by Harmon, Amy
And I’ve begun to hope.
9
FORT LARAMIE
JOHN
Most evenings, Wyatt or one of the other boys his age—those who do not have wagons to drive—is sent ahead of the train to scout for a place to make camp for the night. He draws the duty again tonight and comes back on Trick half an hour later, racing toward the wagons the way he did when Dog Tooth and fifty Pawnee braves were on his tail. He reports that a band of Indians—men, women, and children, along with their dogs, horses, and tipis—is already camped on the best grass before the slow climb to Fort John, also called Fort Laramie, which we should make on the morrow.
The company is startled by their numbers, and everyone wants to continue on to the fort, afraid to camp nearby in case there is trouble. But the moon is a sliver, and the night will be dark, making travel after sundown difficult. Fort John still lies half a day’s journey ahead, and Abbott reassures us that we will have no trouble from the Indians.
“They’re Dakotah—Sioux—and they’re used to the trains coming through here. They’re just as wary of us as we are of them,” Abbott says.
They do not appear to be staying long, or maybe, like us, they’ve just arrived, but they look on in disinterest as we trundle by. They rest from the heat of the day beneath half-erected tipis, the poles they drag behind their packhorses lying about among the skins and supplies.
I’ve never seen so many fine horses. A sand-colored dun catches my eye, a black dorsal line descending from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, his forelegs wrapped in the same black, like dark-colored stockings that make every step look like he’s prancing. He reminds me of Dame in his carriage and coloring, though Dame didn’t boast the dun markings.
Webb points to him too, calling out to me from the box seat beside his mother.
“Look at that pretty one, John!” he crows. “Almost as pretty as Dame.”
Despite what Abbott says, the Dakotah are not afraid of us at all. We break for the night a half mile from their temporary encampment, a low ridge between us, but a handful of braves and a few war chiefs approach the circle of our wagons an hour later, horses and skins in tow. The Indians are handsome, well nourished, and well appointed, but they demand to be fed. They seem to enjoy the nervous scurrying of the women and the intimidated gazes of the men.
A big Indian, gold bangles streaming from his long hair and wampum layered around his neck, takes an interest in Kettle. I tell him no trade, but he grows more and more adamant, bringing forth one wild pony after another, parading them past, displaying his wealth. I understand little of what he says, though Abbott has appointed me spokesman. The Pawnee and Sioux are not friendly, and my Pawnee tongue is greeted with derision. Otaktay, my knife-wielding half-breed teacher, spoke a mix of Sioux and English that was all his own, and I’m not sure my association with him will help me understand the Dakotah any better.
One of the braves steps forward, claiming he is a Dakotah war chief, an enemy of the Pawnee, but he speaks the language like he once lived among them, maybe as a child, and I wonder if he is a “two-feet” like me. He seems desperate to prove he is not. He says he is the son of the chief, and he will make war on all Pawnee.
He has blackened his face in celebration of taking the scalp off “a Pawnee dog just like me.” When I do not react or cower when he dangles the scalp in front of my face, he lunges at me and tries to take my hat. I sidestep his attempt but hand the hat to him. I can get a new one at the fort. Wyatt needs one too; he’s been wearing an old straw-brimmed hat that’s missing its top. His blond hair has turned white from the sun right at the crown, making him appear to have a bald spot where the hair is bleached. The black-painted brave touches the white spot with the tip of his spear.
“This one is already scalped,” he says to me. Wyatt flinches, but he keeps his arms folded, standing at my side like a self-appointed guardian, though I outweigh him by fifty pounds.
Several of the women of the train try to distract the Sioux with food, but though they have demanded to eat, they are not hungry for what we are able to provide. Naomi has brought biscuits and passes them to the Dakotah braves like she is presenting them with a great honor.
They are not impressed, and Black Paint has decided he too wants my Mammoth Jack, though I think he only wants it because I so adamantly refuse. The bangled warrior grows impatient, gathering his ponies as if to leave, but Black Paint stalks back and forth, looking at the cattle and the mules of the cowering emigrants. I don’t think he really wants to trade. He is putting on a show of dominance.
Naomi touches her face and then points to his. “Ask him if he has more of his paint, John. Maybe I can give him something he will want more.”
I ask, telling him that she wants to honor him with a picture.
Black Paint is made curious by my request; I can see it in the lift of his chin and the dart of his eyes. He turns to his horse and pulls a small pot from his beaded saddlebag. He sets it on the ground and backs away, his arms folded.
“Ask him if I can use his shield.”
He hands it over with a deep frown, setting it down beside the paint. The pale skin is strung taut across the willow-branch hoop, and feathers and beads hang from the circlet, but the center is unadorned.
He hisses in protest, and I fear he is going to jerk it back when he sees Naomi’s intent; his eyes widen as she sinks down beside the shield, dipping her fingers into the little pot, but his curiosity wins out. Unlike with the pencil, she uses both hands, glancing up at him once or twice, her fingers shading and shaping. Within several seconds his likeness appears, and he grunts in amazement, watching her fingers fly until she straightens, finished. She scoots back from her handiwork and rubs her hands in the stubby buffalo grass to remove the excess paint from her fingers. I pick up the hoop and hand it to Black Paint. He stares at the drawing, flabbergasted, and I know exactly how he feels.
The bangled brave presents his shield next, pointing to the side covered completely in feathers. When Naomi shakes her head, I finger a feather, explaining she can’t paint on the feathers. Black Paint tells the bangled brave what I have said, and he turns it over to the other side, which is beaded with a simple X. He wants her to paint around it, and she obliges, but when she finishes and he brings her a stack of skins, wanting paintings on all of them, she refuses.
“I want a horse,” Naomi says to the bangled one. “I will paint on all these skins for a horse.”
“Naomi,” I say, shaking my head. I suddenly know what she is trying to do. She has seen the dun—though it is not among the ponies the bangled one has paraded in front of me—and, just like Webb, has noticed the similarities to Dame.
“Tell them,” she says.
“No.” I am adamant.
Naomi stands up and moves beside me. She points at the bangled brave’s horses and then points at herself.
“Naomi,” I warn. “You’re asking for trouble. Please go back to your wagon.”
Black Paint laughs and says something I can’t understand to the other Sioux warriors. The bangled brave points at his skins, insistent, but Naomi folds her arms and will not yield.
I tell them we are going to Fort Laramie in the morning, and the painted shields and the food are gifts. I hand him my best blade as well. Then I make the sign for good, signifying an end to negotiations, and tell them we don’t want to trade, and we do not want a horse. I ask them to take their shields and skins and ponies and leave us.
Amazingly enough, they talk among themselves, and without making any further demands, they mount their horses and withdraw, racing up the ridge and leaving the circle of wagons for their own encampment.
I don’t sleep at all, worried that Naomi has made herself a target. Stealing squaws is common among tribes. Recompense is easily made by offering a father something of equal value. Women and horses are the currency. William and Winifred obviously fear the same thing, because William and Warren sit with their backs to their wagon wheels all night
, facing the ridge where the Dakotah disappeared.
They are back at dawn, their animals dragging poles bound at either end to support the skins they’ve piled upon them. But this time it is not a few warriors; it is the whole tribe—their old and their young, their dogs and their ponies, all prepared to follow us to Fort John. Abbott and I walk out to greet them, but Black Paint requests “the woman” and makes the sign for many and then faces, running his hand over his own features, as he speaks. There is no question that Many Faces is Naomi.
When I tell Abbott, he summons her forward, anxious to keep the peace, but William walks forward with her. His rifle is in his right hand, but he holds it loosely, watching as Black Paint presents Naomi with little pots of paint in red, black, yellow, white, and blue.
Naomi thanks him with a bow of her head. When she tries to retreat again, he raises his voice, indicating he is not finished.
“I will give you a horse,” he says to Naomi and points at me, insisting I interpret. He ignores William completely as he continues to speak.
“What is he saying, John?” Naomi asks, her eyes darting between us.
“He wants to give you a horse.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, and she smiles. Her smile fades as soon as I tell her the war chief’s conditions.
“But he wants something in return. He will give you as many horses as you want, but you have to live with him.”
Naomi gasps. She begins shaking her head. I am angry with her for the situation she has put herself in, and Black Paint can tell. He looks at me for a moment and then beckons over his shoulder, calling someone to him. A girl wearing a pale-colored skin, her hair long and unbound, steps forward from the pack. Black Paint summons her closer, impatient. She looks on worriedly, a deep frown on her face, and a young brave lets out a stream of protest, his pony dancing beneath his vehemence. It is all I can do not to groan. The emigrants around us are watching in anxious silence, their oxen yoked, their wagons packed, but no one dares move or draw attention to themselves by pulling out. William and Winifred and all their sons stand a few feet behind me, but Abbott is nowhere in sight.
“She is Pawnee. Like you,” Black Paint says to me, pointing at the frightened squaw. “She will not make you angry. I want the woman of many faces. We will trade, and Many Faces can live with me and have many horses.”
“She is not my squaw,” I say. “I cannot trade her.”
I turn to William, but he is already shaking his head, his eyes wide, and I don’t have to explain to him what Black Paint is offering.
“He is honored that you want his daughter,” I lie, trying my best not to offend. “But she is of great value to her family and these people. Her father will not trade her either. Not for all the horses or all the squaws.”
Black Paint frowns but waves the unhappy girl back among the women, and the young brave who has protested on her behalf relaxes.
Black Paint studies us a moment, his eyes swinging back to Naomi several times before he shrugs and fists his hands in his horse’s mane like he is preparing to depart.
“It is better for me. White women are not good squaws,” he says. He repeats the words in Sioux, and his people laugh.
I don’t argue. I say nothing at all. I simply stand still, waiting for his next move. After a moment, he raises his hand, and his people begin to move away, abandoning their negotiations and leaving only the potted paints behind. There is silence in their wake. Men, women, and children huddle in their wagons behind us, peeking out from the little round openings, until the Dakotah have completely departed.
When the band is nothing but a moving line on the horizon, the emigrants erupt in excited chatter, relieved laughter billowing up like campfire smoke. Webb runs to me and hugs my legs, Wyatt hoots, and William claps my back like I have saved the day. Winifred calls me a blessing, Abbott blows his horn to pull out, and all is declared well. But Naomi and I remain frozen in place as the excitement ebbs and the others move away. My anger and my fear have not faded, and I want to chasten her, to make her understand.
“He wanted to trade the girl for you,” I tell her.
“I thought so,” she murmurs. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him I already have many squaws, and I don’t want another.” I glare at her and shake my head. It is not what I said to him, and she knows it, but my nerves haven’t settled, and my legs are still shaking.
“Would he have really given her away?” she asks, her voice as hollowed out as I feel.
“Yes.”
“When you told him no, what did he say?”
“He said white women do not make good squaws.”
“Huh,” Naomi grunts. “I’m not sure Black Paint would make a very good husband.”
I snort despite myself. I am sure Naomi is right.
“Black Paint said he would trade straight across. No horses. Just women. You for her,” I scold. She has already begun to relax, as if the event were of no importance. I try to shock her, to take the conversation further than it went in truth. “He was curious about the spots on your nose. He wanted to know if you are spotted all over, like his favorite pony.”
“Well, you wouldn’t know.” She sounds irritated by the fact, and I am immediately hot with outrage and desire. I want to take a switch to her backside. Then I want to hold her tight with no one watching.
“What else did you say?” she asks, impertinent.
“I said your family could not part with you . . . and you were not mine to trade.”
She turns her head and looks at me, her eyes leaving the horizon where the Dakotah have disappeared. “I am not yours to trade, John. But I am yours,” she says, and I look away, unable to hold her gaze a moment longer. I have no idea what to do with her.
“Will you remember that next time you try to negotiate with a Dakotah war chief?” I plead.
“Nobody was hurt, and you still have your jack, don’t you?” She straightens and juts out her chin, defensive.
“Yes. But we are lucky he didn’t just decide to take you instead.”
The Dakotah move more quickly than we do, even dragging all their worldly goods and herding horses, and we don’t see them again until we climb the hill, the fort in the distance. Fort Laramie sits on a rise on the south side of the Platte, and it is enclosed, along with a dozen homes, by a big adobe wall. Just the sight of dwellings not simply hewn from the prairie or erected out of poles and animal skins enlivens the company to spirits not felt in a good while.
Wagon trains dot the country on both sides of the river, and the lodges of French trappers and their Indian wives hug the walls of the fort and line the north and south banks where emigrants cross. The Dakotah pitch their tipis at the tree line, apart from the emigrant trains yet close enough to the fort to conduct commerce.
But reaching the fort from the north side requires crossing the Platte, something even the lure of shelves filled with wonders and a return to civilization cannot entice Abbott’s company to do. Most of the men cross without their wives, leaving them to spend the day at the wagons, cooking and doing the wash, while the men head to the fort for supplies. I cross for supplies too, leaving all my animals except Samson and Delilah hobbled with the rest of the stock. I promise Webb and Will a surprise if they keep an extra eye out. I need flour and coffee and dried meat; I didn’t set out from St. Joe with enough to cross the country, and though the knife I gave to Black Paint wasn’t my only blade, I don’t like being shorthanded.
The fort reminds me of St. Joe, though on a much smaller scale. Everyone’s doing business, trading, testing, tinkering with their outfits, and restocking their stores. I buy enough flour, food, and grain to fill my packs and a new blade with an elk-horn handle. I purchase a ream of paper for Naomi along with a box of pencils and a whittling knife to sharpen the tips. Her shoes are worn almost bare in the soles, and I purchase a pair of doeskin moccasins so buttery soft she won’t even know they are on her feet. A green dress, a few shades darker than her eyes, is
piled in a corner with a stack of trousers and shirts that someone has set aside. I grab it and purchase it too, hoping none of the other men from the train will see me doing so.
A bow and a quiver for Webb and Will, a cradleboard for Wolfe so Naomi and Winifred can keep their arms free, and a new felt hat for Wyatt. I don’t know what I can buy for Warren. There are no wives on the shelves of Fort Laramie, and Warren misses Abigail. I decide something sweet will do us all good; two pounds of candy wrapped in brown paper is my final purchase. It all costs me more than it should—the trading post is the only place to get goods until Fort Bridger, and they take advantage of the demand.
I return to the camp before most of the rest of the men and approach the May wagons with my packages, wanting to deliver my gifts without William May looking over my shoulder. I have already half convinced myself to just leave Naomi’s gifts in her wagon without a word. But Webb and Will see me coming and run toward me, accepting my present with joyful whoops. Each has a piece of candy stuffed in his cheek before I can ask the whereabouts of anyone else.
“Where is Naomi?” I ask Webb, who hops around me with the bow, his little bare feet doing a variation of a war dance while he pretends to shoot at the sun. Will is studying the arrows, his eyes narrowed on the sharp points and the feathered quills, pulling them out of the quiver one at a time like he is drawing a sword.
“She went to visit the Indian ladies. Ma too. But Ma came back ages ago. She’s in the wagon with baby Wolfe,” Will says. “Do you want me to bring her the papoose?”
I stare at him, stunned. “What Indian ladies?”
Will points to the lodges of the French trappers on the banks of the Platte. Even from a distance, I can see dogs and children and women milling about. The trappers all have Indian wives; at the fort I heard someone refer to the community as the French Indians, though I’m guessing the women don’t come from any one tribe.