by Jim Fergus
A strange occurrence today brought that unasked question very much to the forefront. We watched at a distance what appeared to be a small war party composed of no more than half a dozen men riding toward our camp. Some of our Strongheart women assumed arms and mounted, as did a number of the men. I should mention that our men have not yet formed an official warrior society, as they represent both different tribes and at least half a dozen different societies of which each is only represented by one or two in our band. And so, although they have held numerous councils trying to come up with a formal structure, because of the Indians’ renowned difficulty in reaching consensus, they remain disunited in a society, without a name or a founding principle. Further confusing the issue is the fact that Chance, a white man with one-eighth Comanche blood, is riding with them, and no one really knows what to do with him, for no white man has ever joined them in making war.
I was pleased that while I am still only an honorary member, Pretty Nose allowed me to ride with the Stronghearts today, and as we set out to confront the approaching interlopers, it was noticed that the brave at their head bore a white flag of peace attached to the end of his lance. As they came closer, Pretty Nose identified the war party as Shoshone, based on the style of their attire and the elaborate headdress worn by their leader. Unlike whites, Indians don’t play tricks with the peace flag, such as pretending to be on a friendly mission when they actually have warlike intentions, and so we all relaxed and rode toward them with an attitude of simple curiosity.
As we came abreast and our parties reined up facing each other, their leader planted his lance in the soil and spoke in the sign talk at which I am rather fluent by now. He said: “We come in peace. I wish to powwow with your chief.” Being the only one with that title, Pretty Nose rode forward toward him, as he did toward her, with a perplexed look on his face to be thus greeted by a woman chief. They spoke sign together, but I had difficulty reading it as Pretty Nose had her back to me and was partially blocking him. She turned and spoke to me in Cheyenne, asking that Chance approach them. Surprised myself, I passed this request on to him. An ingenuous and unflappable fellow is my … I suppose I can call him now, my husband … and he didn’t seem at all astonished to be thus summoned, riding forward confidently. He was, of course, not wearing his war paint, but dressed in his buckskins, just dark enough of skin, strong-featured, and sufficiently longhaired now that he can almost pass for a mixed-blood. The Shoshone chief addressed him in his tongue, and Chance answered in Comanche in what sounded to my ears like a quite amicable tone. I have learned that the languages are quite similar, for some generations ago the two tribes were one, until the Comanche split off and headed to the southern plains. Now the two men had a rather lengthy conversation that Pretty Nose interrupted periodically with sign talk. Some laughter even ensued, the rest of us now dying to know what was going on. They finished with nods, and what sounded like grunts of hou all around, and at a command from their chief, the Shoshone reined their horses about and made a dramatic display of galloping off.
Chance came to me where I sat my horse next to Phemie, Ann, Maria, and Astrid. He was smiling strangely, as if working something out in his own mind, and said nothing for a moment. Pretty Nose reassumed her position at the head of our party and signaled to the others, and all turned to head back to the village.
“Are you going to tell us what that was all about, or not?” I asked impatiently.
“Well … yeah, sure I am … it seems like we been challenged … or maybe I oughta say you been challenged.”
“Challenged to what? They’re going to make war against us? We’re mortal enemies … so what was all the laughing about?”
“Not war, exactly, more like war games … chasin’ each other on horseback, wrestlin’, countin’ coup, hand-to-hand fightin’, foot races, tests of strength, horsemanship, shootin’ arrows, throwin’ knives and tomahawks, wieldin’ lances. Damn curious thing … it’s kinda like makin’ war, an’ folks can get hurt for sure, ’cept no one gets kilt unless they accidentally do somethin’ stupid. Real nice fella, named Chief Young Wolf … far as I could make out. He was laughin’ cause Pretty Nose said it was you Strongheart women who would go up against his warriors, an’ he thought that was real funny to be fightin’ against girls, said he didn’t want to do it at first, said he was afraid his warriors might hurt you. But then Pretty Nose says to him, and I translated for her … she says, ‘You must be afraid you’re going to lose to the girls, aren’t you?’ An’ that made him laugh some more, see, an’ her and me, we laughed along with him just to be polite.”
2 October 1876
The arrival of the Shoshone war party with their challenge necessitated first a meeting of the Strongheart society, and then the tribal council. The former was held today, under the cottonwood trees down by the river, as no tipi had yet been completed that was large enough to accommodate the full group. As an honorary member, I was allowed to attend.
Chief Pretty Nose begins the meeting with an account of the Shoshones’ visit, further explaining that the war games are to take place in eleven days, that many members of their band will be coming, not just as competitors but also as spectators, and that a number of the events proposed by Chief Young Wolf will be one-on-one contests, their best man against our best woman. Thus intersociety trials to choose the strongest, most capable among us in each discipline will begin immediately. She then opens our powwow to questions and general discussion.
Lady Ann Hall, who I have learned is a forthright woman and not one to beat around the bush, speaks first, asking the question on everyone’s mind mentioned in my last journal entry.
“I am most curious to know,” she says, “if anyone present here has the vaguest idea of where exactly we are?… and I am requesting a strictly geographic explanation, not being in the least bit interested in a supernatural one.”
Gertie is the first to answer. “Well, goddammit,” says she, “I been wonderin’ myself when in the hell we was goin’ to get around to that … been so damn busy … An’ what with this fine country, good weather, plenty a’ game, buffalo herds the size a’ which I ain’t seen now for many moons, at least not since the government put the word out to eradicate ’em, it is hard to complain too much about where we are. Or even to think about it. So maybe we oughta just consider ourselves real lucky, enjoy it while it lasts, and not try to figure it out.”
“To make myself clear,” Lady Ann answered, “I am not complaining; far from it, this is a spiffing landscape in which we find ourselves, I am simply asking where it is on the map.”
“Well, Lady Hall,” says Gertie, “I been knockin’ around these mountains and plains for goin’ on thirty years now, from north to south, east to west, so I know the lay a’ the land pretty damn well, if I do say so. I ain’t sure there’s anywhere I ain’t been before. But then again, that ole Holy Woman, ’fore she started climbin’ the hangin’ road to Seano, been here a hell of a lot longer than me, an’ maybe she knew some secret places I don’t … like this valley … that’s what I’m thinkin’. Now, if I had to guess, I’d say maybe we was on the other side a’ the Bighorns. I admit that’s country I don’t maybe know quite as good as I do some other. An’ I’m thinkin’ that way, too, on account of it bein’ a party of Shoshone warriors showed up here, an’ that’s their home country over that way, them bein’ more mountain folk than us.”
Well, this seems a reasonable explanation, coming as it does from Gertie, and I think it puts everyone a little at ease, even if does leave certain questions unanswered. For instance, no one remembers climbing to the other side of the Bighorns to get here, and, furthermore, since the Shoshone are our enemies, scouting for and fighting with the Army against us, why is it that one of their chiefs came here with some of his warriors asking to play war games where no one gets killed? I am quite certain that I am not the only one to have these same thoughts, but thankfully, no one, not even Lady Ann, who brought it up in the first place, expresses them out loud. It
is quite true that this is such a splendidly rich valley surrounded by lushly beautiful mountains, and we have everything in the world we need for the winter, why look a gift horse in the mouth? Why ask unanswerable questions? Why not, for a change, simply enjoy the good fortune we so seldom have?
Now I take the opportunity to speak up, respectfully requesting to be granted official, rather than honorary, membership in the Strongheart society, so that I might compete in the trials with the others for a chance to represent the tribe in the war games … and prove myself worthy. Pretty Nose privately consults Phemie, Woman Who Moves against the Wind, Warpath Woman, and Kills in the Morning Woman, and, after a short discussion among them, announces with a collective nodding and expressions of approbation that my request has been granted. Then all the Stronghearts welcome me into the society with the loveliest trilling that makes me proud and brings tears of pleasure and gratitude to my eyes. It seems to me that it has been a rather long journey back from being dead to being a member of both the tribal council and the Stronghearts, fully embraced by our new band, reunited with my daughter, and settled for winter in this resplendent valley, wherever it is.
7 October 1876
Only five days left before our contest with the Shoshone. We have met in tribal council, and all are in agreement about the event, though some expressed apprehension about a large contingent of historical enemies coming among us, in the event that their intentions are not so honorable after all. Yet the various tribes of the mountains and plains, enemies and friends alike, do observe a quite strict code of honor in such matters, and in this case most of the council feel secure, and are looking keenly forward to the arrival of the Shoshone band and the war games—both unprecedented events in their lives.
Of course, Dog Woman has been pressed into service to organize a feast and a dance to welcome our unlikely visitors and to celebrate the beginning of the games. Although we do not know exactly how many Shoshone are likely to come, she has instructed the hunters regarding her requirements for the species and number of game animals to be harvested. Certainly, nothing goes to waste among these people, and every part of the animal is utilized—whether consumed or made into attire, water vessels, and other practical items for the lodge: tools, medicine, jewelry, toys, or totems. It is clearly for this reason that the natives have been able to live off this land for countless generations without marking it, scarring it, or otherwise altering or destroying it. As Wind and I witnessed in our travels this past summer, since the gold and land rush of the colonizers began, with the destruction of the great buffalo herds and the introduction of non-native bovines, the gutting of the earth for what the whites consider to be its hidden treasures below, the construction of railroads, settlements, ranches, and Army forts—the earth, as these people have always known it, is disappearing before their very eyes.
9 October 1867
With the help of Chance, rather than Phemie, against whom I may be competing in certain events, I have been secretly practicing my warrior skills, so that the others do not have the opportunity to identify my strengths and weaknesses. I may not be as tall and lanky as Molly, but, thanks to Wind, I am well-muscled and strong for my size, quick and supple, and I believe I can compete with any of my contemporaries in arm wrestling and Indian leg wrestling. Plus, my cowboy, who himself learned this sport from the Comanches as a boy, has given me invaluable instruction, showing me its specific moves and tricks. I’m embarrassed to commit this to paper, but while practicing with him near the river, and far from any prying eyes of spies, as he was demonstrating one particularly effective hold, I became aroused, by the close contact and grappling, as did he, and we ended up wrestling nude, making exceptionally athletic love.
“It sure might be dangerous for me to put this in your head, May,” he said afterward as we lay exhausted together in the grass, “bein’ as you’re … a … don’t know how to say it exactly … an’ I don’t mean no offense neither … bein’ as you’re an excitable sort…”
I laughed. “I think you mean ‘passionate,’ Chance, and I take no offense; it’s not a dirty word, and I am passionate, exclusively with you, of course.”
“Well, what I’m thinkin’ is this … let’s say you beat out your gals in the trials, and yer the one goin’ to be wrestlin’ a Shoshone warrior…”
“Ah, yes, I think perhaps I know where this is going…”
“Yeah, let’s say you’re in a close hold like we just was … Now, I’m hopin’ ya ain’t goin’ to get excitable—”
I laughed again, interrupting him because, due to his lack of formal education, I have been trying, as gently as possible, to correct some of his most egregious grammatical errors and expand his vocabulary. “I don’t mean to confuse you, Chance,” I said, “but in this case, the correct word would be ‘excited,’ and as passionate as I may be, I can assure you that is not going to happen.”
“OK … but it can happen, May,” he said, “An’ I wouldn’t hold it against ya, neither. But if it does, it ain’t goin’ to do you no good ’cause you’ll lose your focus … like we both just did. But … if you can just work him up to feelin’ passionate … I mean to say excited … an’ you know better than me, that ain’t so hard to do with men—it might help you pin him and win the match, ’cause he’s sure to lose his focus. So I’m gonna teach ya a few words of Comanche, somethin’ you can whisper to him, quiet like, while you’re wrestlin’. He’ll understand, an’ that’ll take his mind real quick off the wrestlin’ match. That’s when ya make yer big move, and he won’t be ready for it. Game over.”
I laughed again. “God, I adore you, Chance! I can’t wait to learn those words, so I can whisper them to you.”
“You don’t even need to do that with me, May.”
In addition to our wrestling practice, Chance has broadened and refined my equestrian talents, so that I, too, can now ride my mare Lucky reins free. And he taught me how to slide out of the saddle, onto her side, holding on with one hand to her mane and, with the other, shooting my pistol under her neck. Of course, because these will be games and not real warfare, we won’t be shooting at each other, but one of the other main events of the competition will be displays of horsemanship so critical in actual battle. Chance says if I go up against the Shoshone in this, I may also have an advantage because I’m lighter than the men. However, I know quite well that there is no possibility of me besting Pretty Nose in horsemanship, and I don’t believe anyone else can either, her closest competitor being Phemie. In fact, I think Pretty Nose will be able to beat all of us in every skill, but, to be sure, she can’t take on the Shoshone warriors in every one of them. Thus, her being the chief, it is she who will choose who among us will compete in each of the challenges.
I must mention that in our last Strongheart meeting, held yesterday, Molly announced that because she is nearly five months pregnant, by estimation, and beginning to show, as we’ve all noticed, she has decided not to compete in the trials or in the competition. We are sorry to lose her, but all understand the decision. At the same time, my perhaps overly competitive nature feels also some small sense of relief that this is one less competitor, and a formidable one at that, against whom I will have to match my own talents.
The trials begin tomorrow …
19 October 1876
I have had no time whatsoever for journal entries these past days, and there is much to report. The trials and the war games have come and gone. The Shoshone arrived four days later than they had originally proposed, which was no great matter and one not unexpected. The Indians have a very different manner than whites of observing the passage of time, perhaps simply because they don’t have clocks and calendars, but rather measure it by the seasons, the phases and subtle colors of the moon, the shifting position of the sun in the sky, and the changing length of daylight and darkness. Indeed, my group and I came to refer to this as “Indian time,” in which four days is not even considered lateness. Plus it gave us all more time for our own preparations.
They made a most imposing entrance, coming across the hills at least sixty or seventy in number—men, women, and children—about two dozen of them in the lead, dressed in full warrior regalia, headed by several chiefs wearing magnificent headdresses, the feathers of which trailed nearly to the ground, mounted on prancing, elaborately painted mustangs. As we had not been expecting them until our scouts rode into the village to notify us, at which time they were already in sight, we were still dressed in our “work” clothes—that is to say, entirely without finery—so that when we got a good look at them as they approached, we felt rather shabby in comparison. To make their entrance even more impressive, they were singing, a rather melodic tune that carried over the rolling plains as if it were following the contour of the land.
Pretty Nose and a handful of us other Stronghearts, including Wind and Gertie, our two additional Shoshone speakers, as well as Chance, who seemed to have established a rapport with their head man, Chief Young Wolf, the last time they came here, mounted and rode out to greet our challengers. As we came near, the younger children in their band, chattering and giggling, boys and girls alike, ran out to touch our feet in the stirrups, the child’s game of counting coup, a display of pure joy, mixed with nervous daring on their part, that I have always adored.
This time Wind spoke for our band, welcoming the visitors and suggesting a place near the river for them to pitch camp. It was midafternoon, and there would be no competition that day, but the invitation to the welcome feast and dance was extended.
By the time our little contingent returned to the village, our social director, Dog Woman, seemed in a state of near panic regarding the number of the Shoshone visitors, worried that there would be insufficient food, although she had already planned for more people than had been expected to arrive. Yet she is, after all, a true professional at her task, and was already giving orders to Bridge Girl and her other subordinates, regarding the laying and starting of fires and the beginning of cooking. Days before, she had laid out the contours of the dance circle and had more than enough firewood stocked for the various blazes. She soon had everything well under control.