Centennial

by James A. Michener

  As Lame Beaver gained possession of the gun he looked deep into the eyes of the man who had traded it to him, and there was a long moment of silence as each acknowledged that in the previous darkness either could have slain the other but had refrained. No word was spoken, and in this cool diffidence the implied treaty between Our People and the white man was ratified.

  8. Two Gold Bullets

  In early autumn the straggling cottonwoods which marked the course of every river and stream knew a brief moment of glory, for their ill-formed leaves turned gold and for several days gleamed as if they were aspen, but the winds of the coming winter soon bore them away and the trees were left as bare as before.

  In the year 1803, when Lame Beaver was fifty-six, the transformation of the cottonwoods presaged a gloomy time. He did not want to face another winter; the cold had been growing more bitter as the years passed, and he no longer found solace in sitting cross-legged on his bed, regaling younger men with his ancient deeds. Not even the handsome bison skin painted by his wife gave him satisfaction.

  His malaise had started some years back when he broke a tooth on a piece of jerked bison. He bit down as always, gave the meat a solid tug, and his tooth came away with the jerky. Next year he lost another, in the same way, and then two more, so that he was reduced to eating the soft pemmican, which he had never liked.

  The friends of his youth were dying, too. Red Nose, the best chief of them all, had gone last winter, and Cottonwood Knee was long since dead, slain by a Pawnee rifle. Younger men were in command, and while they maintained the high spirit of the tribe, they handled themselves poorly in negotiation with the Comanche, and so far as resisting the Pawnee was concerned, they might as well have surrendered all the territory to them and been done with it.

  He was worried about the Pawnee. They moved ever westward, and soon Our People would be squeezed into a pitiful territory around Rattlesnake Buttes. He was therefore already in gloomy spirits when scouts rushed into camp with the hideous news that the Pawnee had captured a young girl to use in their sacrifice.

  “We must take her back,” he stormed, unwilling to consider any alternative. Trade for her? Never. Surrender more hunting land? Never. Horses, pelts, guns? He would listen to no such pusillanimity. “We will ride east and take her back,” he shouted.

  At councils, of which he was not a member, he broke in uninvited and cried, “We must ride in like braves and take that girl back.” He broke up several intelligent discussions of how this could be achieved without resorting to a war party, but this did not worry him.

  “The time comes with the Pawnee when you must face them down in battle,” he stormed. “It has always been so and always will be. This is such a time.” He reminded the council of how Cottonwood Knee had been slain by the Pawnee in a previous time of decision, but most members of the council had forgotten who Cottonwood Knee was.

  In this deep agitation of spirit Lame Beaver went to his wife, and they talked for a long time. She was well aware of what grave thing was on his mind, and what terrible consequences it must have for her. Yet she supported him. He had been a good husband, better than most among Our People, which was high praise, for they, like the Cheyenne, were good to their women and faithful. She had taken pride in his accomplishments and had delineated them on the bison skin, his heroic triumphs set forth in detail. She knew that it would be to her dreadful disadvantage if he proceeded with the plan that she was certain was hatching, but never once did she complain.

  “The Pawnee have to be stopped,” he reiterated, and she nodded.

  “If they think you are weak, they press on the weakness, he said, and she knew this to be true.

  “They always coveted our land,” he moaned, feeling the empty spaces in his mouth, as if the vanished teeth symbolized the area already encroached upon by the Pawnee. “Oh, if Man-Above allowed me to be young again,” he lamented, and she told him that he was still a fine warrior. Then, abruptly, he halted all talk of the Pawnee and turned his attention to his daughter.

  Her name, Clay Basket, had been given while they were following bison in the north; a Dakota trader had brought forth a splendid basket made by the Cree. It looked as if it had been woven but was actually of clay. Blue Leaf had liked it and he had bought it for her with a bison robe. No matter that it was her robe and that she had worked on it for many months to make it pliable; he had traded the robe for the basket and it had become her principal treasure, the envy of other women. It was natural that they should name their daughter after this lovely thing, and she had reciprocated by becoming the lithe, poetic creature with whom he now talked.

  He told of the tribal journey north and south, of the good days down by the Arkansas and of the delectable valley where the blue spruce grew. He recalled his battle with the huge rattlesnake, when he had sacrificed his first gun to save her mother. And he spoke of the two men who had camped for a while, hunting beaver. He told Clay Basket that they would return. Of that he was positive. And the prospect pleased him, for he liked the shorter man, the dark one without the beard, and felt indebted to him for the gun he now used so expertly. He would welcome such a man into his family.

  “When he comes back, Clay Basket, talk with him. He has no woman. From watching him so carefully, I know this. He’ll grow older. His teeth will begin to drop out, too. He’ll need a woman to care for him. Think about this when I’m gone.”

  “You will not go for many moons,” she assured him.

  “You’ll have good babies,” he said appraisingly, as if she were a mare. Suddenly he moved about the tipi in great agitation. “It will all change!” he cried. “The Pawnee will own everything. The Ute will come down out of the mountain and live like us. And those men will be back to hunt beaver. I don’t know,” he moaned to himself, “I don’t know.” He never again spoke to his daughter in a serious manner.

  He concentrated on his gun, loading and unloading it, fingering the two gold bullets which he still kept in his parfleche. It was as if he were measuring time by the white man’s method and sensed that a new century had begun, one that would swiftly leave him behind with the stark rapidity of its change. He therefore brooded upon lasting things, simplifying the process until only two remained, Blue Leaf and the Pawnee. For him the bison were no more; others could track them now. The beaver and the rattlesnake; others could worry about them from here on. He had never bothered much with the Ute; they were steadfast fighters, but if you stood your ground you could manage the Ute.

  As autumn deepened he and Blue Leaf had to acknowledge the dreadful situation that faced them, but he saw no escape, nor did she. She was therefore prepared, spiritually and in all other ways, when he announced: “When we march against the Pawnee, I will stake myself out.” He was committing suicide for a noble purpose, and she knew it.

  The fact that the most famous warrior of Our People was willing to sacrifice himself to teach the Pawnee a lesson sent a surge of patriotism through the tribe, and the vacillating council was powerless to prevent a decision in favor of war. It was determined without their consent and without their approval, but the spirit engendered by Lame Beaver’s announcement was so high that all knew that victory was attainable.

  Preparation became frantic, for the blow had to be struck before the first blizzard. Young warriors tended their horses and oiled their guns with bison tallow. Lame Beaver spent all his time with Blue Leaf, not telling her of his love but reminding her in many ways of the good life they had shared. “Remember the wild duck in the cottonwoods?” he asked. Where had that taken place, along what fugitive stream visited once and seen no more? They had walked along so many streams and pitched their tipi in so many valleys that the mind could not recall them, but once there had been a wild duck caught in a cottonwood and he had wanted to eat it and Blue Leaf had wanted to let it go, and it had flown north, days behind the others.

  There was the tamed elk, too, that stayed about the camp in the north and the sound of coyotes along the Arkansas when Our Peopl
e were planning to fight the Comanche, and the sandy places where the children played. They had possessed a universe of endless horizons and sunsets blazing with golden fire.

  “Remember when we had no horses?” he asked, and they talked about those burdensome days when dogs and women hauled the travois so that their men could be ready to repel attack. “We moved so slowly then,” he said.

  The day came when the war party was ready to move eastward. It was cold and the leaves had left the cottonwoods. Lame Beaver bade his wife goodbye but ignored his watching daughter. He had his good horse, his rifle, his parfleche; the signal was given, and he left Rattlesnake Buttes for the last time.

  Our People moved cautiously toward the confluence of the two Plattes, and there they found nothing, for the Pawnee had settled down for winter a far distance to the east. They continued to march in that direction until they came upon a sizable camp, but whether the Pawnee held the sacrificial girl here or in some other settlement, they could not know; so much time had elapsed since her capture that she was probably dead by now, and all except Lame Beaver acknowledged that fact. He kept saying, “We shall take back our girl.” He had never seen her and it wasn’t clear in his mind whose child she was, but she must be recaptured.

  The leaders of the war party decided that this would be the village they would attack, whether the girl was there or not, so once more a clever battle plan was devised.

  Lame Beaver’s part in the fight was clear. “I will stake myself out ... there. I will not fight any warrior who comes at me. I will wait for the great chief, Rude Water, and I will shoot him dead. The Pawnee will panic, and we shall have the girl.” When he spoke these words, no one doubted that he would do exactly as he promised. Around him the battle would form, and if he could demoralize the first Pawnee charge, Our People would have a good chance of victory.

  During the night he prayed, but not attentively, for his mind went back to just one thing, insistently: he kept seeing that first wild pinto he had captured from the Comanche and tamed in the river, only to lose it to Blue Leaf’s brother. How marvelous that pinto was, how like the wind. Its handsome black and white spots were etched on his mind and he could still recall the placement of each.

  “Heigh! Go!” he cried, and the ghost horse leaped across the prairie like a ray of sunlight, illuminating everything it approached.

  “Heigh! Heigh!” he called, and the pinto ran on and on into the mountains. Tears came into the old man’s eyes and he turned to his gun, but always in the distance there stood the pinto, her colors bright and her mane standing clear.

  “Come!” the old man called softly, but the pinto headed for other pastures.

  New scouts moved into position, and those who had been watching came back to prepare for battle. Leaders grew nervous, and Lame Beaver took up his rifle and the stake to which he would attach the thongs that now hung loose about his neck.

  The war party moved forward according to plan, then waited while Lame Beaver took a position where the Pawnee charge would be heaviest. Finding a stone, he hammered the stake into position, and this noise alerted the Pawnee guards. Shouts went up, and Our People charged the west entrance” to the village; with this first violent sweep, the intricate battle plans evaporated, and it was each man for himself.

  The Pawnee reacted as had been expected, with a countercharge of their own, and their leaders had covered only a short distance when they spotted Lame Beaver staked out, his rifle at the ready. They expected him to fire, so the first riders swerved to avoid him, but when he held his fire, those behind swept down upon him, and one caught him through the left shoulder with his lance, leaving the barbed shaft behind.

  “Agh!” Lame Beaver grunted, for the lance had pierced his left armpit. The pain was so great that he wanted to discharge his gun in fury; instead he wrenched the lance loose, tearing away much flesh and inducing a heavy flow of blood. It was a bad beginning.

  Rude Water did not appear in the second charge, either, and once more a Pawnee lancer made a hit, lightly striking Lame Beaver in the left leg. With contempt he wrestled the barb loose, placing the two lances beside him for possible future use.

  On the third Pawnee charge Rude Water did appear, a tall, handsome, very red-skinned chief. Assuming that Lame Beaver had been badly wounded, he rode his horse right at the tethered man, whereupon Lame Beaver took careful aim and shot him off his mount. Rude Water was dead.

  It took time for Lame Beaver to reload his rifle: he swabbed it, poured in the powder, rammed down the greased wadding, then inserted his second gold bullet and carefully primed it. Taking aim at a lesser chief, he ignited the primer and again shot a warrior off his horse.

  The rout of the Pawnee had begun, but it was by no means complete. Mounted warriors in retreat rode over Lame Beaver and two more stabbed at him. He was now bleeding from several wounds, but he took up the Pawnee lance which had caught him in the leg and tried to defend himself with it, but when a fifth Pawnee caught him with a lance from the rear, shoving it completely through his back and out the chest in front, he was finished.

  Clutching the exposed point of the spear, he started to fall forward, but halted himself long enough to begin his going-away song:

  “Only the rocks endure forever.

  The bison thunders

  but I do not see the dust.

  The beaver slaps his tail

  I do not hear.

  Man-Above still sends the river flowing past,

  Still helps the beaver climb the mountain peak,

  Still turns the aspen golden in the fall.

  The chiefs assemble

  but they speak no words.

  The enemy begins its charge

  and spears are glistening

  Only the rocks ...”

  A tremor passed through his body, stifling his song. With a mighty effort he tried to pull the fatal spear entirely through his chest, but his strength flagged. He fell forward into the dust of battle, facing the corpse of Rude Water, but Lame Beaver did not see his foe. His last earthly vision was of the pinto galloping across the prairie.

  This battle had been more bloody than usual, and the death of Lame Beaver infuriated Our People, though why it should have is a mystery, for he went into the fight determined to die. Our People sacked the village and took fifteen Pawnee girls captive; they offered to trade them for the girl destined for sacrifice, but she was long since dead, so they traded for horses—three girls for one horse.

  Jumping Snake decreed that Lame Beaver be given a chieftain’s burial, and a high wooden platform was built in three cottonwood trees beside the Platte. There, well above ground, the shattered old body was laid to rest. The stake to which he had attached himself was placed beside him, with the thongs of honor drifting loose in the wind. He was covered with a blanket, and on one of the cottonwoods was hung the head of the horse Rude Water had been riding; on another, the tail. The Pawnee lance with which he had defended himself at the last was laid across his body, and young warriors wanted his rifle to be placed there, too, but Jumping Snake said he would keep the rifle. If he didn’t, the Pawnee would take it.

  There, high above the plains he had loved and the river he had so often followed, Lame Beaver, the man of many coups, found his rest.

  He died at the end of an epoch, the grandest the western Indians were to know. In his lifetime an impoverished band of northern Indians had wandered south, hunting the bison on foot and confined by necessity to narrow regions. In their new home they had found the horse and the gun and had developed a wild, sweeping pattern of life which held on to the good customs of the past while embracing the viable new ones, now possible.

  Our People and the Cheyenne! How few in number, how powerful in essence! Never did they number as many as seven thousand combined, which meant that there could not have been much over three thousand males. Many of these would have been old and more would have been infants, so that there might have been at most one thousand warriors.

  Has there ev
er been in America another group of a thousand men who left so deep an imprint upon the image of the nation? These few men, tall and bronzed, welded to their horses, daring in battle and just in peace, rode across the prairies and into the permanent record of this land. They dominated their period and their terrain. They defended their homes with valor and left their plain not in defeat but trailing glory. In their last days they staked themselves out and parried all lances coming at them.

  Cheyenne and Arapaho—for that was the name the other tribes called Our People—were never the majority in any place they occupied; they were always pressed in upon by tribes at least as able: the Brule Sioux and the Oglala Sioux and the Cree and the Blackfoot and the dark Ute and the centaur Comanche, and the cruel Apache and the crafty Kiowa and the far-thinking Pawnee. But their customs were among the finest the Indians of America produced, and their physical bearing the most commanding.

  When the Arapaho chieftains met to count coups in the battle against the Pawnee they formed a noble image: they wore the fringed leggings of winter, the vests decorated with quills and elk teeth, and above all, those resplendent headdresses of woven material set with colored stones and adorned with eagle feathers.