Chapter 3
St. Denis and Buffalo Tamer followed Natchitos into a small hut, where a fire was lit. St. Denis thought this to be Natchitos’ home, but it was not. It was merely a place for the chief to come and smoke and talk with his friends.
Natchitos produced a long leather pouch. He began to unravel the leather strings which were tied around the pouch. He opened the pouch and pulled out an old and long calumet. It was adorned with hawk feathers with different symbols marked on the sides in red and gold paint. He also produced a pouch with tobacco, a rare commodity. He lit the pipe and took a couple of long puffs on it. He exhaled in satisfaction, and then carefully handed the pipe across the fire over to St. Denis. He motioned for him to smoke it as well. St. Denis did as he was shown. Natchitos could see that he was no stranger to sharing a pipe in the company of friends. St. Denis knew he should wait for Natchitos to speak first. Buffalo Tamer waited patiently for his time to translate.
After taking another smoke from the calumet, Natchitos finally spoke, “When I awoke this morning, I saw a dove fly over the rising sun. A dove is always a sign of something new. Now I know why I saw this dove.” Buffalo Tamer spoke the exact words to St. Denis in his language.
“I thank you for your generosity, Natchitos,” replied St. Denis. “I am humbled by the kindness and hospitality by you and all the people of your tribe. But I am sure you are wondering why we have come here.”
“That is why I have asked you here,” Natchitos said in return. “Let this smoke signify a peace between you and me. I know you will honor this peace. For I feel that your heart is a good one. Now, what is it that you wish?”
St. Denis responded, “I am a man of peace, and for your offering, I am grateful. I am a wanderer, an explorer. I like to see new lands and new people. I have come to learn from your people. We do not wish to take over your lands and we do not wish to overthrow you. We wish to establish relationships with the tribes all along the river so trade can be promoted. We have goods that we can bring you and skills that we can teach that will help you with your crops and bring prosperity and good life to your people.”
Natchitos thought for a moment, and then said, “A wanderer can be a good thing. I know what it means to go and see new places. That is how we have come to live here alongside the river.” St. Denis listened to him intently. “What is it that you wish to learn?
“I would like to learn to speak your language,” St. Denis answered. “I feel if my communication with you and your people is better, the more progress we can make. It will also help me in understanding and respecting your ways. With your permission, my men can show your people new ways to cultivate land and irrigate your crops. For me, all I wish is to learn your ways, and to learn your language.” St. Denis produced a leather pouch of his own from a satchel he had beside him. “With your permission, I would like to honor you with this gift as my thanks to you.”
Natchitos looked intrigued. He watched as St. Denis pulled open a button clasp on each end of the pouch. He opened it and revealed a rare and hand-crafted, shiny new flintlock pistol. It was made of polished brown wood and silver steel. The handle was carved with an intricate design in the wood and a rounded, gold tip on the end. The pouch also contained some ammunition made specifically for the pistol and gunpowder wrapped tightly. Natchitos and Buffalo Tamer marveled at the sight. St. Denis was delighted at their curiosity. He handed it over to the chief and let him examine it thoroughly. “It has never been fired,” he said. “And, it is yours as a token of my gratitude.”
A small grin appeared on the chief’s face. “I have seen the white man’s rifle, but never have I seen one so small!” He set the pistol down and looked at St. Denis. “I accept your peace. Our men shall work together. And, I personally will help you with our words.”
As the days went on, the French and the Indians began to get accustomed to one another. They shared meals, they fished in the river, and even played games with rocks and arrows. But soon the rest and relaxation and blending of cultures was put aside, for there was work to be done. The Indians were in a crucial time of the harvest, and welcomed the extra help in their small corn and bean fields. The harvest was meager compared to years past, but enough to see them through the winter. St. Denis realized that these crops were valuable to the Indians, so he did not want to encroach too much on their hosts and instructed his men to not eat much of what they had harvested.
St. Denis noticed how every morning Natchitos would go up to the top of the hill overlooking the river and would sit and stare out for an hour or more at a time. He wanted to go up and join him but felt it best not to interrupt him. One day he asked Sitting Crow, brother of Tooantuh, why Natchitos climbed and sat on the hill each morning. Sitting Crow explained to St. Denis, “Natchitos is the chief of our tribe, but he is also our spirit guide. He sits on the hill in the rising sun to cleanse his own spirit.”
“Has anyone ever gone up there with him?” St. Denis asked.
“No, it is not our place to interrupt the spirit guide when he is alone with his thoughts,” Sitting Crow said. St. Denis decided not to push the subject any further.
After the work was done in the fields, Tooantuh asked to form a hunting party. Natchitos readily agreed to the idea. He knew there was ample wild game in the forests. It was common to hunt for deer, hogs, bear, and even buffalo during certain times of the year. The younger braves liked to hunt for small game, such as rabbit, opossum, quail, and squirrels. Tooantuh was eager to show off his hunting skills to the newcomers. His skill with the bow and arrow was unrivaled within the tribe.
One afternoon, he and Sitting Crow, took two of the young braves, LaRouche, and two of the other soldiers on a hunting party. They quietly stalked the forest with Tooantuh in front of the group. He held up his fist, signaling them to halt. He sensed something in the brush a few paces to his right. It was a rabbit! He signaled to the youngest brave, Natchitos’ second son, Nito, to take his best aim. But before Nito could strike, he was startled by the blast of a musket. They all turned to see LaRouche standing with a smoking rifle pointed towards the brush.
“Ah, I think I missed him!” muttered LaRouche. Tooantuh and Sitting Crow were dumbfounded on why he would try to kill a rabbit with such a large weapon.
“You missed him!” shouted Nito. “And now you’ve scared him away.” Tooantuh scolded him as well, but LaRouche had no idea what they were saying.
“Gee Sarge, at least let the kid shoot at him first,” a young soldier piped up. His name was Etienne Sommer.
“Mind yourself, soldier!” LaRouche stammered. “What’s that kid going to use anyway?” motioning to little Nito.
Nito instinctively knew what the sergeant was questioning. He smiled and then pulled out a handful of small wooden arrows, about the six inches in length. Each had a sharp, narrow arrowhead on the tips. They were called hand darts. “This is what you use for a little rabbit, don’t you know that?” Nito quipped in his own language. “Not that big noisy thing!” Tooantuh and Sitting Crow both chuckled to themselves. LaRouche was embarrassed and not amused.
A few hours later, the hunters again came across a rabbit. Tooantuh led Nito up to the front once again. The Indians looked back at the soldiers and gave them an obvious look not to interfere this time. LaRouche held up both hands in compliance and a sarcastic smile on his face. Nito took two slow steps forward then crouched down. He slowly took two hand darts from a pouch. He readied one dart in one hand and held the second in his other. He waited for the right moment. The rabbit lifted his head, sensing he had been spotted. He began to jump and scamper away, but it was too late. Two darts split through the air, one after the other and hit their target precisely, thump, thump! Nito then stood tall and proud and turned and gave a broad smile in LaRouche’s direction. Tooantuh looked on proudly and patted the young brave on his head. “Nice aim, little Nito,” he said with a smile. The so
ldiers applauded in admiration, including the impressed LaRouche.
Back at the village, St. Denis and Natchitos sat in an open area near the river. The sun was warm and it felt good to sit and relax for a while. A swift breeze blew alongside the river as they sat. Buffalo Tamer sat with them as well. “What can I teach you today?” asked Natchitos.
St. Denis held up his hand to Buffalo Tamer, “Let me try and answer him.” Buffalo Tamer nodded. St. Denis spoke slowly in the Nashitosh language, one word at a time, “I…seek...learn...Nashitosh...way.” Natchitos nodded.
“You learn fast, my friend,” Natchitos responded. “In time, you may come to understand our ways, but first you must learn the words and then the purpose behind the words. The winds that blow on a prairie, will stir up clouds to make rain in the river valley. Or they can blow in and dry up the waters. One action can be one or the other. One’s purpose is to prepare for the changes that the winds bring forth.”
Natchitos took out a small pouch of food and opened it and offered some to St. Denis and Buffalo Tamer. Buffalo Tamer, knowing what it was, took a piece and nodded with a thankful smile. “Here my friend, try this. It is something I like to chew at times like these.”
St. Denis was intrigued. He took a piece and put it in his mouth. A smile appeared on his face. It was bagasse, sugar cubes cut from the stalks of cane that grew by the river. He nodded to Natchitos in thanks, “Excellent taste!” Natchitos and Buffalo Tamer were both in agreement.
Natchitos sat and stared at the waters flowing by, then finished his bagasse and spat it out. “Try to say these words, my friend: The wind blows swiftly upon the river today.”
St. Denis thought for a few moments, then said slowly, “The…old…river…blows…crazy…today. Is that right?” Natchitos and Buffalo Tamer both laughed at him. “Alright, alright, but no laughing though!”
Legend Upon the Cane Page 4