“And so, he is the son of our sister?” Sacajawea beamed. “And it is you, Spotted Bear, that I see in this papoose.”
She gave the child a little pat on his naked bottom and set him on his feet on the ground. The child backed away and planted himself solidly, his lower lip pushed out stubbornly and his eyes clouding up darkly.
Quickly she scooped him up in her arms again. “When I return, I will raise him with my papoose. He will have two mothers, your woman and me.” She looked at the round, hollow-eyed, undernourished child. “You will have a little brother and you will call me umbea, mother.”
The toddler, no longer afraid or shy, put his head against the beaded yoke of her tunic.
“My woman, Cries Alone, has no babies yet, and he is the light in our lodge” said Spotted Bear softly. “He lives with us.”
Sacajawea shifted her feet, and her eyes moved away from the hurt and sadness she saw on her brother’s face. She thought, He believes I would take the child away. “When your woman lets him come to visit me, I will tell him stories about the pale eyes.”
Spotted Bear’s eyes lighted. “She is my first woman. She is good. There is no hole in her moccasins from running around. She stands by me. She loves the boy as if he were her own. She would bring him to visit in your tepee. So—you can see we have thankful hearts he did not die when it was discovered he was deformed. He was considered a curse, but my woman would not listen when others requested that the little one be interred with his dead mother on the scaffold. His cries would have followed us through the night across the hills, long after he was out of sight. His spirit would have followed us forever. My woman knew.”
Now Sacajawea could see why the child was named Shoogan. His left foot was turned in slightly and was smaller than the right, a clubfoot.
The child stared with his two black robin eyes as Sacajawea examined his foot. His pink-brown mouth pursed, and he spoke. “I go. Father goes. You go. I go. I like you.” He beamed, and then he went to Spotted Bear, who had picked up his robe and was preparing to leave, for the men of the council had taken their places.
Sacajawea took her place beside Charbonneau.
Chief Cameahwait brought out his stone pipe and lighted it with a coal from the small smokeless fire. He drew a few puffs, then held it up, stem outward toward the west, intoning in a controlled, ceremonial voice a prayer, moving the pipe to the other three directions, then toward heaven and earth. He passed the pipe to the left, each man making a few motions and smoking. Captain Clark was constrained by a strong, incongruous feeling that he was in church. He breathed deeply, and then spoke to the Agaidükas.
“As you know, our Great White Father, who lives in a large village toward the rising sun, has sent us to you. We have come to blaze a trail for traders who will bring guns and blankets and axes in trade for your beaver and ermine pelts.”
After a while, Chief Cameahwait spoke.
“It is believed that the white man’s magic smoking-stick will make the difference between full bellies and starvation. The Agaidükas has always hunted his meat with bow and arrow, testing his skill and courage in the chase. His medicine is good, and for this he has a skill beyond the white man’s.
“But the white man has strong medicine, and now he is offering to teach us his skill with the smoking-stick. So—let us hunt the buffalo, killing them where we find them, the women dressing the meat where it falls, bringing it into camp, as is their right. This is the Agaidükas way. In a little while we can dance with round bellies and sleep in peace. I say we learn the white man’s skill and hunt meat with guns.”
There were murmurs of approval from the Agaidükas.
Sacajawea interpreted the chief’s words to Charbonneau, who in turn gave the words in French for Labiche to translate into English.
While the translation was proceeding, Sacajawea proudly watched Cameahwait, who was handsome this day with a tippet over his leather shirt. This neckpiece was about four inches wide, cut from the back of an otter skin, with nose and eyes on one side and tail on the other. Attached to this collar were hundreds of little rolls of ermine skin, which fell down over his shoulders nearly to his waist, so as to form a sort of short cloak. The center of the collar held oyster shells. It was elegant.
Then, like thunder in a cloudless sky, a deep voice boomed in the gutturals of the Shoshoni language, interrupting the proceedings. “Where is this woman, Boinaiv? Where is this woman?”
Everything stopped, the air still as before lightning. All eyes moved toward the open flap, where an unkempt, thick-necked warrior stood.
Sacajawea stared at the man. What could he want? She felt acutely uncomfortable. Had she violated some custom or law that she had forgotten or did not know?
“I want this squaw,” the man said. “Three horses and a Spanish saddle were sent to her lodge many seasons ago as a gift to her father. She is my woman. Mine!”
Heads turned to look at Sacajawea.
Sacajawea put her hand to her mouth. So—this was Big Moose, the son of Red Buck. But he was old and had bad manners! Her mind was confused. It raced here and there trying to untangle what was happening. She did not understand how she had let herself into such a situation. She forgot to interpret his words.
The chief held his hand up imperatively. “Hold on, we are in council.”
The man shook his head and spoke again. “I paid for her before she was out of the cradleboard.”
“Ai, Big Moose, we all know that is true,” said Cameahwait. “Your father, Red Buck, made the arrangement with my father.”
Sacajawea was unable to move, stunned, but she knew this to be the truth. Her sister had been betrothed to the brother of Big Moose at the same time. Then she felt a chill, for Big Moose was staring at her.
“She must come with me,” Big Moose said.
“She sits in the council of chiefs.” Cameahwait spoke sternly.
“This is no place for my woman. I paid good horses,” Big Moose repeated.
“Your father paid the horses,” said Chief Cameahwait. “You could not afford them at the time. We will powwow with you after the council. Go, sit in the front circle with the other warriors,” he ordered.
Slowly the big Agaidükas pushed his way forward, every eye now fastened on him. There was a humming of voices, a sign of apprehension. The Agaidükas sensed trouble.
“Have you admitted this woman to the men’s council to make me ashamed? Do you know how much I am ashamed for her?” Big Moose pulled angrily at the tuft of drab hair above his ear. “These white men have brought this woman here to torment me because she looks like the lost Boinaiv. I wish they would tell me why they do this.”
“You know this is Boinaiv,” said Cameahwait.
“Then I claim her! She is to share my lodge with my other squaws, Leaf and Smoky Robes. Come now, Boinaiv. We go. Do not make me more ashamed by remaining in council with men. This is not the way things are done. Do not dishonor my lodge!”
Charbonneau shifted his feet under him. He could not understand the angry Agaidükas, but he sensed the tension had something to do with his woman. He began to feel anger rise in him. Who did this clod think he was, anyway, yelling things at his woman and interrupting the council?
“What did he say, eh?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you telling us? He seems worked up about something.”
Sacajawea began to speak. The man had come to reclaim her. This was the way things were. She had dishonored him. She belonged to another.
“Mon dieu! Pah!” Charbonneau exploded. There was no sense to it. She was his woman. He had won her fairly in the game of hands. He glared at the man. “I spit on you, bâtard! You grandpère! You old fart! You dirty old buck!” He did not stop to reason that he and Big Moose were about the same age, more than three times that of Sacajawea. “Tell him,” he told his woman, “tell him that I am your man and that you are the mother of my son.” He pointed through the flap toward the circle of women where Willow Bud sat with Pomp’s head buried ag
ainst her shoulder.
Sacajawea spoke, her voice thin and high-pitched at first.
Big Moose looked bewildered as he saw Willow Bud cradling a fat, clean papoose. He looked at Charbonneau, who was shaking his fist and smoothing out his mustache at the same time. His shoulders sagged and his head fell, his voice barely audible. “I am a man who does not need a squaw with a paleface papoose. I have squaws and plenty papooses. I do not wish for a son with skin the color of milk.” He looked at Pomp. “Ugh,” he said in disgust. “He is probably so weak he will never have thoughts of his own.” Big Moose stepped toward Charbonneau, his foul breath causing the Frenchman to lean backward. Big Moose’s lips blew out with the bubbling noise of marsh gas bursting through soft mud.
“May your food turn to ashes in your mouth, you fuzzy-headed raccoon,” Charbonneau muttered under his breath.
Captain Clark nudged Labiche, who could not keep a straight face or a twinkle from his dark eyes as he told the story as Charbonneau had gotten it from Sacajawea.
“Lord Almighty! What can happen next?” asked Captain Clark. Then he turned to Charbonneau, who was wiping his brow with the end of his yellow cravat. “We ought to keep peace and make up for this old warrior’s loss. Charbonneau, you open the pack over there behind the lodgepole and give him your old leggings and waistcoat and the yellow silk scarf around your neck. Maybe some tobacco.”
Charbonneau’s eyes were bugging out. It seemed as if suddenly he were a good three inches taller. His voice was doing the same trick it always played on him when he was excited; it had climbed up and up, and he was standing on his toes now with his heels raised off the ground as if he were trying to reach up to where his voice was. The more he tried, the higher his voice became. His breath was getting short, too, and he had started to sweat.
“My waistcoat and yellow scarf? I am not to be blamed for his loud, stinking bellowings, or for some moldy promise made years ago. Tell him to take his shock of coarse black hair and get out of here. Look at him sitting there like a puffed-up toad, thinking he can take my woman. He’s not going to have my coat or my leggings, either, Capitaine, sir. He gets nothing.”
“My words were an order,” snapped Captain Clark.
“Zut!” Charbonneau said, and reluctantly brought out the clothing and tobacco and passed them to Big Moose, who smiled broadly, promptly rubbed his grimy face against Charbonneau’s, and turned toward the lodge opening, hugging the gifts to his wide chest. He considered it a fair settlement for a debt he had given up long ago as uncollectible.
The humming in the council started again. Charbonneau, angered, thought they were making fun of him, and he stared at the circle of Shoshoni faces, ready to burst into a tirade about their uncouth manners. But soon enough he sensed that the people were not making sport of him at all. They approved of him; he was a big man to give away such fine gifts. He began to smile then, soon dropping his anger.
Sacajawea turned to Captain Clark. “I am grateful to Chief Red Hair,” she said softly.
Captain Clark, involved beyond all previous experience in protecting this young woman, felt the joy that this role of protector gave him. He sat with his head held high.
Chief Cameahwait held the long-stemmed jade pipe high as a signal for silence and order. “Let us continue,” he said. Then his voice rang throughout the open lodge.
“Mighty chiefs and brothers, this year will be remembered in the legends of the Agaidükas as the Time Many Palefaces and One Black Face of Great Medicine Came among Us. In my family it will be remembered as the Season Our Sister Came from the Land of Our Enemies. We have friends among these palefaces. We do not fear them. You see for yourselves what good care they have taken of our sister, and how generous with gifts they are to our brother. Now, Chief Red Hair will speak of what he wants from us. Listen.”
Captain Clark stood, his bare feet upon the white robe, spread for chiefs. The fire seemed to light up his face, and the Agaidükas noticed the similarity between the sacred red flames of the council fire and his thick thatch of red hair, drawn and bound in a queue behind his ears. He was great medicine indeed. He held out his arms as if to gather all of them unto him, and his friendly smile won their complete confidence.
“Great Shoshonis, we need your help. We need your horses to carry our supplies over the mountains to a river where we can build canoes that will take us to the Great Waters of the West. I ask now for two things: a guide to show us the trails over the mountains, and horses to carry the supplies. We will pay you well. Will you do this?”
Sacajawea interpreted slowly so that the People would understand well. Then, on impulse, she added to the translation:
“People of my own blanket, my heart is filled with so much happiness I find it hard to keep the tears off my face.” Her voice was childish; she paused, then started again more slowly. “But my heart is filled with sadness to see you hungry. I had forgotten how it was. While I have been away from you, I have seen unbelievable things. I have seen lodges that keep out the winter wind and summer heat. I have learned how to put seeds into the earth to grow into foods that cause the mouth to water.” She smacked her lips and rubbed her belly. “There are ways to store these foods for winter. I have seen traders come for the foods with knives, awls, kettles, axes, and blankets. Hunt and save your pelts for the traders who will come here. You can trade horses for unbelievable good things. This will fatten the Shoshonis so that you will not perish as the game in the mountains has perished. Help the white men. I have spoken.”
Shaking from nervousness and the excitement of her impulsive speech, Sacajawea sat down and lowered her head in the manner of a proper Agaidükas woman.
The chief was moved by her speech of love for the People. However, it was not in his Agaidükas nature to let his emotion be shown outwardly. He rose impassively and addressed the members of the council. “Do you wish to help these friends who have traveled a long trail to be with you now?”
“Ai,” was the unanimous reply.
“So—it shall be. You have spoken.” Chief Cameahwait turned to an elderly man. “Our bravest warrior, you have the most knowledge of the trails west over the mountains. Will you act as guide to these white chiefs?”
The old warrior, whose face was as dark as weather-worn leather and wrinkled as a dried persimmon, nodded approval. “Ai, my four sons shall come, also.”
“Good,” said the chief. “Now I wish to honor this Chief Red Hair who has shown kindness to my blood sister and shared his food with my people. To this white chief I give my tippet of furs, and to the black white man I give a poggâmoggon.”
Ceremoniously, he placed the snow-white tippet across the shoulders of Captain Clark, and in York’s hand the chief placed an instrument consisting of a handle about the size of a whip handle, about two feet long, made of wood and covered with dressed leather. At one end was a thong, two inches in length, which was tied around a stone weighing about two pounds and held in a cover of leather. At the other end was a loop of the same material, which was passed around the wrist so as to secure the hold when striking a severe blow to a small animal or some other game food.
“I also give to this Chief Red Hair my name, Cameahwait.” By signs he showed it meant “One Who Never Walks.” “I will keep my war name of Tooettecone, Black Gun. My people know this war name and know that it was given to me by an enemy warrior during a fight. I had fallen from my horse and saw a long black smoking-stick as I got to my feet. I pulled it from the hands of a wounded Blackfoot, and he yelled my new name as I hit another enemy across the back with the stick. The stick jumped from my hands, shot lightning, and ripped open the man I had hit. Again the enemy yelled ‘Black Gun,’ and they ran down a hill for a cover of trees.”
Modesty about personal achievements had no place among the Shoshonis. When a man did something big, he told it and retold it.
“Henceforth, I shall be known as Tooettecone,” said the chief. “This will be as a reminder of the black shooting-sticks the trader
s will bring to us when they bring the trading post close to our camp. And hereafter, among the Agaidükas, this Chief Red Hair will be known by the name of Cameahwait.”
To give a friend one’s own name was an act of high courtesy and a pledge of eternal friendship among the Agaidüka Shoshonis.
“Chief Black Gun,” said Captain Clark, moved by the gifts and the bestowal of the name, “I am honored greatly. I would like to think of you as a brother, as does Janey here—the one you call Boinaiv.”
The chiefs dark, impassive face broke into a wide grin. He was very pleased.
York opened up the pack sack on orders from Captain Clark, and he and Sergeant Gass passed out mirrors, beads, paint, and fish hooks to the pleased Agaidükas.
“That about skins it out,” said York, shaking the empty sack.
The next day was windless, with an unnatural warmth, as if summer had finally reached beyond its peak. In the morning, John Collins and George Gibson brought in several buffalo. Near noon, Hugh McNeal and John Ordway came into camp with three deer. Sacajawea went with some of the women to dig turnips in the valley beside the River for the People. Early in the afternoon, Captain Clark sent word to Chief Black Gun that the white men would like the Agaidükas to have a feast with them.
As the crier went around the lodges telling the people of the meal with the white men, wild whoops were heard and the Agaidükas descended on the camp. Without waiting for the meat to roast on the cooking sticks York and Charbonneau had placed around the fires, people began to eat and tear at the meat as if they had not seen any in weeks. They fought over their shares, pulling and jerking and greedily devouring the warm, dripping, raw flesh; they pulled great handfuls of Mandan corn from the kettles with their bare hands, not seeming to mind the heat.
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