by Karen Kay
“I thought we might start here in camp. Gilda is willing for me to take pictures of her—she’s not afraid of the mystique about photography. I could set some of them next to a few lodges, or perhaps with some of the children, or maybe have some of the old men in the background. Of course I realize that they would have to agree. And then—”
He stopped without warning. She tripped and fell. He sighed, reaching down to help her up, trying his best not to notice how soft her skin felt at his touch. Grumbling beneath his breath, he set her back on her feet as gruffly as possible and trod away, hoping she might take the hint. But his attempts were unsuccessful. She continued to follow him, even skipping to keep up, acting as though nothing in the least were wrong.
“Then I thought,” she prattled, “that we might go out to the mountains, or maybe to some lake where there are no people and then—”
“Enough! What are you talking about?” He spun around, hoping to catch her off guard.
But she merely halted, gazing up at him, the green in her eyes sparkling as she smiled. “Why,” she said, “taking pictures, of course. I thought we’d start with my project and then you could show me what you’re talking about—”
“We?” He scowled at her. “Let me be very specific. There is no agreement that I made with you that makes us a we.”
She merely grinned. “Oh?” She raised one eyebrow. “I beg to differ. How could you possibly learn about what I do without spending any time with me? And, of course, the reverse is true too. So to this end I thought that we might—”
Grunting, he threw up his hands and, turning away from her, made his steps fast and long…very long. He said, “I’m taking a bath.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll just wait here, then.”
“Good enough,” he said, not bothering to explain. He threw down the towel and stripped off his shirt, noticing that she was fiddling with her equipment and therefore didn’t see what he was doing. Well, what did he care? If she didn’t, he surely didn’t.
The pants came next. Then, sprinting, he ran toward the lake.
“Oh, Soaring Eagle. I was thinking that— Oh!”
The embarrassed silence said it all. It was like music to his ears.
“You could have told me you were taking off your clothes. I would have left you alone.”
“I did,” he shouted at her.
“No, you didn’t. You said you were taking a bath. I didn’t know that meant stripping down to take a swim.”
“Can you think of a better way to bathe?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact. I thought there might be some place here where you could bathe. Like some bathhouse or something.”
“A bathhouse?” He couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice. “I thought you said you were used to traveling among the savages of the world.”
“I am.”
“And do you often find that native peoples build bath houses?”
“Of course not. But I had heard of sweat lodges, or… I just wasn’t thinking, that’s all. I’m so excited to get started on this at last that I—”
He stood up, not that he revealed anything in particular to her, but it did occur to him that perhaps the view of his chest might send her running back to camp. At least he hoped it might.
“Really!” she said, looking as though the idea of flight were foreign to her. “You might tell me when you’re going to do that so I can look away.”
He shook his head and said, “You stay here, you take your chances.”
“Oh? Don’t you want to talk about our plans for today?”
“No.” Brief, curt, to the point.
“Oh. Then I suppose I might meet you back at camp after you’ve had a chance to freshen up.”
He rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “After I’ve had a chance to ‘freshen up’, I intend to herd my horses and ride out to the range. I’m afraid I don’t have time to learn about picturemaking today.”
She had jumped down from the rock where she had been sitting, and paused briefly to send him a smile. “Oh, that’s perfect, then,” she said. “I’d like to get to know the range and what goes on there. I’ll see you back at camp.”
“No, you won’t,” he said at once, but it was useless. She had already begun trotting away.
Sending her a look of utter, complete frustration, Soaring Eagle fell back into the water, the action creating waves that splashed toward the shore.
Chapter Seven
…(the Dawes Act) breaks up their tribal organizations and sandwiches them in among the whites where they must learn by force of example.
—Granville Stuart, a Montana rancher, who helped to divide tribal land and erode tradition. He eventually received his just reward by losing his family, 40,000 head of cattle and his land. He died a broken man.
—Peter Iverson, When Indians Became Cowboys
Kali set up the tripod a short distance away from the herd of horses she wished to photograph. Looking up, she caught her breath. No matter the beauty of other places, other lands, other vistas, this Montana had to rival them all for being the most beautiful, the most peaceful and probably the most soulful spot on earth.
Before her, stretched out in all directions, was a fragrant mix of prairie grasses and flowers which might have spanned a universe were it not for its intersection with the distant mountains, whose white peaks jutted up to greet a cloudless blue sky. Sweet smells of wildflowers, grass and clean, untouched earth scented the air, and Kali felt her lungs expanding with each breath. Why, even the wind at her back felt as though it kept a rhythm, all attuned to the beat of the earth and the chirping songs of the birds.
Shutting her eyes for a moment, Kali paused. Odd how the luminous beams from the sun, the solidness of the ground at her feet, the scent of the grasses and sagebrush in the air gave her the feeling that time just didn’t move very fast, not out here. The land, this place, seemed as though it was as young or as old as it had ever been.
Opening her eyes, she looked out on the world before her with contentment, letting her vision rest upon the horse herd that sat in the middle of all this open space. The animals numbered from about fifty to sixty small horses. No two of the animals were the same either. There were whites, blacks, roans, grays, a few sorrels, and in particular, several spotted pintos. It was a dazzling sight for the eyes, a radiant mixture of sun, earth, sky, the soft, fluid sensation of peace, as well as the feeling of life all around her.
At present Soaring Eagle stood in the middle of the herd, looking as if he belonged to this time, this place, this land. Gone, however, were the traditional buckskin and beaded clothing from the previous evening. In its place he wore trousers, chaps, shirt and boots, along with a kerchief at his neck. And though shell earrings dangled from his ears and his hair remained braided, a cowboy hat sat at an angle atop his head.
He looked like…a cowboy, an Indian cowboy. Ah, to get a picture. Of course, Kali knew she would have to give him warning before she snapped a shot. But hopefully she could talk him into letting her have her way with him. Or could she?
Remembering the sting of his antagonism and his failure to sympathize with her plight, she sighed. It might not be so easy.
Shrugging, she looked out upon the scene with a more professional eye. How was she to capture on film the feeling of all this life? Of course, she realized, this was a problem that faced all great photographers. Anyone could take a picture, but not everyone could make it come alive.
First, as she had learned from hard experience, her equipment had to be in good order. To this end, she checked the legs of the tripod. Good, it was steady. Next, she mounted her Eastman Kodak glass-plate camera, complete with a hand clicker and flash stick. Bending, she checked the composition of the picture in the viewfinder.
Too much scrub brush in the way. It would detract from the calm beauty of her subject.
Treading out in front of the camera, she began clearing off the unwanted plants. Gilda came over to help.
“What’s wrong with him?” Kali asked Gilda, pointing toward Soaring Eagle. “I thought we’d settled everything last night, but you’d think from the way he’s acting that we hadn’t even spoken to one another.”
Gilda grinned. “Him,” she pointed, “probably thought white woman would back down. Him don’t think you are serious.”
“Why?”
Gilda shrugged. “Maybe it never his intention that you should agree.”
“Well,” said Kali, “he certainly doesn’t know me very well, does he?”
Gilda smirked. “Him going to learn, real quick.”
Straightening up from her task, Kali waved her hands in the air, that Soaring Eagle might see her better, and called, “Soaring Eagle, over here.”
He didn’t look up.
Darn. “Soaring Eagle, if you’ll come over here, I’ll show you how a picture is taken.”
He didn’t respond.
Drat. She bit her lip. He was going to make this as difficult as possible for her, wasn’t he?
Fine. Looking over her shoulder to ensure her camera was secure, she trod toward the horse herd.
“Mr. Eagle,” she said, “if you’ll come with me, we can begin. First, I’ll show you how I snap a picture—I’ll explain it all to you.”
He turned his back on her and stooped over, while she came up to him and stopped, hands on her hips. “Mr. Eagle?”
Arising, he paced away from her, all without looking over his shoulder or uttering a single word. Well, this was great. He wasn’t going to listen to her, and there was very little she could do about it. Now what?
Well, she supposed that if the man wouldn’t come to the camera, the camera could go to the man. She turned, stepping back toward the tripod.
It might cost her a camera, taking it into the pony herd, but she was willing to chance it. Besides, she would be careful. She had to do something.
Carefully disengaging the camera from its stand, she retraced her steps. Only this time she didn’t hesitate as she marched right up to him. He was bent over one of his ponies as if checking its limbs for a broken bone.
Coming down on her haunches, she said, “Hello.”
No response.
“Ah, all right. I’ve brought my camera here to show it to you, so that you can see what it is and how it works. Now, if you’ll only turn your head, you’ll see that I’m holding a camera.”
Again, no response, not even a mutter.
She took a deep breath and plunged. “Light goes in here through this little hole,” she pointed toward it, “and gets reflected onto the glass film inside the camera. The film holds the images there until one can develop it—using chemicals and such—and then it is printed onto paper, making what we know as a picture. There’s nothing mysterious about it and the only thing inside the camera is glass, which has a silvery solution on it. It’s this that holds an image. It’s really quite simple.”
“I know what a camera is and how it works.”
“Oh.” More silence, then, “How do you know that?”
He sucked in his breath noisily, as though she tested his very patience, although at last he said, “Do you remember my telling you that I had been sent away to a white man’s school?”
“Yes.”
“There were many people there who took pictures—I even had some taken of myself.”
“But I thought that—”
“It is the old ones and perhaps some of the more superstitious ones who believe that a camera takes away part of a man’s spirit. At school, I didn’t have a choice and I learned to put up with it.”
“Oh, I see. Then you don’t mind if I take your picture?”
“No.”
“Then why did you make the bet with me?”
“I’m not the one you need to convince. It is the other members of my tribe. Not me.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see. May I take your picture, then? Here in the herd?”
He shrugged.
“That’s fine, then.” She touched his shoulder. “Over there.” She pointed. “Next to the pinto. I think that will make the best picture.”
He glanced up at her. “I will not pose for you.”
“Oh, right.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. “I see. But you have no objections to standing still if I wish to snap a picture of the horse herd.”
He grimaced at her.
“Please?”
He clenched his jaw, but said, “I suppose I can stand still for a moment.”
“That’s fine, then,” she acknowledged. “I’ll just go back to where I left the tripod. You go ahead. I’ll tell you when I need you to be still.”
He grunted, not looking up.
And Kali retreated to the side, muttering. “I don’t know what he thinks he has to be so crabby about.” She said it more to herself than to Gilda. “It’s not like I’m asking him for too terribly much.”
She didn’t see Gilda’s grin until she glanced up. “What?” Kali asked. “What did I say that you find humorous?”
“Don’t you remember how, on the way here, him had to stop or slow down many times, so that you could catch your wagon up?”
“Is that so much to ask?”
“And him have to come back to horse who was nipping the other. Him have to discover…cause.”
“Yes, well, the horses would have pulled the wagon eventually.”
“But harness also slipped and you stopped, not realizing that leather was worn, which him have to fix.”
“It could have happened to anyone.”
Kali glanced toward Gilda, and when the other woman’s smile didn’t fade, Kali found herself chuckling as well. “I guess I have been a bit of a problem, haven’t I?”
“Him not happy about having to do this with you.”
“I know, Gilda. I know. But at least I have his cooperation…well, his word, at least. And I will keep up my end of the bargain. I intend to go and speak with the agent tonight. I want to see all these treaty papers and the deeds and anything else I can find.”
Gilda nodded.
Kali looked out upon the scene before her. “I wonder if I could get him to sit atop one of those ponies.”
Gilda laughed. “White woman maybe press her luck.”
“Do you think so?” Casting a quick glance at her setup, she said, “Watch this for me while I go ask.”
Gilda nodded and smiled. “I watch.”
How Soaring Eagle came to be sitting astride a pony, in the middle of his herd, at a time of day when he should be working, with the only objective being to let Kali Wallace snap a picture, he could never quite understand. One moment he had been talking to her, shaking his head at her; the next he had found himself scrambling up onto the pony.
He sent Kali an annoyed, pointed look. Not that she would see it. She and that darned camera were too far away. What was it about the woman, he wondered, that held sway over him? For try as he may, he could not deny that she affected him.
Was it because she was pretty?
Possibly, although he doubted that. Her beauty was too foreign for his taste. Different, not only from the comeliness of the Indian maids who surrounded him, but also from a great majority of the white women in this territory.
For instance, there was the way she was dressed. The outfit she was wearing today looked odd, even for a white woman. Made of a bluish-green material, it consisted of a blouse and jacket, along with a skirt that flaunted an unnaturally tiny waist. The skirt was short, hitting just below the knee, a style much briefer than any he had seen on either white or Indian females. That the skirt fell over what looked to be wide, puffy pants, which peeked out beneath it, was stranger still. Knee-high boots completed the outfit, along with a blue-green hat that sprouted a short brim and a single feather. She looked, he thought, altogether unfamiliar.
Annoyed at the direction his thoughts were taking him, he was frowning at her when he heard her shout, “One, two, three.” Then came the boom of the flash stick, which s
he held in one hand while she snapped the picture with the other. Immediately she changed the glass plate, placing the used one into a packet.
The ponies shifted nervously.
“One more for good measure,” she hollered as he watched her set up another flash stick before inserting a different plate into the camera. “On the count of three once again; one, two, three.” Another boom, followed by an instant snap, then, “That’s fine now. Thank you. You can go back to what you were doing.”
As though he would take her orders.
He remained where he was, if only in defiance. And perhaps it was a good thing that he had.
The sound of hooves in the distance, hundreds of hooves, alerted him that all was not as it should be. The distant roar had the sound of a stampede—of cattle, since buffalo no longer roamed the range. Looking toward the horizon, he espied the telltale cloud of dust that told the rest of the story. It had to be quite a large herd, he thought, to be kicking up that much dirt, and…they were headed this way.
Anger stirred his blood. Although The Flowerree Cattle Company had been discovered to be trespassing on the reservation range for years, nothing had ever been done about it. Complaints were made to the Indian agent, and though Black had promised time and again that the matter would soon be under control, nothing ever happened.
However, a stampede was not in the normal course of events. Usually the ranchers were more covert in their infringement on Indian rights; a few cattle turned loose here, another several there, seemingly harmless until one realized that hundreds, even thousands of their steers were grazing over the lush Indian tracts.
But this sound, this was different. If the clamor of those hooves told true, this was more than a handful of cattle on the run.
Soaring Eagle darted a barbed look toward the white woman before returning his gaze to the horizon. Was this her doing?
Of course not, he corrected himself at once. The white woman was new to this country and probably had no idea of the problems involved here. Indeed, she would most likely not even connect the noise to danger.