by James Welch
He lifted his hands as if to touch the stars. He remembered the stories told by his grandfather of the origins of the constellations. He had been young then and it all seemed simple. There were only the people, the stars, the blackhorns. Now his grandfather was dead and the Napikwans were pushing their way into the country. What would happen to the Pikunis? His father was right and wise to attempt to treat with the Napikwans. But one day these blue-coated warriors would come, and White Man’s Dog and the other young men would be forced to fight to the death. It would be better to die than to end up standing around the fort, waiting for handouts that never came. Some bands, like the Grease Melters, had already begun to depend too much on the Napikwans. Ever since the Big Treaty they had journeyed to the agent’s house for the commodities that were promised to them. Most of the time they returned empty-handed. And more and more of the Napikwans moved onto Pikuni lands.
White Man’s Dog looked up at his hands. His grandfather had said those many winters ago that if you went to sleep with your palms out, the stars would come down to rest in them and you would be a powerful man. Many summer nights White Man’s Dog had tried to go to sleep this way, but his arms grew tired before the stars could come. He lowered his arms and rolled over. The fire was down to embers, glowing softly in the moonless night.
The Black Patched Moccasins was the last band that White Man’s Dog visited. They lived below the bend of the Bear River, where it turned south to enter the Big River. At one time, only three winters ago, they had been the most powerful of the bands. Their lodges were always full of meat and robes, and the men and women were cheerful and generous. Their leader, Little Dog, was head chief of all the Pikunis. He was a trusting man and chose to befriend the Napikwans, visiting them frequently in their Many Houses fort on the Big River. They, in turn, treated him well, for they considered him a valuable go-between who was able to control the more hostile of the Pikunis. For a while that was true, but the demands became too great and things ended badly.
Now the people of the Black Patched Moccasins were distrustful of any who were not of their band. For protection they had continued to ally themselves with the other bands, but their hearts had turned cold.
White Man’s Dog rode through their camp and his eyes were rounded by what he saw. Pieces of fur and bone were scattered among the lodges, as though the people had dragged animals into camp, ate what they wanted and left the carcasses to the dogs. The smell of rotting flesh made White Man’s Dog’s eyes water. To his right he saw a lodge that was in danger of falling over. The loose skin covering was ripped and stained. A naked child, holding a piece of fur against its mouth, watched him ride by.
At last he saw the lodge he was looking for. It was painted black around the top to resemble the night sky. Yellow clusters of dots in the black represented the constellations. A broad band around the bottom was painted ocher to suggest the earth. And around the middle a procession of otters headed toward the entrance. This was the tipi of Mad Plume, who had dreamed the Otter Dream in his youth and who now presented the Otter Medicine bundle at the Sun Dance.
“Haiya! Mad Plume! It is White Man’s Dog, son of Rides-at-the-door of the Lone Eaters. I have come with news.” He looked around him and saw several of the people standing in front of their lodges. A large yellow dog snarled at him, but his master hit him on the head with a stick and the dog slunk away.
Mad Plume came out of his lodge and stood before White Man’s Dog. He was a little man, and old now, but he stood with a straight back, cradling his long-pipe in his arms. The bowl was made of the red stone used by the Dirt Lodge People many sleeps to the east. The stem was covered with strips of otter fur.
“White Man’s Dog. You look familiar. I don’t see well anymore.” He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, you used to sit with the other children and listen to my stories—during the summer ceremonies. Yes, you used to ask me questions.”
White Man’s Dog knew Mad Plume did not recognize him, but it was true that he had sat and listened to the old man’s stories. Many children did.
“Tell me, how is Rides-at-the-door? I hear he has acquired himself a new wife. You’re not her son? Get down off your horse and sit with me. Woman!” he called back to the lodge. “Bring tobacco. This young brave and I wish to smoke.”
As if that were the signal, the people came forward and sat around the two men. They looked thin and listless and their clothes were shabby. The man next to White Man’s Dog stunk, even though the river was only a stone’s throw away. In some ways they reminded him of the stand-around-the-fort Indians he had encountered at Many Houses and the settlement at Pile-of-rocks River, always with their hands out when the Lone Eaters came to trade. But since the incident involving Little Dog, these Pikunis seldom journeyed to the forts. They distrusted the Napikwans as much as they distrusted the other bands.
“Ah, you see how it is, young man, with the Black Patched Moccasins. I watch your eyes and I see you wonder. Now I will tell you how it is and how it came to be.” Mad Plume’s wife came with a pouch of tobacco and his short-pipe. She took away the medicine pipe. “Once we were a strong people, first to join the hunt, first to take horses from our enemies and first to take the war road against them. Many an enemy trembled when he saw the Black Patched Moccasins ride down upon his village. But we were also a generous people, loyal to our friends, helpful to those who needed it. We were always friendly with the Napikwans, for we held nothing against them. And they, for their part, always treated with us fairly. Little Dog was even awarded a medallion from our White Father Chief in the east. He knew that the Napikwans possessed greater medicine than the Pikunis, for they came from that place where Sun Chief rises to begin his journey.
“One day the white chiefs came to our camp and showed us a new trick. It was during the new-grass moon. They scratched at our Mother Earth’s breast and buried seeds and pieces of plant flesh beneath her skin. Many of us were surprised, but Little Dog told us it was a good trick, for soon good things to eat would grow. The white chiefs wished us to quit the trail of the blackhorns and to grow the good things to feed upon. Little Dog and some of the others moved down to the settlement on the Pile-of-rocks River and tried to live like the Napikwans. They grew these good things and they even herded the whitehorns. But it took a long time for these plants to come up, and when they did they were scrawny things. The whitehorns were stringy and didn’t taste like real-meat. After a winter of being hungry all the time, we came back and hunted the blackhorns. Even Little Dog came back after a while.”
Mad Plume gestured around him.
“Why grow those scrawny things when the roots and berries grow so abundantly around us? We thought the Napikwans would leave us alone, for we had tried their way and it was no good. Still they wanted us to give up the blackhorns and plant the seeds. Little Dog tried other ways to make the Napikwans happy. When their horses were run off, he would find them and bring them back. He told our people not to kill any more of them. He told the seizer chiefs that he would deal harshly with those Pikunis that offended them. He wanted peace between the Pikunis and the Napikwans, and that was his downfall.” Mad Plume chewed on his lower lip. A spasm rippled across his cheek. When it passed, he said, “The rest you know. He had brought some of the Napikwans’ horses back to them and was returning to our village when he was jumped and killed by some of his own people. He was betrayed by some of his own people, and that is why the Black Patched Moccasins have become so distrustful.”
White Man’s Dog looked into the wrinkled face and tried to read the emotions there. For while the lips were curved into a smile, the eyes had become wet. It was as though Mad Plume remembered Little Dog both fondly and sadly. Yet there was something else there, something in the way the lips trembled, as though he wanted to say something more. White Man’s Dog remembered the reason given for the killing of Little Dog, and now he wondered if some part of Mad Plume not only understood that reason but perhaps condoned it. The killers of Little Dog felt the head chief h
ad put the interests of the Napikwans before those of the Pikunis. It was he who betrayed the people.
“We are a leaderless people now. I have tried my best but I do not inspire the young ones to listen. I am too old and I do not possess the strength. Look around you, White Man’s Dog, do you see many of our young men? No, they are off hunting for themselves, or drunk with the white man’s water, or stealing their horses. They do not bring anything back to their people. There is no center here. That is why we have become such a pitiful sight to you.”
“But why don’t you move, Mad Plume? Away from these Napikwans. The Lone Eaters live a long way from them and are never tempted to fool with them. The game is thick in our country. The Black Patched Moccasins would be welcome to hunt with us.”
“Perhaps—it would be nice.” But White Man’s Dog saw the resigned look in his host’s eyes. It was odd, he thought, how Mad Plume was such a respected man during the Sun Dance ceremony, but within his own band he was powerless. White Man’s Dog looked up at the figures on the Otter Tipi, a sacred tipi, and he looked around at the faces of the people, and he realized there were things he was not old enough or experienced enough to understand.
He told Mad Plume and his ragged band of his mission, and they seemed to approve of Heavy Shield Woman’s vow. There was no woman among them who had made such a vow—nor among any of the bands—so she would be the Sacred Vow Woman at the summer ceremony.
“You will stay and feast with us, White Man’s Dog. Your father and I have been on the war trail together a couple of times. He was a young one then, but oh, he was brave....”
White Man’s Dog looked around at the faces and beyond them. He saw the ragged lodge and he saw the naked child playing with the piece of fur. A dog was licking the child’s face. “Yes,” said White Man’s Dog.
10
THE LONE EATERS had camped a short ride from Riplinger’s trading house. The lodges were set up around a bend in a grove of big-leaf trees, so they were not visible to the two other bands who were also trading. Whole families were gong to the trading house, their packhorses laden with robes, and coming back with the goods that would make their lives easier. The women traded for cloth, beads, paints, white man’s powder for cooking, kettles and pans, earrings and brass studs to decorate belts and saddles. The children came back with sweet sticks and knives and even some dolls. And the men acquired half-axes, files, hoop-iron, tobacco, ammunition and guns. There were not as many of the repeating rifles as they had expected, so most of them had to settle for the new single-shot seizer gun. These rifles were as heavy and long as their old muskets, but they fired cartridges, were easily loaded even on horseback, and fired most of the time. The greased shooters carried truer and farther than the old balls. There was some grumbling but most were happy to get this weapon, even at the price of fifteen prime hides.
Only a few of the important men of the Pikunis received many-shots guns. Riplinger had acquired eighteen of them, and he presented them as gifts to the chiefs and to others he deemed important. He often gave valuable things, such as saddles and guns, to the chiefs to ensure their future trade.
When Rides-at-the-door and his family entered the trading compound, Riplinger greeted him first in Blackfeet, then in the Napikwans’ tongue. He enjoyed seeing Rides-at-the-door and respected him as a smart man, one who had learned the English language during the treaty years. He was one of only three or four that Riplinger knew who spoke the language. The others had learned it in boarding schools, but Rides-at-the-door had picked it up from a missionary who had spent a couple of winters with the Pikunis before heading on to the Flathead country.
But Rides-at-the-door did not particularly like any Napikwans, and so he answered Riplinger’s questions with short, curt answers. He watched the trader sort through the hides, making piles according to grade. The trader’s son helped him tot up the figure; then he sent the son to accompany Double Strike Woman and Striped Face to the storeroom, followed by Running Fisher and Kills-close-to-the-lake.
“Where is your other son?” said Riplinger.
“Off hunting,” said Rides-at-the-door. He did not see any need to tell of White Man’s Dog’s mission.
Riplinger looked surprised. He hadn’t known a Pikuni yet who missed a trading day. “Well, your hides are good, Rides-at-the-door. They are worth many of my goods. I’m sure your women will find what they need. But come—I have a surprise for you.”
Rides-at-the-door followed the trader into his living quarters. He stood just inside the door.
“Would you like a drink?”
“I am not accustomed to it.”
Riplinger snorted. It was almost a laugh, but he managed to check himself. “Well, probably for the best. Don’t do anybody any good.” He was digging around in a closet. “Ah, here!” He held up a many-shots rifle. He walked over to Rides-at-the-door. “For you. Over and above the value of your hides. I have the cartridges for it in the next room.”
Before he turned to leave, Rides-at-the-door saw the trader’s wife standing in a doorway to another room. She was a younger woman, about the age of Striped Face, and she wore a calico dress that came down almost to the floor. Rides-at-the-door could just see her shiny black shoes beneath the hem. He glanced at her face. She was smiling but there was a look of fear in her eyes.
Back in the lodge, Double Strike Woman and Striped Face examined their new goods, sometimes exclaiming their admiration, other times speechless with awe. Even Kills-close-to-the-lake touched the new things. She smiled as she held a piece of red flannel to her cheek.
Rides-at-the-door watched them as he smoked and felt satisfied that they had made a good trade. From time to time he glanced over at the many-shots gun leaning against a tripod. Next to it rested a single-shot that he had gotten for White Man’s Dog. He was satisfied but also a little worried. White Man’s Dog was overdue. He should have been back two sleeps ago if he had ridden cross-country from the Black Patched Moccasin campsite. Perhaps he had decided to stay longer with one or two bands, or perhaps he had decided to try to see Fast Horse. That could be trouble. But White Man’s Dog was levelheaded and took his responsibility seriously. He would return soon.
Rides-at-the-door listened to the rifle fire and realized that he had been hearing it all afternoon, a steady hail of fire as the men tried out their new weapons. He got up and walked outside. Most of the men were down by the river, firing at bushes and rocks against a cliff on the other side. Running Fisher would be among them, shooting up his ammunition at things that did not need killing. But it was necessary to get used to a new gun. Rides-at-the-door remembered when he was a young man and had gotten his musket. He had used up all his powder and balls and had to wait several moons before he could get any more. Things were harder to come by then. He smiled. Perhaps he should go down and fire his own many-shots gun to get the feel of it. Instead, he walked off toward the trees behind camp to take a piss.
White Man’s Dog came that evening just as Sun Chief ended his journey. Families were getting together to feast and sing and to compare their new possessions. In the middle of camp, young men sat around a large fire, weapons across their laps, and sang wolf songs. Young women strolled arm in arm around the perimeter, sometimes doing a dance step, other times trailing a robe over the head of a young man. Running Fisher was part of a drum group, and he sang and watched the girls.
White Man’s Dog led the gray horse into camp, watching the various activities. From time to time, he heard the pop of a rifle or the taunting yodel of a young brave, meant to frighten an imaginary enemy.
A small boy fell in step with White Man’s Dog. “What happened to your horse?”
“He stepped on a sharp rock.” White Man’s Dog recognized the boy as One Spot, Red Paint’s younger brother. He wore only a breechcloth and moccasins. His cheeks were painted a bright yellow.
“Couldn’t you ride him?”
“Not since morning. He’s been lame all day.”
They walked in sile
nce for a way. Then the boy said, “I have a faster horse,” and darted between two lodges to join some children who were playing with a gopher.
Rides-at-the-door greeted his son outside the lodge. He had been standing there, smoking, watching the drum group. “My son! It is good to see you.”
The two men embraced and White Man’s Dog knew his father had been worried. “I would have come sooner but I stayed a night with the Black Patched Moccasins. Then this horse came up lame. Mad Plume sends you his greetings.”
“Ah, a good man, Mad Plume. Come inside and eat, my son. Your mother has been worried about you.”
Later that night the two men walked over to the lodge of Three Bears. White Man’s Dog followed his father in and when he straightened up he was surprised to see so many people present. Three Bears sat at the head of the fire, away from the entrance.
“Welcome, my son. Come here and sit beside me. You have been gone too long.”