Nareissa beamed. "You should have kept your calling, Mr. Williams, for you are an eloquent preacher. I fear, though, that you are lost to the cause of Jehovah. And from your smile, Baptiste, I fear that your mentor has lead you astray as well."
Nareissa, who had read the great romances, told Dr. Whitman that night in their tent that Baptiste and Bill were a veritable Lancelot and Merlin. But they and their fellows, she added, were as much in need of divine instruction as the Indians.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1838
1838: The Underground Railroad was by now well established.
1837, MAY 10: New York banks suspended specie payment, precipitating the Panic of 1837 and a seven-year depression.
1838: Joseph Smith and followers fled to the Far West, near Kansas City, Missouri; after a conflict with the Missourians, the Mormons would relocate to Nauvoo, Illinois, before making their immigration to Utah.
1840: During the 1840s the temperance movement gained such impetus that fourteen states adopted prohibition.
1841: The first wagon train crossed the plains, the mountains, and the deserts to California.
1841: Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Essays (first series) appeared.
1841: New England Unitarians and Transcendentalists founded Brook Farm.
1842: Charles Dickens visited America to great adulation.
1843, MAY 22: Over 1000 settlers left Independence, Missouri, for Oregon, beginning the Great Migration.
1843: Lt. John Frémont’s second Far West expedition explored the Oregon Trail, the Great Basin, and California.
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED
THIRTY-EIGHT
JANUARY, 1838: Baptiste was riding with the Bridger brigade for American Fur now. Trapping had fallen on lean times, and Old Gabe wanted Baptiste and Kit Carson for his lieutenants that year for a big hunt in Blackfoot country. Hell, Baptiste would rather have been out on his own, but with the price of plews so low, he couldn’t get a dollar for his possible sacks. And Gabe was offering handsome wages, wages that would let Baptiste set something by for the child Sophie was carrying. She’d be light in the spring. The hunt was trouble from the start, skirmishes with Bug’s Boys all along the way. The brigade spent more time in secure camps than out working the cricks. just before winter set in for sure, the scouts reported a lot of Blackfoot lodges down the Yellowstone a little way. Carson, who’d come to the mountains a year after Baptiste and was younger, clearly had the ha’r of the b'ar in him; he was always ready for a fight. So were a lot of the boys: Too many of their friends had gone under because of Blackfeet; besides, times were bad and spirits festering. So little Kit led half the brigade downstream, set up in a good spot behind some rocks, and made thirty of the critturs come before dark spoiled the fun.
Gabe moved camp a ways up the Yellowstone and settled in for the winter on a spot between a steep bluff and the frozen river. He had sixty men, enough to make even riled Blackfeet wary of a fight.
But he kept a weather eye out for trouble. And one afternoon in January he thought he’d found it. Ten miles to the south a whole plain was swarming with Blackfeet, his scouts said--more than they had ever seen assembled in one spot. Jim ordered a six-foot breastwork of tree trunks thrown up around the three exposed sides of the camp. He had Baptiste and Kit hand out the DuPont and Galena he’d kept in his packs. He sent men to keep watch on the bluff And he waited.
The next morning Baptiste lead a small party to take a look at the Blackfeet. They laid less than half a mile off and watched them for an hour.
"Gabe," Baptiste said when he got back, "there’s more’n a thousand of ’em. Their faces are blacked, and they’re dancing for war."
"Druther they came on, John." Most of the trappers would rather they came. Some of the squaws, there in the middle of the camp, singing softly their songs designed to ward off injury and death, weren’t so sure.
That night the sky gave a lurid show--a spectacular display of northern lights, flashing red and green and yellow for a couple of hours, then settling into a huge expanse of blood red covering the northern half of the sky. Some of the trappers were superstitious enough to wonder if it was a bad omen.
Morning broke brilliantly clear and bitter cold. At dawn the men could hear the sharp crack of cottonwoods popping in the subzero temperatures. From the bluff the watch could see nothing. At mid-morning a few Blackfeet crept to within three hundred yards and let fly some useless, silly sniping. Gabe changed the watch. This was the biggest force the Blackfeet or any Injuns had brought against mountain men. They surely didn’t mean to stop at snipin’.
At noon the watch reported the whole Blackfoot army on the march, coming up the ice and the banks of the river. This was it. The trappers spread behind the breastwork, primed, and thought on what the Blackfeet might do. Gabe, Kit, and Baptiste were to have their men fire alternately, so that part of the brigade would always have its Hawkens loaded. It was simple: If the Blackfeet had the gumption for a charge, the brigade would go under, every man, woman, and child. But probably the niggurs would decide a direct charge was too expensive.
When the Blackfeet pulled up in ranks, out of range, a chief held up a white blanket. With two other chiefs, well-armed, he walked toward the breastworks. Gabe waved to Kit and Baptiste, and the three walked out to meet him. At fifty yards the chief with the blanket stopped, laid down his gun and his knife, and walked forward again. Gabe did the same. Baptiste knew it was a ruse. What he couldn’t figure out was why the Blackfeet were stalling for time.
"Bad medicine, " signaled the chief. He spread his arms toward the northern sky, back toward the Blackfoot camp. Baptiste couldn’t hear whether Gabe and the chief were talking, but he could see the signs. The chief smacked his left fist into his right palm. sketched a medicine pipe in the air with both hands, and pointed his right arm into the distance. Sign language for: Friendly. Smoke pipe. Leave. Gabe sat with the coon and blew smoke in the ceremonial tribute to the earth, the sky, and the four winds. When he got back, he permitted himself a grin. "Queersomest thing I ever seed," he allowed.
DECEMBER, 1838: The Bridger brigade settled in this winter with the Shoshones. It had been a poor spring hunt, a dispirited rendezvous, and a poor fall hunt. Beaver was scarce. The price for beaver was still low. Eight more missionaries--four couples--had come to rendezvous. Even some of the fun was dwindling: The trappers’ favorite enemies, the Blackfeet, had been nearly wiped out by small pox the previous spring. So the boys didn’t have many good scraps to liven things up. Old Gabe, when he found the Blackfoot lodges filled with infected bodies, reckoned that the chief had been right, that them northern lights were bad medicine after all.
Winter camp was a quiet time, with no one stirring much. Occasionally some braves and trappers would make meat; but mostly they sat it out around the fires and stewpots in their tipis. Baptiste and Running Stream-their child had been stillborn--sat many long afternoons in the lodge of Mountain Ram. He was old now, half blind, and knew that he did not have long to live. He liked to spend the days with his daughter and his son-in-law, though he would have been more pleased if they had children. He liked to spin tales for hours on end--tales of coup he had counted, tales of wonders he had seen, tales of how he had outwitted an arrogant neighbor, tales of how Shoshones outmaneuvered the fierce Blackfeet. His mind turned even further back, to the peculiar blends of history, myth, legend, and fantasy that made up Indian history and were handed down from generation to generation. One afternoon he told Baptiste the story of the origin of the dance of the buffalo calves:
A man married a buffalo. She ran away and rejoined her herd. He followed her. The buffalo chief came galloping up to him as if to gore him. But the man stood fast and declared he would not depart without his wife. The chief retired, and another came up in the same threatening way. Four times this happened. Then the chief said, "If you can identify your son four times among the dancing calves, you may have him and your wife." So the man entered the camp.
His son se
cretly came to him and said: "In the first dance one of my ears will be drooping, and so you will know me. In the second I shall have one eye closed. In the third I shall limp." So three times the man identified his son. For the fourth dance, however, he had no sign. He could not tell which calf was his son. He made a mistake. The old buffalo thereupon stampeded and trampled him to death. There was nothing left of him. The buffalo went away.
With his father the man had left his medicine-robe, a buffalo-skin with the horns attached. This he used in curing the sick. He had told his father why he was going away, and if something happened to him his father would know it by the robe. Lying on his pallet, the father heard the rumbling bellow of a buffalo. He said to his wife: "The robe has made a noise. It means that something is happening to our son. He is killed. Let us look for him."
He had the small hoop and shafts used in the game itsiwan. They made ready for a journey. After four motions he threw the wheel to the ground. It rolled away. They walked beside it. Sometimes it would stop where the young man had stepped in water. The man would throw it again. Whenever the young man had stepped in water or stopped to drink, the wheel stopped. At last it stopped in a place where the grass over a large space had been trampled by buffalo. The old man picked it up and threw it down with four movements. It went a little way and came back in a circle to the center of the plot. Four times it did this. Then the man knew his son had gone no farther.
He searched for some sign, and at last found a bit of hair and a long bone partially covered with earth. He said: "Let us see what we can do for our son. Give me the robe." He spread it on the ground and wrapped the hair and the bone in it. He laid the bundle down. He raised it, and called his son, "Aiakatsi [gambler], we are going to gamble!" He spat on the hoop, and with four motions dropped it to the ground. It rolled in a circle, and the robe stirred.
His son got up, alive. He told them that the buffalo had said if he could defeat them in a fight, he should recover his wife. So he was going to fight the buffalo. He covered himself with the medicine-robe. He threw himself on the ground and rolled like a buffalo and grunted. He stood up, a buffalo. He pawed the earth. They saw a large bull coming. Behind him was the herd. The two bulls charged. Neither could succeed in goring the other. After a long struggle the young man was weary. just then he recognized his wife standing by. He implored her help. She ran up and gored her buffalo husband, making a long gash in his flank. He retreated, and Aiakatsi ran forward and gored him to death. The buffalo chief told him that since he had won he could take his wife and his son home. The buffalo became a human woman, the calf a boy. They went home, and the young man founded the Horn society, to perpetuate the dance of the buffalo calves.
When Mountain Ram was not telling stories of old times, his squaw was telling obscene stories and jokes, in the bluest language Baptiste had ever heard. He wished the missionaries could hear it.
Or he spent days sitting with Bazel and Sacajawea. She liked to listen to his music, so he would work on new songs in the long evenings, not songs about objects or places, but songs that brought up goods, songs of feeling that he remembered and associated with various places in the mountains. Sacajawea made a singular audience. He could never have gotten an impression of whether she liked the music--the notion of liking or disliking a song was utterly foreign to her--but he got her solemn attention, her reverence in the presence of something mysterious, sacred, and powerful.
He was developing new impulses in his own songs. They had a sliver of the four-voice Protestant hymns of his childhood, a sliver of the Catholic liturgical music of his puberty, a piece of the square-dance and boatman’s tunes of his adolescence, a large piece of the Haydn-Mozart-Dittersdorf-Hummel-Beethoven he had heard in Europe, and a piece of Indian music laid over the whole. It would have driven a musicologist batty. But Baptiste had an idea now why Indians spoke of being given songs in dream-visions: He heard songs in his head, involuntarily, any time he was willing to listen--when he was riding quietly, or waiting for a deer to come out of the brush, or looking into a fire or relaxing after making love to Running Stream. When he paid attention, interior music made an inexhaustible accompaniment to his life.
One afternoon he asked Sacajawea whether he should not have a Shoshone name. Most of the American trappers called him John. Some of them, especially the French-Canadians, called him Baptiste. Some Crows called him Long Foot, because of the time he got his horse killed and made a seventy-mile walk into rendezvous; some Snakes called him Wooden-Shoe-White-Man. But neither Indian name had stuck firmly. And Baptiste felt his separateness from his wife’s people, his mother’s people, halfway his own people, when they called him by his white name.
Sacajawea summoned Thunder Cloud, the tribe’s medicine man, who had been given, as a sickly teen-ager, a great vision that came from the thunder gods of the west. She gave him three buffalo robes, and Baptiste added a pony. Thunder Cloud promised to divine Baptiste’s name. He listened for hours to the story of Baptiste’s life. Sacajawea told of the bitter, stormy winter day when he was born with red and white blood. She told of the long journey with Lewis and Clark, and of the way the infant Paump charmed Clark with his dancing. Baptiste told of his early education by two tales of the white man’s god, of his years spent east of the Salt-Water-Everywhere, of his return to the white man’s great village on the Mississippi, of his journey to the mountains, of his decision to stay in the mountains as a trapper. He explained to Thunder Cloud the medicine of the hoop-and-stone necklace Sacajawea had made for him.
Had any bird ever spoken to Baptiste? Thunder Cloud wanted to know. Or any other animal? Or rock or tree or cloud? Baptiste said no. Had Baptiste had any dreams in which power was revealed to him? Had he received in dreams any deeds he must do? No. Any dances? No. Any sacred words? No. Any songs?
Baptiste considered and said yes, sort of. He supposed that tunes that ran in his head were something like that.
Thunder Cloud was primed now. Would Baptiste sing the songs for him, so that he could feel Baptiste’s medicine?
Baptiste grinned as he showed Thunder Cloud his harmonica. Thunder Cloud had no idea what it was. Baptiste started with "Lone Mountain Song," then "Riding Song," then "Swift Creek Song," then "Song of the Fire." He took time between songs to notice that Thunder Cloud was puzzled, maybe dumbfounded, that he could find no string that might untie the strange bundle of this music. But they said nothing. Thunder Cloud listened in utter, trance-like concentration while Baptiste played "The Song of the Running Buffalo" and "Aspen Grove Song."
When Baptiste stopped, Thunder Cloud sat still, eyes lowered, for along time in respect for Baptiste’s medicine. At last he said that it was difficult medicine, elusive, perhaps beyond Thunder Cloud’s ability to enter and partake of Thunder Cloud would think on what he had heard, and then dream on it, and return tomorrow. Then perhaps he could give Baptiste his name.
That night Sacajawea came to Baptiste’s lodge to eat and sat long with them around the lodge-fire. She liked to tell, as Mountain Ram did, the ancient legends of the Shoshone people, the stories Baptiste would have been raised on if she had not taken him to the Red-Headed Chief. This particular night she told another version of the origin of the dance of the buffalo calves, and a long story about the wily, pranksterish coyote god. Then she started telling the story of the first Shoshone.
He was a coyote, and he ran on the plains and hunted like the other coyotes. One night in a dream he saw a two-legged creature he had never seen before. He thought that having two legs was a disadvantage--clearly the creature could not run as fast as a coyote. The creature was also poorly armed, for he had no fangs and only short claws. Yet the two-legged creature stood tall and could see around him, over the tops of the sagebrush. He had hairless skin, and that seemed to the coyote very beautiful. The coyote himself wanted to be so beautiful.
In his dream then the coyote accidentally touched his own skin, and to his amazement it felt smooth. He woke up. He crawled out of his lair in t
he brush to go to the water, and felt that he was standing on two legs. Looking down, he saw the skin and long legs and arms of the creature in his dream. He was amazed. At the creek he looked into the reflection of his own face, a man’s face, and thought that it was fair.
"This Paump," she said, "ran off the next morning to . . ."
"What did you call him?" Baptiste interrupted.
"Paump," Sacajawea said.
Baptiste looked puzzled.
"First-born sons are called Paump after him," Sacajawea said. "The one. The Shoshone. The head man."
"So I was called after the first Shoshone," Baptiste grinned. And then he laughed out loud.
"Your name is not yet revealed to me," Thunder Cloud said the next morning. "I fasted last night, but my dreams were troubled, and I saw nothing clearly. " He paused and considered a long while, Baptiste, Running Stream, and Sacajawea waiting respectfully. At length Thunder Cloud went on: "You are a man of two dreams, a man split by two dreams. Half of you is white, and it has a white man’s dream to guide you on the earth. The other half is Shoshone, and it has Shoshone dream to guide you on the earth. Perhaps you are as a man split, and that is why my dreams are uneasy and unclear."
Baptiste let time pass to indicate a respectful hearing. "Thunder Cloud," he began, "with your permission I would like to choose my own name."
"Perhaps you alone can divine it."
"I choose Paump." The women shifted where they sat. "I know it is a child’s name, to be shed at manhood." He thought for a moment how to angle his tiny deception. "However, it means the first Shoshone, and I am the first Shoshone white man. In the white man’s language it means the first man, who lives in a new and abundant garden. Such is this land. Thus I choose Paump."
Sacajawea and Running Stream looked at Thunder Cloud for an answer, afraid he might think his medicine offended.
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