Flight of the Hawk: The River

by W. Michael Gear

  Mounting, he led the way out of the drainage and up onto the grassy ridge. First the riders, and then the packhorses with their fortune in calf hides, filed out and into the west wind.

  Once they had crossed to the other side, placing the ridge between them and any possible sighting by the Arapaho, he called back: “So we were brave when we were strong—when we were pushing the Pa’kiani far to the north of the Great River, and when we were driving the Dené south from these plains. We were brave when our people were so many a man could not count them all in a single moon. Now we are few and weak and frightened. If courage is only a matter of numbers, what does that tell us about the hearts of the Newe?”

  He laughed. “I am not afraid. If I die here, I will go to the ancestors above with my head high. You’ve all heard the stories about how when the bravest of the brave die, Spirit Eagle will descend. We all know we have a life soul, the mugwa. I want Eagle to carry my mugwa to the Sky World when the time is right.”

  He glanced back at the riders following him. Aspen Branch was grinning in a knowing way where she rode four horses back, as if hearing something pleasing to her ears.

  “To be brave in strength is easy, my friend,” Red Moon Man agreed. “To have courage in weakness is worth more than perhaps even these thunder sticks, is it not?”

  Gray Bear tried to appear nonchalant. He carefully cataloged the reactions of those straining to listen. “Having courage doesn’t mean that what we are doing is without risk. That lesson was taught to us back at the Black Hills. We, who are left, are going to have to be smart, wary, and clever. We have to follow the low country, take our time, and travel like cougars instead of a pack of wolves. But, that said, cougars kill more often than wolves who spend so much of their lives eating carrion. There’s a lesson in that, my friends.”

  Eagle’s Whistle was riding stiffly upright in his saddle now, his head thrown back, his broad, sun-blackened face proud. “If my souls shall be called to the ancestors above with yours, Gray Bear, I will come to the Spirit World singing of my courage. I will not go in dishonor like a man with no relatives or a child who is caught stealing from his own father.”

  Gray Bear stifled his smile as he sneaked a glance at the women and young boys who followed. They were all sitting upright, moving easily on their horses. Their eyes, however, remained wary, seeking the horizon for any danger, but they did it with pride now.

  Singing Lark kicked her sturdy brown mare up beside Gray Bear and pointed down at the distant creek that ran off to the east. “You need a scout, Taikwahni. I think you should let me ride ahead. See if any dangers lurk on our path.”

  “I can think of no one better,” Gray Bear told her. “You go be my chickadee. Fly ahead and see what you can see.”

  She grinned, eyes flashing, white teeth sparkling behind her full lips. Then she urged her mare to a canter, long black hair streaming out behind her as she rode off for the drainage. He’d seen the gleam in her eyes when he called her his chickadee. In the old stories, it was always the clever chickadee who could throw his all-seeing eyes up into the trees to spy out far-off things.

  “Yes,” Gray Bear whispered with a trace of a smile on his lips, “they shall sing of us for many seasons, Eagle’s Whistle. They will sing of us with honor.” His hunger was less intense now. Behind him, the packhorses were heavily loaded with some of the finest summer calf hides he’d ever seen, and each was tanned to perfection. He looked ahead eagerly, seeking the sign of the hawk.

  Seeking the subconscious pull that lured him ever eastward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  * * *

  On Saturday, August 1st, the men were on the cordelle all morning, cheering as they passed the Cheyenne River and cursing as they traversed the difficult stretch along the bluffs.

  That job entailed mountaineering while they pulled the boat. Men clambered along the cliffs, jumping and scrambling for purchase, in order to pass the cordelle to a place where the footing was secure. Then they pulled the heavy line hand-over-hand until the boat was brought up. From there—while the craft was anchored and held in place by the polers—they would clamber along the perilous slope, passing the rope forward to do it all over again.

  “Feel like one of them Swiss goats up in the Alps,” Tylor muttered as he clung to a bush, one foot braced.

  “Oui, you smell like one too,” LaChappelle returned with a slack grin on his sweaty face.

  The following day they had isolated storms—the towering black clouds kept rolling in, one after another, from the northwest. Dark stringers of rain angled out from beneath. Heavy winds flattened the grasses, which were even now turning brown in the summer heat. The leaves on the cottonwoods clattered in the dry air.

  Three buffalo were shot by the hunters and packed in on the rangy horses, which provided an evening of feasting for the crew. For the first time John Tylor ate boudins, the mountain delicacy of buffalo gut baked in the glowing red coals of the campfire. Boudins, he found, were eaten in a long string, swallowed bit by bit, not cut off in bite-sized pieces.

  At 6 a.m. the following morning a cry was raised as the engages lined out once again to attack the high Missouri. Tylor strained to look upriver. A large canoe crowded with people paddled its way down the river’s thread. Greeting shots fired from Polly were answered by a volley from the waving men in the canoe.

  Lisa laughed and greeted Joseph Gareau, his Arikara interpreter, two engages, and Goshe, a Ree chief. The Ree—a squat and portly man—was the first of that nation that Tylor had ever seen. Goshe looked to be a happy-go-lucky type with a smile big enough to match his appetite: the latter apparently substantial from the girth of the man’s gut.

  The chief handed a letter to Lisa. Then he pitched a sack of corn up from the bottom of the canoe before he clambered awkwardly up Polly’s side and over the gunwale, almost capsizing the canoe in the process.

  The letter had been sent from Michael Immel—dispatched ahead on foot to the Arikara. Immel reported that his party had reached the village, and all were fine.

  Tylor didn’t hear any further news; Lisa was immediately haranguing his crew to work. Curious at what was being said on the boat, Tylor forced himself to line out the cordelle and bent to the burden of pulling Polly upriver.

  That night in camp, Tylor pushed his way through the knot of men who sat listening to the talk between Lisa and Goshe, all interpreted through Gareau. Pawnee was closely related to Arikara, and Tylor was delighted to discover that he understood many of the words.

  He waited for a break in the conversation and looked at Goshe. “You speak very similar to the Panis,” he said in Pawnee.

  Goshe grinned and nodded. “You know our cousins in the far south? That is good. How are you called?”

  “I am called John Tylor. You would not know any of my birth clans.” Tylor enjoyed Lisa’s shocked expression. A strange animation, however, lit McKeever’s eyes where he hunched like a coyote at the rear of the pack. “I lived with the Skidi Pani where I learned your speech and traveled the lands of the Padouca and Wichita, who speak differently.”

  “Ah!” Goshe nodded happily. “I am Goshe, a man of the Antlered Elk people. In the time of my grandfather, the great chief Closed Man sought to unite all Panis into one people. This, my grandfather and his people thought bad. We then moved north because there was much war among the Panis. At the same time others raided from east of the great river. They carried the white man’s weapons and killed many of our people.

  “We moved up to this country and built our villages where we thought we would be safe from the Kansas, the Iowa, and the Otoes. Then came the Sioux, so we moved even further up the river. Once we had as many as a thousand lodges and could bring so many warriors to fight that even the Sioux feared us.”

  Goshe smiled fondly at the memory, then he sighed. “That was before the time of the rotting death, and our people died by the hundreds, and the river was choked with their bodies. The Sioux came again in greater numbers, this time w
ith the white man’s weapons. And they killed many. Soon the rotting death came again, and then the Sioux. Now we have only thirty tens of lodges.”

  “This saddens me to hear.”

  “Now the white traders are here, and we, too, will get the white man’s weapons. When we have many guns and much powder we will be able to beat the Sioux and make strong medicine to fight the rotting death. The Antlered Elk people will become many again, and the lodges will fill the riverbanks.”

  Tylor nodded. “The Skidi tell the same story among their lodges. They, too, are no longer as strong as they once were. They lived in eight villages and now only have one. Maybe the Antlered Elk people have not had such bad luck as their cousins down south?”

  “Maybe.” Goshe shrugged. “The kurau, our healers and seekers, say we have strayed from the good path. Perhaps this is true. But pray as they will. Sacrifice as they will, nothing changes. Of such things I do not know. I do know the whites are our friends now, and they will give us the spirit power to destroy the Sioux.”

  Lisa had been listening to Gareau’s translation of the conversation. “Tylor,” he murmured, black eyes veiled, “I didn’t know you could speak Arikara. What other secret talents do you have at your disposal?”

  “Not sure I can list ’em, sir. I spent some time out here is all. Can’t help but learn something if a man keeps his ears open.”

  Lisa kept thoughtful and hooded eyes on Tylor for a couple of heartbeats, then turned to Gareau. “Ask Goshe what he has heard of the British. Have they been to the Ree village?”

  “We have heard.” Goshe nodded after Gareau translated. “The British have many runners out. They use some Sioux from the woods to the east and some Chippewa and Crees. These people are old enemies of ours so we do not listen very well when the British speak.”

  “What do they say?” Lisa asked.

  Goshe stood, draping his blanket just so, right foot forward. Tylor had learned that this was the orator’s stance. It put the listener on notice that the speaker was saying something important, and shouldn’t be interrupted. Goshe cleared his throat, and began: “The British want us to trade with them. They invite us to a trade festival many miles to the east in the land of both the Sioux and the whites. Far to the east, along the great waters that you call lakes.

  “They have said the Americans—you, Lisa—can no longer get fine things to trade. They say the Great White Father has told the British he does not want his people to give the Indians good things anymore. To ensure this, he has given orders that no one can bring these good things to America anymore. Is this true?

  “They also say there will be a big fight with much raiding and war. The British promise many coups, many horses, and much wealth. They say all the things owned by the Americans can be taken as spoils and plunder if the Indians will come and fight with them. They say the Americans are weak, and they are strong. Is this true?

  “They say they will come to our land with many boats filled to the top with more trade goods than you, Lisa, have ever brought us. They say these trade goods will be bigger and brighter, and they will be much cheaper, and given away freely if we will come fight with them against the Americans. They say we will get twice as many things from them as we get from you. Is this true?”

  At the end of his speech, Goshe made the hand gestures that he had finished. In traditional fashion, he now returned to his seat, dark eyes intent on Lisa, who now stood and, true to form, adopted the orator’s stance.

  “None of it is true except that there may be the big fight. We still are bringing you goods. See my boats! They are full of things for the Arikara. And all the others, too.

  “It is not true that the Americans are weak. We have beaten the British before, and we can do so again. If they were so strong, would they have to ask Indians to come and fight for them? Would you consider the Crow to be strong if they asked the Gros Ventre and Mandan to come and fight you in their place? Unlike the British, I am not asking you to go off to some distant place and fight. The Americans don’t need others to fight for them.

  “The British say you can become rich fighting Americans? That you can carry home great plunder? I tell you the truth: little wealth will be won by fighting. I have just come from the Teton Sioux. They are not going back east to fight. They are staying right here, on the river. Which begs the question: Do you want to leave and fight for the British when the Sioux are going to be up on the bluffs, waving you goodbye?”

  Goshe grunted uncomfortably at that.

  Lisa continued, “The mere promise of a horse from the British is not worth the wailing in Ree lodges after the Sioux have left. With the men gone east to fight, there will be no kurau, no holy men, remaining behind to see to the proper burial of your dead. Fight the Americans, and they will scalp the Arikara, and leave them as food for their pigs. Would you want that?

  “It is not true that the British would bring you more trade goods, or that they would give you more for your trade than you get from me. That is a trick to entice you to go fight for them. How would they bring you these things from so far away? There is no river, and Montreal is very, very far away. Would they be able to bring so much on the backs of horses? Do you think they could bring goods around the rivers? How could they carry more on their backs than I can in my boats? If they could bring these things to you they would have to have many more men to carry it all. Those men must eat and be paid. How could they bring you things at half my cost?” Lisa concluded, arms thrown wide, a questioning expression on his face.

  Manuel Lisa had delivered it masterfully, seemed to reek of honesty in tone and posture. A deep concern had warmed his eyes, and he nodded slightly at Goshe. Tylor grinned. Lisa was the consummate Indian diplomat.

  Goshe, by not rising to his feet again, signaled that Lisa’s argument was precedent. “Your words are good, Manuel Lisa. There is truth in what you say.”

  “Then the Rees are happy with me?”

  Goshe leaned back, mimicking a man deep in thought. “There are some who are not.”

  “What have I done?” Lisa cried, arms thrown wide again. “Did my men do something to cause trouble for the Arikara?”

  Goshe spread his hands. “There has been talk you will remove your trading post from the Arikara village. That you will move it far away where our enemies will get all your goods. This would be a very bad thing. Many are upset by this, and some might want to make war. That is the reason I have come to you first, that you might know these things and change your mind. If you move the trade it would hurt my people and perhaps cause war. This must not be.”

  Goshe gave Lisa a calculating look. But then, Indians were no fools when it came to playing the diplomatic game either.

  The trader listened with interest as Gareau translated. He glanced curiously at Tylor, who had heard both versions. Tylor nodded in agreement. Lisa sat back and ran his fingers over his chin as he thought.

  “I must move the post,” he admitted to no one in particular. “The Arikara didn’t bring in enough fur to make it pay.”

  He seemed to make a decision. “Goshe,” he said, leaning forward with fire in his eyes. “I must move the post. It is not to slight the Arikara that I do this. It is for a better location that the move is to be made. It is also to give your people some privacy. It is no secret that I trade with all peoples. In the future, do you want the Assiniboin entering your land, camping next to your lodges, while they trade with my people?

  “In view of the concern you mention, I shall not move the post far away. I shall only move it far enough that when enemies of yours should come to trade, no one will get hurt. That way the Rees, my best friends, shall still be the closest to the post. Will that satisfy all parties?”

  Goshe shrugged and sighed. “I do not know. Maybe. I shall talk to my people, but I am only a minor chief. What I wish does not always come to pass. I am not eloquent like so many others.”

  “We will see, my friend.” Lisa grinned at the Arikara and reloaded the peace pipe to be
smoked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  * * *

  They cordelled all day into a fierce headwind. Cries of joy were raised when they crossed the mouth of the Moreau River—another landmark. That afternoon a huge thunderhead swept its way through the sky and halted the boats while it dropped buckets of rain and pea-sized hail on the cowering heads of the men.

  No more than an hour later, two canoes were spied following the current downriver toward Lisa’s three boats. These bore Lorimer, Greenwood, John Dougherty, and William Wier, hunters for Lisa’s expedition.

  The rain continued so Lisa ordered camp early that evening. The trader huddled in his tent with Reuben Lewis, John Luttig, and the hunters who had just arrived. From the muffled voices, Tylor knew they were talking about the Rees, and how they were going to react to moving the trading post.

  The next day, Wednesday, the 5th of August, the skies were partly clear with only occasional white fluffy patches of cloud on the far horizons. The storms from the day before left the river running higher, choked with silt and debris. As the morning passed, the water dropped rapidly, leaving mud-covered sandbars glistening brown in the hot summer sun.

  Lisa chose a route where the current seemed stronger only to have the receding water begin to strand the boat. All hands dropped the cordelle and struggled downstream in the current to shove the Polly back down the narrow channel.

  Tylor could hear the gravelly bottom scraping along the keel.

  Inevitably, Polly stuck fast, and only by rocking the hull and digging out the keel did they work the boat loose. Tylor ran gasping and panting alongside Polly’s splintered hull. He splashed through the shallows and slogged his way through the deeper water until they had worked the boat free of danger.