North Star

by Richard S. Wheeler

  Then one day half a dozen cavalrymen arrived at the post, along with some freight wagons. Skye watched from a great distance, sometimes standing at the door of the cabin, but rarely venturing into the snow, which he found treacherous with his bad leg. Mary watched a moment also, and returned to her housekeeping. She had learned something of making things from flour, and was making flat, round loaves of Indian bread employing grease and flour, to sustain them all. The gray skies seemed lower, the days shorter, the dark more pervasive, and Dirk took it as a sign. He had come all the way from comfortable St. Louis—to this.

  But one morning, the first sunny one in a week, that cavalry officer, Major Dedham Graves, came to call on foot, having negotiated a half mile of snowy turf.

  Dirk remembered the man well. His mother admitted Graves, whose glance took in the state of affairs, lack of furnishings, the two older people swathed in buffalo robes as they sat against a gloomy log wall in deep cold. Graves settled on the clay floor near them, his eyes as bright and cheerful as the day they first encountered one another.

  “Mister Skye, sir, it’s my pleasure to bring some good news. At least the army thinks it’s good news.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Skye said.

  “In a nutshell, we’ve cashiered Perkins. He was a bad lot, and we were able to catch him in wholesale peculation, and even as we speak he’s being ejected from the agency and is being sent packing.”

  “Say that in words I’ve heard of,” Victoria snapped.

  “Perkins is a crook. We’ve gotten rid of him. He was raking off about thirty percent of everything. That’s most of the reason the people here haven’t gotten their full share. Others made a few dollars too, Yardley Dogwood was one. And some other scoundrels. So there’s change afoot. The reservation is about to have a new agent. He’s been appointed, in Washington, if he agrees to a few stipulations.”

  “If the people get their full measure, and if this is not a prison for them, that’s all I care about,” Skye said. “The actual agent is of no consequence to me.”

  “I’m talking about you, Mister Skye.”

  Skye bolted upright.

  “Annual stipend, a thousand dollars.”

  “Me?”

  “We’ve been burning up the telegraph lines. The Indian Bureau wants you. Army wants you. Some of your fur trade friends were excellent agents for their people. William Bent, Tom Fitzpatrick. So will you be.”

  Skye clambered to his feet, staggering a little on his bad leg. “I’m a wreck. How can I perform my duties with this?” He jabbed a finger at his leg.

  “Broken-Hand Fitzpatrick didn’t have any trouble.”

  Dirk was agog. This thing filled this gloomy little room and threatened to burst outside.

  Major Graves played his ace. “Ask your wives, Mister Skye. They rule the nest.”

  “Rule the nest, do they? I’ll send you packing out that door if you …”

  Victoria was looking smug. “Take it, Skye.”

  “We’re hoping you’ll look after these good people, and see that they’re properly cared for. The army wants nothing more than some happy Shoshones, working with their great chief, Washakie. We’re calling the post Fort Washakie. Only army post in the country named for a chief. You’d better sign up and help these people.”

  Skye was standing now, his face more grave than Dirk had ever seen it. “It’s an obligation,” he said. “You might not like what I’ll be doing. Your government might not like it.”

  “That brings up another matter, Skye. Citizenship.” He reached into his portfolio and withdrew some papers. “You’ll need to sign here, and I’ll administer the oath.”

  “Citizenship?” Skye said.

  “We can’t appoint a Briton to be our Shoshone Indian agent, Mister Skye.”

  A dead silence fell over the room. Dirk knew all about Skye’s occasional bitterness toward the Yanks, his habit of cursing Yank folly, his scalding comments about the way Yanks treated Indian people. But there always was more. His father had some difficulties with his own England, with its class and caste system. He always insisted on being called Mister Skye because in the New World any man was entitled to be a mister, a man on the same footing as anyone else.

  Graves quietly dipped into his portfolio and withdrew a stoppered ink vial, and a steel-nib pen, and handed them to Skye.

  “I can hardly see this thing,” Skye muttered.

  “You know, sometimes, Skye, the army manages to do things right.” Graves withdrew half a dozen wire-rimmed spectacles. “Try’em.”

  Skye did, one after the other, found a good one, and slowly his face lit up. “I hardly could see.”

  “Read it, Mister Skye. You commit yourself to citizenship in the Republic of the United States of America.”

  Skye looked remarkable, Dirk thought, almost eagle-eyed, his gaze focused on the document, his new spectacles propped on the majestic prow of his nose. He read, stared off into space for a little, and nodded. “Does this make my wives and son citizens too?”

  “Your son was born here and already is. Your wives, by virtue of marriage to you, are eligible, and can make that choice anytime.”

  Dirk had never thought of himself as a citizen before. He had thought of himself as a Londoner’s son. It amazed him. He was a Yankee.

  Skye unstoppered the ink flask, dipped the nib, and scratched his name.

  “I’ll witness it, Mister Skye, and congratulations,” Major Graves said. The officer added his signature.

  “Now, sir, another small matter. This is an employment agreement. You’ll agree to uphold the laws and Constitution of the United States, and to proceed under the direction of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Your annual stipend will be deposited wherever you wish. You will have the use of the agency residence, the agency offices, the agency horses and buggy and wagon, and will also receive expense allowances for lamp oil, firewood, office supplies, and the like. You can move in at once. Perkins is off the reservation, and the staff have prepared your house.”

  Skye skimmed through the agreement, and signed.

  Dirk marveled. Was this commanding man the same one whose old face was etched with fatigue and loss only a while before? Was this old woman, beside him, once so gray and worn, now this eagle? And was his own worn mother, Blue Dawn, so tall and proud ever before?

  “I can weather a few years,” his father said. “If I can put this place on a sound footing, and help these people find a way to live, and defend them from predators, and give them something to live for, well, Captain, that would be all that a man could ask of his remaining days.”

  “Mister Skye, half the things you want your superiors will veto. Or Congress won’t fund. But you probably know that.”

  “Will I be able to call on the army, Captain?”

  “No, not for much. The army’s in worse shape than the Indian Bureau.”

  “Has Chief Washakie been told of this?”

  “We thought to tell you first.”

  “Will you tell him?”

  “He’s our next stop. We needed to find out whether you would accept.”

  “Hey, how did this happen, eh?” Victoria asked.

  “We knew Erastus Perkins was … pocketing whatever he could. But that’s not what you mean, Madam Skye. You mean, how did your man get chosen, I take it. Your husband’s a known man, I assure you. He’s lived among your people all his adult life. He’s fought at your side. He’s fought us, sometimes. He’s known for, what’ll I say? Grace, let’s say grace. An odd idea being mouthed from some old soldier, close to retirement. Grace it is. If any man can help your people, madam, he can. He knows us, and he knows you. He knows what to tell us, what’s gone wrong, what won’t work, what violates your deepest beliefs. There are some in the Indian Bureau who want to turn all of you into white men, but Mister Skye here is going to say no to them, and is going to help find a way of life that fits with who you are and what you believe.” Graves paused. “I’m told that no one in Washington dissen
ted. Not one.”

  Mary said, “Will my people now cross the invisible lines?”

  “I think the new agent will allow it, don’t you? But, madam, I wish to offer you a somewhat different idea. Those boundary lines are there to keep white men out, not keep you in.”

  Oddly, Dirk didn’t much care for all this. One man, Skye, could not bend the will of the Yankee government. This would only mean no change, but now a man friendly to the Shoshones, and bound by marriage to them, would be telling them what to do and how to live. Now his old and ailing father would be an instrument of the Indian Bureau. It might all work out, and at least his father and mothers would be comfortable. But what would a mixed-blood man do with his life?

  thirty-eight

  Within the hour, army teamsters had moved the few possessions of the Skyes into the agency house, even as Mary and Victoria wandered through the small frame building, noting its kitchen, parlor, two bedrooms each with two narrow cast-iron bedsteads, and outhouse out back.

  Two young Shoshones appeared, one a deaf-mute girl named Keewa, who understood sign language, and her mate, going by the name of The Walker, a general factotum whose days were largely devoted to cutting firewood for the agency house as well as the agency offices.

  Dirk watched his weary father stare at the object of his desire for many months, a bed with a mattress, a haven for his aching body. His mothers, by some agreement, took one of the bedrooms, leaving the other to Skye and Dirk. Skye settled in a chair; his face filled with pleasure. He had scarcely sat in a chair his entire adult life, and often squatted on his heels, in the fashion of the mountains, until age and stiffness kept him from it. But now his father settled in a Morris chair, and then rose to try a horsehair settee, and then a straight-backed dining chair, all with such childlike joy that Dirk realized at last what pain meant to an old man, and how relief from pain could be a life goal and vision all in itself.

  Skye even wandered to the two-hole outhouse, and settled on a seat in wonder, and then retreated to the warm agency residence. The mute girl followed anxiously, eager to please, and Dirk thought she might have been abused. Victoria watched her, and employed the ancient sign talk of the plains to tell the girl that she was welcome, all was well, and she was appreciated. She and her man had quarters at the back of the agency building, which they cleaned.

  But something was gnawing at Dirk, and it had to do with this sudden luxury, while just beyond these walls his mother’s people, his own people, were struggling to stay warm and fed. But after a grateful tour of the premises, Skye asked how much wood there was.

  Dirk hastened out to the woodlot, and found what he thought was two cords.

  “Tomorrow, early, harness the team, load half of that wood in the agency wagon, and take it to our people.”

  Somehow, Dirk’s anguish eased. This would be Skye’s first official act.

  The whitewashed house was small, not grand, but it seemed a palace to the Skyes, especially that first night when each of them slept on a cotton-stuffed mattress in a warm house. True to his charge, Dirk arose before dawn, found the agency’s barn and harness and draft horses, and soon began loading wood, until he thought he had half of it.

  When he returned to the house, he found all his parents were up and cheerful.

  “How did you sleep, Papa?”

  Skye yawned and smiled. “Maybe I’ll go back for another round,” he said.

  His wives laughed.

  “Goddamn white men need soft beds,” Victoria said. “So do old Absaroka women.”

  They looked uncommonly cheerful while Mary brewed some coffee.

  Dirk drove into a frosty dawn, crystal-white haze on top of a thin cover of snow, and made his way up the valley, the two draft animals exhaling steam. Dirk knew where to go: the isolated cabins dotting the great valley. But he found no one present at the first place, the stove cold; and the pattern repeated itself as he drove upriver. Then he discovered an encampment next to some woodlands, traditional lodges bleeding white smoke into a white sky, and he knew the people had solved their firewood troubles their own way, by returning to their traditional ways. Some lodges had been cut up to make moccasins and shirts and coats, but enough remained to shelter the Shoshones. He drove to the encampment and made a symbolic gift of a piece of dry wood to each household, including his uncle, The Runner, and in each case he told his people that his father would be their agent and this was his gift to them. This would be a good day, he thought. A very good day. The people, mostly wrapped in blankets or buffalo robes, smiled their greetings, and then set out to share the great news with all the rest. And so the trip to deliver firewood turned out to be an announcement.

  His last call that morning was at Chief Washakie’s home. The youth carried the gift of wood to the door, but the chief was waiting for him.

  “It is a fine morning, North Star. I have heard the good news,” Washakie said.

  “Grandfather, it is my father’s wish that each Shoshone household receive the gift of firewood from him.”

  “Ah, warmth. It is a fine gift. Warmth, North Star, is more of a gift than any other.”

  Washakie took the firewood and hefted it, and smiled. “You will come in now,” he said.

  North Star knew it was a command. He tied the harness lines to a post and entered. The chief motioned him to a seat, and vanished into the kitchen for a moment.

  “The ladies will bring us tea,” he said.

  North Star nodded, wondering what all this was about, as the chief settled himself on the horsehair sofa.

  “It is a good thing, our friend Mister Skye becoming our agent. My heart is lifted up.”

  “Mine too, Grandfather. There will be more food delivered on each allotment day.”

  Washakie stared into the brightness of the winter’s day outside. “I despise allotments, North Star. They make beggars of us. We wait in line for handouts from the Yankee government. Do you know what I am saying?”

  North Star did. The monthly dole of food had reduced this proud people to helplessness. Several times, North Star had watched his mother’s folk shuffle through the line, be checked off by officious bookkeepers, and then receive a little of this and that, and drift away to live out their lives without purpose.

  “The Shoshone People are broken,” North Star said.

  “I work ceaselessly for the day when there will be no allotments, and nothing is handed to my people,” Washakie said. “And I know what must come. We must have our own herds, and plow our own fields, and then we will have food enough. That is how your father’s people stay alive through the times when there are no berries and roots to gather, and the times when there are no buffalo or deer or elk to be found.”

  North Star sensed this was leading somewhere, and it would be best just to let the seamed old chief take the meeting wherever it would be taken. It didn’t take long.

  “We need more than allotments; we need the wisdom of the white men. They are very wise. They live with grain stored against hunger, wood against the winter, and cattle that can be slaughtered as needed. They have commerce, in which those who have skills produce one thing, and those with different gifts produce another, and they use money to make trades. This is good.”

  A girl returned bearing a tray with a teapot and cups. She was a beautiful girl, with blueberry eyes and jet hair and golden cheeks. She eyed North Star with demure curiosity, but he caught her glancing at him, and she caught his swift glances that absorbed everything about her. She wore a white velvet ribbon at the end of each of her two braids.

  “North Star, this is my youngest daughter, whose name is Mona, and the reason I am keeping you here, even though I am sure you wish to return to your father and mothers, is to ask something of you.”

  Mona passed steaming tea to each man, and shyly vanished into the rear of the little white house.

  The chief lifted the teacup. “I will sip in honor of this day, and of our good fortune, and of the appointment of Mister Skye,” he said.

/>   North Star followed the ritual, and smiled.

  “It is my wish that all of my people be educated in all the mysteries of the white men. Some things about them are excellent. Some things make me wary, and some things worry me. But they are the future, and they have wonders we did not know, guns and wheels and metal and marks on paper they can turn into words. It is my wish, North Star, that you will tutor us all, and especially my daughter Mona. And if you will set a time early each morning, I will have us all gathered here, in the parlor, and we will receive your instruction. I would like for us to learn something of each of the things you know. Would you do it?”

  “Grandfather—”

  “We will share some of our allotment with you.”

  “But, Grandfather, I don’t know much. I didn’t finish the schooling. The blackrobes still had more to teach me.”

  Washakie smiled slightly. “I thought you might at least teach what you know. It is more than we know. Mona is very eager to learn everything you might have to show her.”

  “I would be pleased to teach her, Grandfather.”

  “Ah, North Star, it is done, then. Now, we will be ready when the sun first shows himself, and we will learn from you. A little while each morning, if that is suitable.”

  “It is, sir.”

  The chief rose smoothly, and escorted North Star to the door.

  The young man turned at the last, and saw Mona shyly peering from within.

  “Grandfather, tell Mona I will be pleased to teach her everything I’ve been taught.”

  “I thought you might, North Star.”

  He untied the harness lines and returned to the agency with an empty wagon, the backs of his dray horses frosted, and after he had cared for the animals he entered their new house. And there, once again, was that Major Graves.