“You’re exaggerating a mite, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not at all,” Eric replied, sighing contentedly. He encompassed the plaza with a sweep of his arm. “Look at them, Nate. Really look at them. Not one of them has a devious bone anywhere in his or her body. Their pristine souls have never known the wickedness and vice that corrupts our own social fabric. They are living as all humankind was meant to live, free and in perfect accordance with Nature.”
The artist’s fiery passion made Nate study him intently. “Indians are no different than any other people,” he finally responded. “There are good ones and there are bad ones in every tribe. The Mandans are no exception.”
“On the contrary. I have never known people as noble as these. Not in Asia, nor in South America. And certainly not in Europe.” Eric twisted and pointed at the lodges. “If by no other standard, measure them by how clean everything is here. Why, there are cities in Europe where you can hardly walk down a street without becoming dirtied by the filth underfoot. Some gutters run deep with garbage and urine. Believe me, I’ve seen it.” He lowered his head and shuddered. “The worst was the recent smallpox epidemic. Did you hear about it?”
“Can’t say as I did.”
“Thousands died. I was on the Continent at the time, and I had to pass through the stricken cities on my return to England. The dead were lying in the open, their foul bodies reeking, their skin covered with blisters filled with pus. The authorities say that all the filth contributes to the spread of such diseases, and I can see why.” Eric smiled at the assembled Mandans. “Gaze around you, my friend. The cleanliness of this village is a reflection of the inner cleanliness of its inhabitants. Whether you agree or not, here is paradise. I respect them more than you can ever know.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Nate said. He had never heard Indians described in such glowing terms before, and he was troubled by Nash’s lack of perspective. The man was so fond of the Mandans that he was blind to reality. Yes, they were friendly. Yes, they had many admirable traits. But they would torture and scalp a captive, just like any other tribe, and they were not above exterminating their enemies if given the chance. In short, when the occasion called for it they could be as bloodthirsty as the Apaches or the Blackfeet.
“I may never leave here.” Eric said softly.
“So I heard. Have you given the matter a lot of thought?”
“What’s to think about?” Eric retorted. “I’ve found heaven on earth, and I’d be a bloody fool to give it up.”
“What about England?”
“What about it? My family and friends will get by without me.” Eric placed his hands on his hips and nodded. “And they might even accept what I’ve done once they understand the lofty purpose motivating me.”
Nate glanced at the White Buffalo Cow Women and spied Morning Dew among them. “What is your lofty purpose?”
“To do what no man—no white man—has ever done before. I intend to use my talent to paint and sketch every single aspect of Mandan life, to show them in all their glory for all the world to see.”
“But what about those two other painters, Catlin and Bodmer?” Nate asked. “I thought you told me they’ve already paid the Mandans a visit and done some paintings of the tribe?”
“That’s just it! They stayed with the Mandans a short season and painted whatever impressed them the most,” Eric said, gazing appreciatively over the tableau before him. “I, on the other hand, intend to capture each little part and particle of Mandan existence, to record their way of life as no man has ever done before. I’ll make a complete record that will so captivate your fellow countrymen back in the States and my own in England that the name of the tribe will be on everyone’s lips. And once they are so well known,
no one, not even your government, will dare try to force them off their lands as you told me has already been done with the Cherokees and other tribes.”
This argument gave Nate pause. He remembered the conversation well, one of many during their long trek across the plains, but at the time he had merely been venting his spleen over a government policy he considered tyrannical and unsound. He hadn’t been trying to convert Nash to an ardent supporter of the Indian cause.
And Nash had a point. If he did make an artistic record of the Mandans and have the paintings displayed in the States and elsewhere, it might cause public opinion to sway in favor of the tribe should there ever develop a conflict with the government over the tribe’s right to live along the Missouri.
So Nate let the matter drop for the time being while he gave it more thought. In his heart he still felt Nash might be about to make a mistake that would only bring sadness in the years ahead, but he could not bring himself to say as much when he had no solid reason for saying so. And Nash was, after all, a grown man. If the Englishman wanted to give up a life of luxury to live with the Mandans, that was Nash’s business, not Nate’s. Moments later the Bull Society started their ceremony, and Nate temporarily shut the problem from his mind to concentrate on the warriors.
Eric Nash was also riveted to the dance, his blood pulsing in rhythm to the beat of the drums as he drank in the sights and sounds. He watched, fascinated, as the warriors began dancing in a large circle, often bending at the waist and uncoiling again, spinning and whipping from side to side as they flowed gracefully in imitation of the mighty beasts they were working their magic on. As they danced they yipped and howled and whooped in fierce abandon.
Many of the spectators also joined in, some swaying in time to the drums, others shuffling their feet, others whooping. A few fired their guns into the air.
While this was going on, the White Buffalo Cow Women were performing their own dance, a more sedate one to be sure, moving in a circle, as did the men, but chanting and singing rather than voicing savage cries.
Soon the whole tribe was swept up in the frenzy of buffalo fever. The dancing went on and on and showed no sign of letting up. Eric Nash didn’t mind. He reveled in the rite, clapping and stamping his feet and occasionally uttering shrieks worthy of a true Mandan. More and more, however, his glance strayed from the dance of the Bull Society to that of the White Buffalo Cow Women. He spotted Morning Dew and locked his eyes on her, feasting on her loveliness. When, at length, she glanced at him and smiled, he felt warm inside.
Night came on. Stars sparkled on high. Yet still the dancers went around and around. Fatigue began to take its toll, and some of the younger members of the Bull Society faltered.
Then Nash witnessed a curious display. He saw one of the male dancers stumble and nearly drop from weariness, and when that happened, another dancer armed with a bow stepped in close and shot the stumbler with a blunt arrow. Spectators then laid hold of the exhausted man, dragged him from the circle, and drew their knives. With the panting warrior prone on the ground, the bystanders then went through the motions of skinning and cutting up a buffalo, pretending to butcher the warrior as they would a real buffalo. When they were done, they turned back, laughing and joyful, to the dance, while two of their number helped the warrior to his feet and escorted him away.
“How marvelous!” Eric said to himself. “How bloody well marvelous!”
It was long past midnight when Winona came over and tapped Nate on the arm. Turning, he draped an arm over her shoulders and said in her ear, “Ready to turn in?”
“Yes, husband. It has been a long day.”
With one arm on Winona and another on Zach, Nate started to leave. He paused to speak to the Englishman. “We’re off to sleep. Care to come?”
“No, thank you,” Eric responded. “I don’t want to miss a minute of this.”
“Suit yourself.”
Eric gave a little wave as they left, and resumed watching the dancers. Presently his attention was drawn to a nearby lodge, from which, at regular intervals, young women bundled in heavy robes would emerge with elderly warriors in tow. The pairs would then move off into the darkness. After seeing several such couples go off, and a few r
eturn, his curiosity was so aroused that he ventured over to the lodge to ascertain what custom was being enacted. At the entrance he hesitated, fearing he might break some tribal rule. But mustering his courage, he poked his head inside.
“Greetings, Nash. Come on in and sit a spell.”
Glancing to his right, Eric was surprised to find Shakespeare McNair seated with his back to the wall. Entering, he sat down beside the mountain man and surveyed the interior of the lodge. Then he received his second surprise.
A circle of old warriors occupied the middle of the floor space. Some were smoking pipes, others simply sitting there as if waiting for something to happen. Among them sat Jarvis, wearing a big grin and with an air of eager anticipation.
Behind this circle sat another circle, but this one was composed exclusively of young, pretty women draped in heavy robes. Young men were also present, but they stood or moved among the aged warriors, speaking softly and gesturing at the women.
As Eric watched, one of the elderly warriors bowed forward and a younger man immediately went to one of the kneeling women, took her by the hand, and brought her around to the old man, who in turn stood and was led from the lodge by the woman. “What are they doing?” Eric whispered to McNair. “Does this have something to do with their buffalo ceremony?”
“That it does,” Shakespeare replied, his eyes twinkling and the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “The Mandans don’t miss a trick when they want the buffalo to draw near to their villages.”
“What does all this signify? And what is Jarvis doing here?”
“He knows a good thing when he sees it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Jarvis was invited to take part. Any white man who happens to be visiting during the buffalo dance is always asked to join in. The Mandans think it’s good medicine.” Shakespeare looked at Nash. “You can take a seat in the circle if you’re so inclined.”
“And what then?”
“Well, you sit there until one of those young warriors comes up to you and offers you his wife.”
Eric’s head snapped around. “What do you mean by he offers me his wife?”
“He gives his wife to you so you can take her out and do what bull buffaloes and cow buffaloes do when they want to have calves,” Shakespeare explained.
“I’m not quite certain I see your point,” Eric said, thinking of the mock butchery he had observed outside. “Do these women and the old men pretend to have relations?”
Shakespeare laughed and shook his head. “No wonder you English lost in 1815. No, the relations are as real as you and me.”
“My word!” Eric declared, shocked by the revelation. He saw another aged warrior leaving with a comely woman, and as they passed by her buffalo robe fell open several inches permitting Eric to discover that she was completely naked. Appalled, he stared at the circle and watched two husbands beseech Jarvis to take their wives. “This is despicable!” he snapped.
“Hush,” Shakespeare cautioned. “Don’t let the Mandans see that you’re upset or they’ll be insulted.”
“But what in God’s name compels them to indulge in such a pagan practice?”
“The Mandans are pagans in the Christian sense,” Shakespeare replied. “And they’ve practiced this custom for more years than anyone can recollect.”
“Which doesn’t make it right,” Eric said angrily. He gestured at the nearest women. “How do they force these husbands and wives to participate?”
“They don’t.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The husbands and wives are honored to take part because they believe they’re insuring there will be plenty of buffalo for the hunt,” Shakespeare detailed patiently. “They do this for the prosperity of the tribe.”
The disclosure was too much for Eric, who leaned back and closed his eyes as he tried to quell the queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach. In his mind’s eye he saw Morning Dew dancing among the White Buffalo Cow Women, and he blanched.
“Are you fixing to be sick?” Shakespeare inquired.
“No. I’ll be all right.” Eric looked at the frontiersman. “Tell me. How are the married couples picked for this affair?”
“Generally, they offer themselves for the ceremony. Since there are more of them than there are old men, the couples like to take turns.”
“All the young couples have to participate?”
“Not if they don’t want to, but anyone who doesn’t is looked down on as having a faint heart and not really caring about the welfare of the tribe.”
“If ...” Eric began, and had to stop to swallow a lump in his throat. “If, say, a white man was to marry a Mandan maiden, would they also be required to take part?”
“They would if the husband is adopted into the tribe. When that happens, the white man is expected to live by the same rules as everybody else. Ask Nate. He knows all about being adopted.”
“Can a white man marry a Mandan woman and want to live here in the village but refuse adoption?”
“I’ve never heard of that happening.”
“But could he if he didn’t want to be adopted?” Eric persisted, gripping McNair’s wrist.
Shakespeare detected the inner turmoil mirrored in the Englishman’s eyes, and he deduced the reason. “No,” he said softly. “I’m sorry to say the Mandans would expect him to be adopted after a while or they’d probably kick him out. They might even make his wife stay with them.”
“And here I thought ...” Eric said, then clamped his lips shut. He had already made a fool of himself in front of Nate by extolling the supposedly pure virtues of the Mandans, and he wasn’t going to commit the same mistake twice. King had tried to tell him the truth, but he hadn’t listened. Now he knew better.
Eric gazed blankly at the ceiling. His perfect paradise had cracks in its foundation, and he feared the whole sterling mental image he had formed might come crashing down with the next startling insight into the habits of these inconsistent people. Most of all, he feared for Morning Dew. Specifically, for the future he had began to plan for the two of them.
Earlier his plans had been so clear-cut. He would go to St. Louis and purchase the necessary supplies, then return and live with the Mandans. His paintings and sketchings would become a permanent record of the tribe for all to behold, including generations yet unborn. And to complete the picture, he had envisioned himself courting and eventually marrying Morning Dew.
But how in the name of all that was holy, Eric asked himself, could he wed the woman knowing what lay in store for them during a subsequent buffalo ceremony? He’d be damned if he was going to share his wife with another man, whether for the good of the tribe or not!
Such an idea was ridiculous, anyway. The buffalo could no more be influenced in their actions by the dalliances of a bunch of old men and amorous women than they could be by the matings of frogs or crickets. That the Mandans believed they could only showed how backward the tribe really was.
Eric wearily rubbed his eyes. Perhaps, he reasoned, he was being unfair. He shouldn’t judge the Mandans by his standards, but by their own. They had never had the benefit of his upbringing, of his education. They were lowly, superstitious primitives who combated the fickle whims of Nature the only way they knew how, with magic rituals no cultured person would ever indulge in.
What was he thinking? Eric let his chin droop to his chest, then sighed. A few hours ago he had been telling Nate that here was a new race of Adams and Eves. Now he was saying they were nothing more than ordinary ignorant savages. They couldn’t be both, so which were they?
Suddenly a large pair of feet stepped into his line of vision, and Eric glanced up.
Jarvis was on his way out with one of the wives, his big face aglow with joy. “Hello, Mr. Nash. I didn’t know you were here. Come to have some fun, have you?”
Eric said nothing.
“This is a bit of all right in my book,” the giant declared as he stooped to go through the doorway. “Now
I see why you like these people so much.”
“I did,” Eric said under his breath. “Now I just don’t know anymore.” He abruptly remembered McNair was right next to him, and he faced around to see if the mountain man had heard. But Shakespeare was staring at the circles, seemingly unaware of his comments. Relieved, Eric sank back and wished he were dead.
Chapter Nineteen
Nate King was standing with Shakespeare and Jarvis in front of the grand chief’s lodge early the next morning when four warriors galloped into the village and up to where Four Bears stood nearby. Excitedly they imparted some information, and in seconds Four Bears was hurrying toward his doorway while other warriors ran to spread the news through the entire village.
“Buffalo have been sighted,” Four Bears signed happily to his guests. “Every man will join in the hunt. Would you like to come?”
Since to refuse would be taken as being impolite, Nate replied that he would. So did McNair. Nate then translated for the benefit of Jarvis.
“Tell him thanks, but no, mate,” the giant said. “Indian horses and I don’t get along very well. Maybe I’m too heavy. But I’ll stay put and keep the marquis and Diana company.”
The village had been transformed into a whirlwind of activity. Warriors were leading their prized hunting horses from their lodges while their families gathered around to wish them a safe and prosperous hunt. Bows were being strung, rifles loaded, lances sharpened.
Nate accepted the same horse Four Bears had given him the day before, and this time the animal allowed him to mount without fidgeting. He checked the Hawken and both pistols to verify they were loaded, then looked around for Shakespeare, who had promised to hurry back after fetching a horse from Stalking Wolf.
“Be careful, my husband,” said a melodious voice behind him in English.
I will, dearest,” Nate told Winona, and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek as she stepped closer. How well he remembered her nervousness when he had gone on previous buffalo hunts, a fear spawned by the deaths of relatives who had died on Shoshone surrounds. Her attitude was understandable in light of the fact that next to dying in battle, buffalo hunting claimed the lives of more Indian men than any other activity. She offered a half-hearted smile, then moved aside when their son came running up, waving his long rifle.
Season of the Warrior (A Wilderness Giant Edition Western Book 2) Page 21