by Win
Suddenly, he had a nutty idea. He would reshape the stars with his eyes. He would place them where he wanted and make words of them. Since he’d learned to read in his twenties, he’d grown very fond of it, and he even carried a volume of the verses of Lord Byron in his possible sack. The book was so much fun he could stand the word “Lord” in front of Byron.
Now Sam bent his mind hard to the task and pushed the stars around the sky until they formed words. He couldn’t hold more than one word at a time in his mind, though. He couldn’t tell what the words were, and none seemed to be the right ones. The nameless held itself aloof from words. He would start one word—he tried to shape “alone” from one herd of stars—but it seemed wrong. Then he’d rub it out in his mind, just like using an eraser on a blackboard, and start again.
He tried to make “hard times.” Those words sure spelled out the last couple of years. But the stars began to get fuzzy. He realized they weren’t nearly so bright. He didn’t have much to spell with.
Instead the stars said something to him. They turned into tiny animals. He could barely make out the shapes, but clearly they were humped buffalo, long-necked cranes, slinky coyotes, spry ants, and all the other animals of creation. And they started marching off. Step by measured step, they began walking off the black slate of the sky. They would need forever to empty out that slate—the stars were almost numberless, like the animals—but there they were, the vastest of herds, moving on.
Just then he heard Hannibal get up and step to the dead fire.
The stars were gone, and Sam didn’t know the nameless.
He heard a clank from Hannibal. Sam was half in a magical world with a blank sky and half in the ordinary world. He squirmed. He opened his eyes and looked at his partner. He didn’t dare glance at the dark sky. He rooted himself here on the ground in the steamy valley.
Then he smiled at himself. Aha. Eureka. Whatever words applied—words were Hannibal’s specialty. I still don’t know what the nameless is. Don’t understand myself or the world. But by God I know what to do.
He rolled over in his blankets, away from Hannibal.
Sam felt stuck. He wanted to talk to Hannibal and he couldn’t. Hannibal was the wisest man Sam knew. Sam was hoping to work his way to the banner Hannibal said he rode under, “Rideo, ergo sum” (I laugh, therefore I am).
But Sam couldn’t talk about what he saw beyond except to a medicine man. The tradition was that you did a sweat with him and told him what you had seen. It was like what Sam understood of the confessional, sacred and to be shared with no one.
The medicine man didn’t give absolution, and he might not give interpretation. A few questions, some hints, and a suggestion that only the seer could understand the vision, that would be all.
Sam wondered if he would get to things the right way with a Crow medicine man again, ever.
He sat up. He had to say something, even if it violated morning coffee silence.
“I can’t name it,” he told Hannibal, “but I can do it.”
Hannibal raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Let’s go get Esperanza,” Sam said.
Hannibal waited for his partner.
Sam sat up in his robes. “We both know the truth. This trapping life, it’s finished. We know what comes next. Let’s get my daughter and head for California.”
Hannibal ran some thoughts through his mind, but he felt the need to speak only one.
“All right,” he said. He handed Sam a hot cup, poured himself one, looked across the rim of his cup at his partner, and said, “How are we going to keep the Crows from killing us?”
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THE NEVER-ENDING SONG OF JEDEDIAH SMITH
The entire “Never-Ending Song of Jedediah Smith” (only place all of it will be printed):
(to the tune of “Sweet Betsy from Pike”)
We set out from Salt Lake, not knowing the track
Whites, Spanyards and Injuns, and even a black
Our captain was Diah, a man of great vision
Our dream Californy, and beaver our mission
(chorus)
Captain Smith was a rollickin’ man
A wanderin’ man was he
He led us ’cross the desert sands
And on to the sweet blue sea
We rode through the deserts, our throats were so dry
If we didn’t find water, we surely would die
The captain saw a river, our hearts came down thud
The river was dry, and we got to drink mud
We rode through a salt plain, scarce a creature could live
The captain saw a village, said the Injuns might give
Our stomachs were aching—we smiled and said “Please”
Our tongues were surprised when they fed us on fleas
(chorus)
We was lost in that desert, no beaver, no creeks
Don’t worry, says the Captain, we’ll find water next week
He climbed up a hilltop to get a good look
And studied his Bible—was there a map in the book?
We parleyed with Injuns, we traded tobacco
We took gals to the willows, and made canyons echo
And only the captain, with morals full girt
Missed out on the fun—never lifted a skirt
(chorus)
Our Diah, oh he was a far-seeing man
He captained us clear to the Spanyard land
There we did gaze on the foam of the sea
And the Spanyards they threw us a big jamboree
It was grand, Californy, a life of pure ease
It was warm all year round, with a sweet-scented breeze
There was plews in the creeks and mountains to roam
Only one problem—we couldn’t get home.
(chorus)
Captain Smith, he stared up at the mountains and snow
How to get over, he said, I know
Three good men I’ll take, and hay for the mounts
We’ll fight and we’ll claw and come through when it counts
His words gave no hint of the desert beyond
The fierce sun, the hot winds—mirages, not ponds
We wandered but found only dry watercourses
And finally, half starved, we ate up their horses.
(chorus)
One terrible noon, a man fell to his knees
No more, he cried, just leave me—please
They shoveled the sand clear up to his chin
We’ll be back, they promised, don’t never give in
After three dusty miles, they came to a spring
They drank deep, they splashed—oh, water was king
Diah took back a kettle, good as his word
They knew then they’d survive—Die? that’s absurd
(chorus)
They spied out the Salt Lake, and thought journey’s end
Their hearts were for meat and whiskey and friends
When the camp saw them coming, they gave out a hoot
Got out the cannon and fired a salute.
So the story went round, from white men to red,
Jed Smith may be pious, but living or dead
He’s a captain to ride with, a partner to side with
A leader with art, and a friend of big heart
(chorus)
On the Santa Fe Trail, it was four years after
The outfit came to trouble, it couldn’t find water
Jed Smith rode ahead to find the Cimarron
He found the Comanch, their eyes hard like stone
Not a living man knows where his bones are a-bleaching
His flesh, it is dust that drifts in the haze
The life that he lived is all that needs preaching
The coyotes on the night wind are singing his praise
HISTORICAL NOTE
The time and places of this novel in history are as accurate as I can make them, and as truthful.
The Indian slave trade
was just as it’s shown here, and the relationship of the New Mexicans and Navajos just like this. The treaty terms which Governor Armijo offers to Hosteen Tso and the Navajo, ridiculous as they seem, are based on an actual treaty of the time. Though the enslavement of black people in the United States is more than notorious, the enslavement of red people is acknowledged less than it should be; and it lasted long past the Emancipation Proclamation.
The rendezvous of 1833 and the state of the fur trade in that year, pivoting on the struggle between Rocky Mountain Fur and the monopoly, are also depicted accurately. The historical characters presented there—Tom Fitzpatrick, Joe Meek, Captain Stewart, Milton Sublette, Robert Campbell, etc.—were in fact there and behaved as shown here. Jean Baptiste Charbonneau is likewise drawn from history.
Though Pegleg Smith’s purchase of Tomás’s fictional cousins is my invention, he and other mountain men did trade women in this manner.
I am grateful to many people for help along the way. Dick James is a true expert on the physical culture of the mountain men. Murphy Fox is a fountainhead of information about Plains Indians. Stan Hordes, former state historian of New Mexico, is a treasure trove of information about that state. Lana Latham is my invaluable supplier of interlibrary loan books. And my friends Clyde Hall and Heidi Schulman once again deserve my thanks.
The two people most crucial to my writing, this book or any other, are my wife Meredith, who brainstorms with me and inspires me, and my editor, Dale Walker, who guides me, encourages me, and occasionally shakes his finger at me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Win Blevins is the author of thirty-one books. He has received the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Contributions to Western Literature, has thrice been named Writer of the Year by Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers, has been selected for the Western Writers Hall of Fame, and has won two Spur Awards for Novel of the West. His novel about Crazy Horse, Stone Song, was a candidate for the Pulitzer Prize.
A native of Little Rock, Arkansas, Blevins is of Cherokee and Welsh Irish descent. He received a master’s degree from Columbia University and attended the music conservatory of the University of Southern California. He started his writing career as a music and drama reviewer for the Los Angeles Times and then became the entertainment editor and principal theater and movie critic for the Los Angeles Herald Examiner. His first book was published in 1973, and since then he has made a living as a freelance writer, publishing essays, articles, and reviews. From 2010 to 2012, Blevins served as Gaylord Family Visiting Professor of Professional Writing at the University of Oklahoma.
Blevins has five children and a growing number of grandchildren. He lives with his wife, the novelist Meredith Blevins, among the Navajos in San Juan County, Utah. He has been a river runner and has climbed mountains on three continents. His greatest loves are his family, music, and the untamed places of the West.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Win Blevins
Cover design by Mimi Bark and Amanda Shaffer
978-1-5040-3312-1
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
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