured,
“Umbea,
it has been long since I saw you leave our cabin in Saint Louis. I would know you anywhere. You have not changed. The same snapping eyes and firm mouth, the same beautiful black hair.
Belle.
You are beautiful.”

Dancing Leaf, Shoogan’s woman, took his horse and hobbled it behind Sacajawea’s tepee. Crying Basket brought him a horn of cool water.

“My son,” Sacajawea said, louder than she had intended, “you must be tired from riding, and hungry. You will eat; then you will tell of your life.” She motioned him toward her tepee. Shoogan’s family followed after him—after all, if he was a relative of Sacajawea, he was a relative of theirs as well.

Sitting across from this man, Sacajawea looked intently at his face. It was so familiar—an exact copy of his father’s. She was surprised now that she had not recognized him and cried out loud that day she had spied on the Sioux encampment.

He glanced at her, and a shy smile caught at his full lips. “I had a woman down at Bent’s Fort a couple of years back. She wanted to visit her relatives. Carson ran into me while I was in her Ute camp. He knew my father was Charbonneau, and he could have knocked me over with a buzzard’s feather when he said he knew old man Charbonneau’s woman, who was then at Bridger’s. I just didn’t believe him at first. I thought he was making fun of me because I had a Shoshoni mother and was a breed, same as my old man. But not that Carson; he finally made me believe every word about this Shoshoni squaw. I headed this way, then heard there was some trouble here with the Saints, so I waited some before coming in right away.” He rummaged around inside his shirt and found a metal bottle. He passed it to Shoogan. Shoogan opened it and found it was not water and had to spit out his mouthful. The man laughed and drank a big swallow. Sacajawea could smell rum. The man went on talking. Everyone watched him carefully.

“That Carson talked a lot about what a fine woman this squaw was. And he hoped I’d find you. He’s a talker—a big chief white man who thinks he can order people around and parcel out land like it was his own. Then I finally got up to this place called Fort Hall—a measly place where the miners hang out. I’d heard about this man Broken Hand, but never run across him until a couple of weeks ago. He sold me a couple of jugs of watered rum and told me I ought to look up this old mother—who once lived with my father—if I was actually a Charbonneau. So—I came as soon as I could. That Broken Hand Fitzpatrick is as bad as Carson about ordering people around.
Ki-ti
white men I can do without! How about you, Brother Shoogan?”

Shoogan looked startled, but nodded his head. His face darkened and remained blank. It was coming back to him where he’d met this man before.

The man passed the bottle of rum to Shoogan again. Shoogan refused. The man took small drinks until it was all gone. Then he said, “I will bring my women, and we will stay in your tepee,
Umbea.”

This time Sacajawea looked startled. “You have no lodge of your own? Your women cannot put one together?”

“Well—ha—a tent, but this is larger, and you, Old Mother, can cook much better.”

“Can’t your women cook?” asked Dancing Leaf timidly, looking shyly at this new relative.

“Not like this,” said the man, reaching for some stringy bits of bear meat from the kettle.

“Come with me.” Sacajawea’s voice was stern, almost like one she would use when scolding a child for some small wrongdoing. Her hand motion was serious as she led this man from the lodge. She led him to Shoogan’s tepee and told the children inside, “Shoo, shoo, go to my tepee now. Tell your mothers to make a kettle of coffee. One of you find the small bag near the dried
yampa.”

“Aw, we want to look at the new man,” said the oldest boy, Lance.

“Non!
Vamoose!” she said. The children fled as if she were a woman chief.

She sat on the tepee floor and motioned for the man who called himself Baptiste Charbonneau to do the same.

“Aren’t we going to sit on hides?” he asked, dismayed at her lack of hospitality.

“A weasel needs no comforts.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“You are old Charbonneau’s son. You are so much like your father that my legs turn to water when I hear you speak. But you are not my firstborn. There is no rough scar behind your left ear such as Baptiste carries from a painful sickness long ago when we traveled with Chief Red Hair. You are Otter Woman’s son. You are Toussaint. So why? Why do you call yourself by your brother’s name?” Her voice was barely audible.

“Ai,”
said Toussaint, his head bowed, his eyes on the ground. He felt in his shirt for the bottle. It was empty, and he threw it across to the far wall of the tepee. “My brother, Baptiste, will not come to live with you!” he shouted. He seemed to search for his words. “He is a chief among the white men. He can talk with them, laugh with them. He knows their ways. He knows the ways of the Indians. He has always been this way. Quick to learn and get ahead. Carson told me fine things and how he could be as tough as a mule driver, yet as gentle as a young squaw with her firstborn. Then that Fitzpatrick told me everyone likes him—Indians, squaws, traders, everyone. These words were enough to make me sick and vomit up everything in my stomach. That damn Bap leaves a trail of goodness wherever he goes. I hate him. I hated him when he went to the gold fields in Montana and staked a decent claim. I couldn’t finda thing in those hills, and I got out before I ended up as buzzard bait. I didn’t hear anything more about my brother for quite a while. No one is sure where he might be—maybe in California, maybe not—so then I think maybe he is dead. I hope so. So—I will walk on his glory trail now. I will be him.”