“Oh, Crow Woman, surely Fast Walker will come back,” she said. “He is not old enough to be turned into an outlaw.”
Crow Woman nodded. Fast Walker had been a favorite of Crying Wind’s. “This is a sad time for the people,” she said. “Perhaps there was more in Red Eagle’s dream than Crying Wind and Red Quiver understood.”
Liza put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. A dream could not have protected any of them from this disease. It was an enemy without a face.
Crow Woman reached up and patted her hand softly. “But you have brought us all much gladness, Liza Five Shots.” Startled by the words, Liza blinked back her tears. When had she stopped being Liza Ralston of St. Louis and become Liza Five Shots of the Montana Territory? When had she gone from being a stranger to a member of the tribe?
She slipped out of the lodge, deeply moved, yet deeply troubled. If she were one of them, why wasn’t there something more she could do?
****
The days and nights became interminable. A terrible blow fell when Red Quiver was struck down by the pox. Within three days, the shrunken old man was reduced to skeleton-size; much grieving and wailing accompanied his dying.
Yet, Liza and Crow Woman seemed immune to the disease. They ministered to others, bringing water or broth, collecting wood for fire, or taking care of motherless children.
Liza, sure that there was medicine that could help, petitioned Heavy Runner to send a few of his strongest braves to Riplinger’s Post. Heavy Runner refused. He spoke angrily, haltingly, so that she might understand. The young men would end up with a bullet for their trouble; not even Riplinger would accept Indians coming in with the threat of smallpox hovering over them.
Liza decided she should go. Perhaps she could do what the Pikuni could not. She asked Crow Woman to loan her one of Crying Wind’s horses. The older woman frowned.
“Can’t I try?” wailed Liza.
Crow Woman shook her head and replied in Blackfeet, “How would you find your way? Who could go with you? Who is left to go with you?”
Frustrated, Liza stormed out of the lodge, taking one of Crying Wind’s bridles. Slipping over to the horse enclosure, she found the young bay she had often seen Come Running ride. She led it out of the corral, climbed onto its shaggy, bare back, and rode it down to the river. Winding like a coiled snake across the desolate plain, the cold water lay gray against the white earth, barely moving past chunks of ice. Only remnants of grass and reed, bent over or broken off, stood along the banks. Little remained of the shore’s lush growth and Liza could only imagine what this place must be like in spring.
It was no use. As she scanned the rolling white swales and cutbanks, she knew Crow Woman was right. She knew nothing of this wilderness and would only get lost, bringing another disaster to Crow Woman.
If only Red Eagle and the others would return. If only Crying Wind and her father would come, surely, they would know what to do.
That night, a terrible gnawing attacked, a dull pain deep within her spirit. To counteract it, she repeated Red Eagle’s last words over and over. “I will come back.”
More days of sadness passed. Too tired to pray, too spent to even change her clothes, Liza returned to her lodge each night worn out and tormented. A terrible thought began to haunt her; if the illness was not contained, there would be no reason for the army to negotiate peace, no reason to resolve the conflicts boiling beneath the surface. The army would not lose a single soldier in this battle.
Even her treasured volume of poetry did nothing to salvage her emotions. One evening, in a fit of rage, she threw the book across the fire. The cover, hardly intact, separated from the pages and was devoured by the dancing flames. The pages curled up, one by one, until they disintegrated into gray ash.
But she felt nothing. She was too numb, too heartsick.
What good were words of love, anyway, when people were dying, helpless against something they could not see or hear coming? Worse than any enemy on the horizon, the Pikuni would be destroyed, one by one.
Liza looked down at her own calloused hands as if they were another’s. Her fingers trembled and she gulped hard, hot tears.
Would life ever be simple again?
CHAPTER 23
The smallpox epidemic continued. Entire families were eliminated. Often, only a grandmother or single sibling was left untouched; in one family, four members were struck down, leaving one adolescent girl who, in Pikuni tradition, cut off her long hair and several finger joints. Liza was horrified but helpless to do anything for her.
Still there was no word from Crying Wind and his party. Scouts were dispatched but they returned after three days, eyes downcast, words clipped.
One morning, a group of men left the settlement. Huddled under her buffalo cape, Liza watched them ride away, their faces hard as stone. They represented the strongest of the bands but, realizing there was no other choice now, Heavy Runner and Standing Wolf sent them to trade with the whites: buffalo hides for precious medicines—medicines everyone prayed would stop the dying.
The party of men set off in the direction of Riplinger’s Trading Post. But if word reached the whites before the men did, they could be ambushed or captured or sent back, empty-handed. But to fight or die as a warrior was far better than at the mercy of evil spirits and illness. It was every warrior’s desire to die bravely. This enemy, the insidious white scabs, was not an enemy any honorable brave wished to face.
The parade of warriors was quiet, the women and children who watched them, drawn and sad. No one smiled or spoke as the heavily cloaked men passed by, and the haunting cry of a red-tailed hawk circling above was the only thing to break the awful stillness.
Liza grasped the folds of her cape as she noticed Crow Woman beside her own tipi, face pinched, eyes hollow and sunken. Concerned that the old woman might be ill, Liza rushed to her.
The older woman raised her face and whispered, “Piik.”
Liza nodded and followed her into the familiar lodge. Letting the heavy flap door drop behind her, she caught her breath. There, bent over, was Come Running, vomiting into the dirt. She looked up, only briefly, then turned away.
“Oh, dear God,” she moaned, “she has the pox.” She touched Crow Woman’s arm, tears burning her eyes.
Crow Woman did not respond except to stare blankly. Only her hands trembled.
Liza leaned over Come Running, but the sick woman turned away. She did not want Liza to come near.
Waving her hands above her head wildly and mumbling something unintelligible, she signaled for both of the women to leave.
Crow Woman bit her lip as she tried not to cry. Taking Liza by the arm, she led her out into the gray morning.
Later in the day, Liza returned to help nurse Come Running. Covered in sweat, the young woman passed into delirium several times. Crow Woman had made an herbal tea that Come Running was able to sip but she refused any broth.
By nightfall, Liza stumbled back to her lodge. Her cooking fire was nearly dead, but with numb fingers she took some pitch pieces from her meager store and stoked the coals. Within a few minutes, the fire blazed and Liza huddled over it; nevertheless, the heat could not penetrate her chilled bones.
Nothing seemed to ease her shivering and as she tried to sleep, she wondered if it was her turn to fall ill. She rolled her head from side to side, mind whirling with a thousand disconnected thoughts. How sad that she should die alone without her father, without Red Eagle. Was it some wicked trick being played on her by God? She tried to laugh but the sound came out a hoarse cough.
Liza barely had the strength to pray, so she recited old, familiar prayers, childish prayers her mother had taught her.
Then she prayed for release from her death sentence. “Please,” she whispered as she listened to an owl hooting in the night, “let me live. Let me have a chance to walk with Red Eagle by my side.”
As the night deepened, she continued to tremble. In desperation, she crept over to her s
tash of cooking wood and placed two small limbs across the red orange flames, an extravagance she could not afford.
“The world be damned,” she said out loud. “I’ll not pass into oblivion freezing cold.”
She closed her eyes. Perhaps death was not so bad. At least she would no longer struggle with the emotions that had plagued her since entering the wilderness.
****
Red Eagle pulled his buffalo robe up over his head and shoulders. His hands were so cold he could barely move his fingers and his eyes burned from the raw wind ripping through the small group like a whip.
Looking around the fire at the rest of the heavily cloaked men, his glance fell on Many Words. No doubt the big man suffered more than anyone, though he tried hard not to show his exhaustion. He had valiantly followed them, not complaining, even though it was clear he was growing weaker and weaker. Red Eagle only hoped he could finish the journey.
The trip had been a failure. They had reached Fort Benton after two weeks on the trail where they became stranded in a snowstorm that claimed two horses, then slowed down by sickness, which nearly claimed two of their ablest warriors.
When they finally reached the fort, Lieutenant Pease ordered his troop’s physician to tend the sick men first. Days later, the lieutenant reported that another attack by a renegade Blackfeet band had made negotiations pointless. He called in soldiers and, without offering an explanation, arrested Crying Wind.
As Red Eagle recalled the incident, his face burned with rage. It had been a horrendous mistake. Many Words, overwhelmed by the lieutenant’s charges, protested but Pease walked away, refusing to listen. Many Words followed him, demanding to see the general, but the lieutenant laughed and called him a ‘stinkin’ Injun lover’.
Running Antelope nearly got himself killed after that as he ran after two troopers, his knife drawn. Three other soldiers cornered him, confiscated his knife, and threw him into another jail cell.
Red Eagle and the others could only retreat, returning to their makeshift lodge outside the fort. They were stunned.
Many Words insisted the mistake could be corrected, that the army caved into pressure from settlers. Little Otter didn’t care; he wanted to break in and rescue Crying Wind and Running Antelope. He would prefer taking a few scalps on the way out.
Many Words sternly disagreed. “Do you want to get them both killed? Maybe strung up from the nearest hanging tree? That’s what will happen. You’ve got to listen to me. It’ll take time, but I will get the general to hear me out. Please, trust me, all of you.”
It was difficult waiting. Day after day, Many Words went to the general’s office, only to be turned away. Finally, the general agreed to see him alone. Many Words rushed in, confident he would be heard.
But when he returned his face was grim. The general had listened but refused to respond, so action was postponed. Many Words sat for hours, his head in his hands, refusing to eat or drink.
Red Eagle left the lodge then and headed out to the Indian village that stretched for a mile around the fort. There he saw hungry women and poorly clothed children sitting beside campfires, their faces blank and spirits heavy. He wondered if this was the future he had glimpsed in his dream.
As if beckoned, an old woman emerged from the nearest lodge, her mouth caved in, her skin pitted and scarred. Red Eagle drew back, afraid that this was the dream woman herself. But the woman only wailed, “Feed the old and dying.”
“Woman,” asked Red Eagle, “where is your family? Where are your sons?”
“My son is dead and so is my husband. All but my son’s wicked wife. She has found a lover and sent me away. Abandoned me. She says it is my time to die.”
Red Eagle opened his pouch and removed several pieces of pemmican. “Were I your son, I would feed you—”
“And I would weep over your grave. There will be many mothers weeping soon,” she added, grabbing up the dried meat and hurrying away.
In her wake, Red Eagle stood. He returned to his lodge, but did not share with the others what the old woman had said. But that night his dreams were filled with death and horror, burning tipis, screaming women and children.
Two more days passed before Crying Wind and Running Antelope were finally released. The lieutenant did not apologize; he only nodded his head and said, “Our Indian agent says that Crying Wind is a trusted leader and friend. For that reason, he has been asked to meet with the general. Have him here at 8:00 sharp, tomorrow morning.”
The next morning, talks continued. Crying Wind explained repeatedly that the Pikuni camped along the Bear River had not befriended Owl Child or Mountain Chief. Heavy Runner had given his word, as had Standing Wolf and Crying Wind.
“Then why,” interrupted the army general, “could no leader stop the murdering renegades like Peter Owl Child and Mountain Chief?”
The general frowned; he did not like what Crying Wind or Many Words told him, that a leader could only influence his people through wise counsel and, if a warrior chose to go his own way, there was little anyone could do to stop him.
The general would not be appeased. “The renegades must be stopped. Do you understand? Heavy Runner, Crying Wind, and the others must return the horses that were confiscated and bring Owl Child, Black Weasel, and Mountain Chief to be tried for their crimes. Short of that, there is nothing else to discuss.”
Crying Wind shook his head, discouraged.
The general then read from a piece of paper the names of others known to be following Owl Child. When he read Fast Walker’s name, Crying Wind dropped his chin, shamed by the young man’s foolish act of betrayal.
Many Words broke in. “General, the leaders of the Pikuni are only as strong as the warriors allow them to be. They cannot force men to act reasonably.”
“Then our negotiations are over,” returned the general abruptly.
“But, sir, the people support Heavy Runner’s and Crying Wind’s desire for peace. They do not want a war, any more than the army. Believe me.”
The general carefully rolled a cigarette as he watched Many Words. His manner clearly indicated that he found the minister irritating.
When he stood up, he glanced down at Crying Wind. “It is the Pikuni who cannot believe what is in store for them,” he said carefully. Without another word, he turned and left the room.
Two more days passed before the general called Many Words and the others back to him. “I’m afraid,” he announced, “that nothing you have said adds a whit of support to Crying Wind’s claim that his people have not aided the criminals. We have reason to believe otherwise. Indeed, at this very moment, members of Mountain Chief’s raiding band are being protected in Heavy Runner’s camp.” He turned to Red Eagle and added, “The only way to win the confidence of the army now is to assist in the arrest of Mountain Chief, Owl Child, and their followers. Short of that, there is nothing I can do to change the coming events—”
Red Eagle understood then that the dream woman had spoken the truth, without uttering a word. “Go home,” the general said finally. “Go home to your people. Tell them that the action of one represents the actions of all.”
Disgusted, Crying Wind stumbled to his feet, his black eyes blazing. Red Eagle had never seen his uncle angrier or more determined. Perhaps never more disillusioned, either.
Early the next morning, the peace party left. Before the day was over, Red Eagle knew that Many Words was ill. His heart and spirit had been battling and now they were broken. Red Eagle asked him if he should return to the fort and the white man’s doctor.
Eyes wide and brows furrowed, he refused. “Never,” he whispered to Red Eagle. “There is nothing for me there.”
The men returned by the same trail they had come, only they were spent, emotionally and physically, so the journey became more arduous with each passing day.
****
Crying Wind’s peace mission had been a failure, just as Heavy Runner’s had been before. So much for justice, sighed Red Eagle. S
o much for negotiating with the army. The army heard only what it wanted to hear, and it would do what it wanted.
The wind howled all day and snow fell at intervals. If only the sun would shine for more than an hour or two a day, the men could move faster, thought Red Eagle. But Many Words moved ever more slowly and Crying Wind moved cautiously, too, calling for another stop even before nightfall.
Turning his back to the icy gusts slapping his face, Red Eagle drew a long, steadying breath. He buried his muffled head into his arms to keep the swirling snow out of his eyes. The shelter they had constructed lasted not more than a few hours, leaving each man to huddle under his own robe, fighting off the wind as best he could.
Hoping the storm would pass as quickly as it had come, Red Eagle closed his eyes. Without calling her to mind, the calming image of Liza flashed before him. Gazing wide-eyed at him across the fire the night before their departure, the yearning in her eyes stirred him deeply. Did she know the power she possessed?
Her mouth had quivered nervously as she wished him good luck on his journey and only by sheer determination had he held her at a distance even though desire burned in his loins. Had he taken her then, however, he would have lost her forever.
Forever. That’s how long he wanted her by his side.
Like the Seven Sisters stretched across a clear night sky, their lives had become connected, and he could no longer imagine life without her. She was strong, and he admired that. She was soft and alluring, a softness he wanted to protect.
She would be a good friend, companion, wife; he was sure of it. He would build a home for her, just as his father had built a large, square house for his own mother. Or perhaps they would return to his parents’ house. Either way, a house with flowers and a garden. Even a few chickens. She would like that. And he would buy many books of poetry which she would read aloud; perhaps he’d read some to her.
Across the Sweet Grass Hills Page 18