by Adell Harvey
Watching the braves cavorting with their wives, the flirtations of the unmarried youngsters, and the playful relationship Hanabi enjoyed with her husband stirred longings deep within Ingrid. Would she ever have a real husband and children of her own? She hugged Ammie tightly. No mother could love a little one more than she loved little Ammie, but what would it be like to carry a baby in her womb, snuggle it to her breast, nurture it from her own body? Would these feelings ever be satisfied?
She glanced around the campfire at the as-yet unattached braves. She knew she could marry any one of them if she but said the word to Washakie. Marry a brave and be an Indian squaw for the rest of her life? Much as she enjoyed traveling with the Shoshones, she knew this was but a brief adventure on her life’s journey. Someday, somehow, God would lead her to the place He wanted her. Hadn’t the locket promised, “May God be with you always?”
Thoughts of the locket carried her back to Fort Laramie and Major Crawford. Would she ever see him again? The West was a very large place, so it didn’t seem likely. Besides, he was probably married. And even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t want an ex-Mormon to share his life, would he?
Her reverie was interrupted by shouts. “Buffalo!” Scouts rushed into the camp and reported they had spotted a herd on the bench about a mile away. Morogonai stooped and picked up Ammie. “You go. You can learn how to skin the buffaloes and get the meat.”
Ingrid hopped on her pinto with great expertise, riding out with ten braves and fifteen women to where the buffalo had been spotted. She watched with awe as Washakie rode up to a buffalo and cut the ham strings of both legs with a wide, long-handled spear. Then the others rode up and finished the killing.
She gritted her teeth as the women ripped the dead animals down the back from head to tail, ripped them down the belly, and took off the top half of the hide. They cut all the meat on that side from the bones, then tied ropes to the feet of the buffalo and turned them over with their ponies to do the other side. Hanabi handed her a knife, indicating she should help with the slaughter.
Ingrid gagged, swallowed hard, and went to work. After what seemed hours, they had killed seven buffalo and salvaged all the pieces. When they got the meat back to the camp, they sliced it up in thin pieces and hung it to dry.
When it was about half dry, they took a piece at a time and pounded it between two rocks until it was very soft, then hung it up again to finish drying. The dried meat was placed into sacks. “The older it gets, the better it tastes,” Hanabi assured her.
Ingrid wrinkled her nose in distaste. She would have to be awfully hungry to eat any of that stuff. Each bite would remind her of the dreadful slaughtering process!
“The people in Salt Lake love our pemmican,” Hanabi continued. “They buy as much of it as we can deliver.”
The mention of Salt Lake sent a shiver up Ingrid’s spine. Somehow, she had to find a way to miss the Salt Lake trading trip, a trip the Indians all seemed to look forward to with great relish.
After many weeks of buffalo hunting, the group had enough buffalo meat to last the winter, plus more than 500 pounds of pemmican ready for trade. Washakie announced it was time to head south in order to reach Salt Lake before all the wagon trains had passed through on their way to the Sierras.
Finally, everything was in shape to pack up for the long trip to market. The camp had increased greatly during the buffalo hunt, with Indians coming in every few days to join the hunt. Ingrid guessed their tiny group had swollen to over 1,000 people, with at least 5,000 horses. Climbing on her pinto, she looked back and could see only about half of the long string of pack horses. Surely such a large entourage would not go unnoticed in Salt Lake! But perhaps with so many, she herself would be unnoticed. Was it possible she could go to Salt Lake without being seen?
She toyed with the idea of using the campfire ashes to darken her fair skin and blonde hair. Could she pass for one of the Shoshones?
Washakie’s group had twenty pack horses loaded with buffalo robes, plus elk and deer skins, besides their camp supplies. He had a large wickiup of elk hides, made so it would shed rain. It could be divided into two parts, and sometimes, if they planned to stop for just one night, he would only put up half of it. He said it was better to travel in small parties in order to get along faster and provide better pasture for the horses.
The other leaders agreed with his logic, so the large group broke up into a number of smaller bands, with about twenty-five or so tipis in each group. Looking up and down the river, Ingrid could see many other camps scattered along the river bank, the smoke from their campfires swirling upwards in a fire dance.
Laying alongside Morogonai that night, Ingrid voiced her fears to her adopted mother. “I’m afraid to go to Salt Lake,” she began. “They may recognize me and take me away from you.”
Morogonai groaned. “Never. I would die without you and Ammie. Do not worry, daughter; I will speak to Washakie. He will find a way.” She reached over and patted Ingrid’s shoulder. “You are the best daughter I could have. The Great Spirit will not let them take you from me.”
Reassured, Ingrid drifted off to sleep, a sleep that was disturbed by a handsome soldier in cavalry uniform, smiling and beckoning to her.
Two or three days later, Washakie’s group came to the Big River, which had become a raging, swollen torrent since they had crossed it earlier in the summer. They walked downstream for several miles, looking for a safer place to cross, but found none.
“We must go on,” Washakie decided. He goaded his horse into the stream, followed by Morogonai, Ingrid, and several of the young braves. The current was very swift at the ford, causing Ingrid to grip her pinto’s mane in fear as she watched the swirling water.
Suddenly, she saw Morogonai’s horse stumble over a cobble stone, tossing the old woman into the river. It was so swift, she could not withstand the current and was soon carried out into deep water. Ingrid screamed, causing Washakie to turn about. He started after his mother, but he could not catch her.
Ingrid spurred her pony ashore, racing him downstream. By then, Washakie had caught up with his mother and was pulling her to the bank. Together, he and Ingrid helped the old lady out of the water. “Is she, is she … ?” Ingrid stopped, afraid even to utter the words.
Washakie laid the limp form among the thick willows and shook his head. “The old one is alive, but she came nearly going to the happy hunting grounds. Hurry! We must get her warm.”
They camped in a grove of cottonwoods near the river and built a large fire. Ingrid hastily dressed Morogonai in dry clothing, wrapping a buffalo robe around her quivering body. All night, Ingrid rubbed her with sage tea, but there was little response.
Alarmed by his mother’s unchanging condition, Washakie called for the medicine man. He dug a hole about three feet deep by the side of the cold river, then placed a few cobblestones in it. They built a roaring fire in the hole to heat the stones. When they were white hot, they scraped the fire out and lowered Morogonai into the hole.
Washakie then covered the hole with a buffalo robe and reached in to pour a cup of cold water on the hot rocks. This caused a steam, which would force Morogonai to sweat out the evil that was causing her sickness. Ingrid watched in horror, wondering how the old woman could endure such treatment.
Hanabi came up and laid her hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “She will be all right. When she has sweat long enough, the medicine man will jerk the robe off the hole and make her jump into the cold water. Then they will throw a buffalo robe around her, put her to bed, and let her sweat some more. Then they will cool her off gradually by taking the cover off a little at a time. It works like magic.”
But this time the “magic” didn’t work. Ingrid held her breath as the medicine man reached down to yank the robe off her dear adopted mother. She heard someone screaming, a raw, anguished scream, not realizing it was coming from within her own throat.
Morogonai’s body lay slumped over the rocks in the hole, all life gone from it.
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“My mother! My mother!” Ingrid cried, feeling totally bereft and desolate. Washakie, too, was wailing, and soon the entire camp was a cacophony of mourning.
Some of the braves killed three horses and buried them, ensuring Morogonai would have horses to ride to the happy hunting grounds. When they prepared to bury Morogonai, every one in camp passed by her body, placed a hand on her head and said how sorry they were she had to leave them.
They took her to a high cliff of rocks and put her in a crevice with her buffalo robe and blankets, a frying pan, and some dried buffalo meat, along with her beads. Ingrid sobbed quietly as they covered the body with rocks and walked back toward camp in a procession.
She was the only quiet one in the procession. Such pitiful wailing and howling she had never heard before. They kept it up for five entire days, days in which Ingrid felt she would surely lose her mind. Her heart ached with missing Morogonai, but the wailing and howling seemed excessive, a travesty of mourning she was unaccustomed to.
At the end of five days, the mourning ended abruptly, and the group moved on southward toward the soda springs. The bitter weeping had ceased, but Ingrid’s misery was so acute it felt like physical pain. Ammie cried piteously for her “Granmama,” and Ingrid tried to tell her Granmama wouldn’t be back. It was too much for a tiny tot to understand, however, adding to Ingrid’s heartache.
Just before dark, an Indian came running into camp. “The Crows have overtaken a small bunch of the tribe, killed them, and stolen their horses!”
Washakie ordered the war chief to take the braves and follow the marauders into Crow country if he had to. The women and children were to hide in the willows until they heard from him.
Running into the shelter of the willows, Ingrid heard a wailing like that of young coyotes, nearly as bad as the funeral wails had been. “What is the use of hiding if you’re going to make this much noise?” she scolded. “If the Crows have any ears, they can hear you for five miles!”
The youngsters quieted down after her outburst, emitting only an occasional sob. A short while later Washakie appeared, calling for everyone to return to camp.
“It was a few Crows who chased some of our braves. They fired some shots, but nobody was killed, and no horses were stolen,” he explained. “Fifty of our young warriors are following the Crows and will return soon.”
The next day, Washakie insisted on packing up early and hitting the trail hard to make up for all the lost time. Heading south, they left the Piupa River, crossed over the mountains, and came to the place the Indians called Tosaibi. Ingrid recognized it at once as the soda springs that had caused her such pain earlier. She had come full circle with these, her Indian friends.
They set up camp that night a short distance from the springs, on the Titsapa (Bear) River. When Ingrid learned this was the river they would follow to Salt Lake, she shuddered. She must talk to Washakie.
Timidly, she approached his wickiup, where he was seated outside his tent flap, smoking a pipe. A pensive, far away look on his face, he seemed not to hear her approach.
“Washakie?” Her voice was very soft, even tentative.
Looking up at the sound of her voice, he quite openly studied her. He motioned for her to join him on the ground. In an apologetic, yet compassionate tone, he said simply, “You must leave us.”
Ingrid drew back. “Leave?”
“It is no longer safe for you to be among us. The Crows are on the warpath, and Pocatello has threatened to go to war to take over our tribe.” He reached out and touched her long, tawny hair. “I can protect you from our own people, but your golden scalp would be too great a temptation for many of our enemies.”
Ingrid shuddered. “But where will I go?”
Washakie leaned back, drawing deeply on his pipe. “You have been good to Morogonai. I owe you much. You have also worked hard with the women. We are near to the trail where wagon trains pass on their way to California and Oregon. I will give you robes, pelts, hides, and pemmican to barter for a ride to safety.”
Seeing the fear and concern shadow her eyes, he spoke in a husky voice. “Do not fear, little one. The Great Spirit will go with you.”
Lying on her buffalo robe later that night, Ingrid looked up at the sky, which was brilliant with stars. She could hear the constant hiss and roar as the springs went into convulsions, spewing boiling water upward. The Great Spirit? Was he the same God the locket had promised would be with her always?
Chapter 14
“I WILL NEVER forget you,” Ingrid promised, hugging Hanabi in one final goodbye. “Ammie would never have lived without your help; I owe her life to you.”
Hanabi, uncharacteristically emotional at this time, wiped a tear that was running down her bronze cheek. “My friend,” she said simply. “Always my friend.”
Part of the band prepared to take the buffalo robes, furs, and buckskins to Salt Lake City. Washakie ordered several to stay behind to look after Ingrid and Ammie until a wagon train came through the area. When Ingrid was safely on her way, they were to go northwest and strike the head of another river, about four days’ journey. They would stay there until the Salt Lake group caught up with them.
Hanabi left Ingrid’s side to help load the thirty packhorses for the trip. Washakie had decided to take a number of horses along with him, as well, just in case he would get a chance to sell them. He left sixty-four head with the group who were staying behind, plus the camping outfit.
The packing accomplished, he looked at Ingrid intently, a sorrowful look darkening his eyes. “The pinto is yours,” he told her. With a laugh, he added, “Now that you have learned to ride him!”
Once more, Ingrid watched dejectedly as her friends headed southward. Was life always going to be nothing more than a series of partings? Making dear, good friends, then leaving them? She caught herself up short. She was seldom the one doing the leaving. It seemed everyone she ever loved took leave of her. She was always the one left behind to watch them go.
She shook herself, as if to shake off the gloomy feelings. With a determined shrug of her shoulders, she decided to look over her surroundings. Who knew how long she might have to stay here before a wagon train came through? And would the people on the train welcome her? Stop this! she ordered herself. Look on the bright side… maybe a train will come through soon. Maybe they will be lovely people. Maybe they will accept me. Maybe. Whatever happened, she knew she would be embarking on a whole new life. In her wildest imaginings, she couldn’t believe it could be any worse than what she had already endured.
She walked along a trail, heading in the direction of the hissing sounds she had heard all night. Old Gabe had told her much about these famous springs, and now was her opportunity to see them for herself. The only thing she could remember from her first visit here was the agony of the salt water on her chapped legs.
Ruefully, she thought about that day, which now seemed an eternity ago. She had learned much from the Shoshones, become an experienced horseback rider, and Ammie had grown into a darling little girl.
And now? What sort of future lay ahead? The God of the locket inscription had brought her safely through thus far, given her wonderful friends and protectors. He would not fail her now. Whatever lay ahead, she looked forward to it with anticipation.
A sense of strength came to her as a newly awakened sense of God’s presence overflowed her. Her eyes glowing with a peace and anticipation, she walked only about 1,000 feet when she saw the first spring. It issued from a large mound, perhaps twenty feet high and about 100 yards long. Several small springs gushed from the sides of the mound. Ingrid bent down and touched her finger to the water. It was warm and strange smelling, almost like sulphur.
Further down the trail, in a large grove of cedar and pine trees, were twenty or thirty more springs. Ingrid drew in her breath. They were spectacular! Old Gabe had certainly not exaggerated their beauty.
She stayed and watched the springs bubbling and gurgling for a while, but realized she
still had not found the source of the loud hissing noise. Continuing on down the path about half a mile, she stopped short. In front of her was yet another mound. From this one, a huge font of hot water was spouting five or six feet in the air, foaming and making gorgeous rainbows in the bright sunshine. About ten feet away from the fountain was an opening in the crust of the mound where steam escaped, making the hissing noise. It reminded Ingrid of the escape pipe on a steamboat. Nearby were at least a hundred more springs, all varying in height and enthusiasm.
Totally captivated by the strange beauty of the springs, Ingrid lay back in the grass and relaxed. Her thoughts drifted like the fluffy clouds overhead, darting from one thing to another without ever actually stopping to think specifically about anything. Life was good; everything was going to turn out all right for her and Ammie.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of children’s voices. She sat up, listening, thinking at first that some of the young Indians who had stayed behind with her had brought Ammie to find her. But it wasn’t Ammie’s voice. It wasn’t even Indian voices. English! That could mean only one thing; a wagon train must have arrived.
Ingrid eagerly rushed to the area of the spring that sounded like a steamboat, being careful to keep herself hidden among the trees. She walked briskly but quietly on the carpet, inches deep, of evergreen needles. Several young boys were laughing heartily, packing the hole of the spring with sod and grass. With a roar, the spring erupted, blowing grass and sod everywhere. The boys nearly doubled up with laughter, and Ingrid found herself laughing along with them. What fun to be a child again!
One of the boys took off his wool, floppy brimmed hat and placed it over the hole. He then braced the brim with his hands and knees. When the anticipated puff came on schedule, the hat crown stretched, swelled like a balloon, and burst at the top. The boys nearly burst as well, laughing hysterically at their antics.