La Vengeance des mères

by Jim Fergus

  Lady Hall nods. “Yes, doesn’t that sound just like my Helen? She was a tenacious girl. She would not have gone easily.” We see the tears beginning to cloud the Englishwoman’s eyes, but she keeps talking as if to avoid breaking down completely. “Helen, as you probably know, was a wonderful shot. She is the only woman who has ever been allowed to carry a gun at the grand driven shoot at Holkam Hall, Lord Leicester’s estate in Norfolk, or at any other estate shoot for that matter. She outshot all of the men that day, including Lord Ripon, who is widely considered the finest wing shot in all of England. Indeed, after her magnificent performance, Helen was never again invited to participate in an estate shoot. Evidently the men could not tolerate being outshot by a woman, and wished to ensure that it did not happen again.”

  “She was a bleedin’ fine artist, too,” says Susie. “The Cheyenne warriors felt she possessed big medicine. Before they went off on raids, they had her paint animal and bird images on their bodies, and on their horses, too. They believe these protect them in battle. Last summer and fall, they returned victorious from every raid, and the warriors credited Helen’s artistic skills for their success. She became quite famous among the tribe.”

  “Thank you for telling me this,” says Lady Hall. “It means a great deal to me. I should like to know if any of her work on the birds of the western prairies survived?”

  “Not that we know of,” says I. “After the attack, the soldiers burned everything in the village. It is not likely that Helen’s sketchbooks were spared from the flames.”

  19 March 1876

  Well, goddamned if she doesn’t ride right into the village this afternoon, astride a big gray mule, head held high like she owns the place, like a conquerin’ hero come home. Aye, our old friend Dirty Gertie, aka Jimmy the muleskinner. She must somehow have slipped past the Lakota sentries, which, believe us, is no easy thing to do, unless you be Indian yourself. For her to show up like that, alone and without warning, is not the normal way of things here, and it causes no small confusion in the village. The people come out of their tipis to watch silent and with a sense of wonder as she rides by. No one molests her, nor do the children run out to count coup on her as they like to do. As if taking their cue from the behavior of the adults, they stand real close together, hugging the legs of their parents or older brothers and sisters, quiet and watching round-eyed as Gertie makes her way through the village, now and then touching the grimy brim of her hat in friendly greeting to those she passes on either side.

  Aye, they know who she is, pretty much everyone on the plains, Indian and white alike, knows Dirty Gertie. But like us, they heard she was dead, killed by the half-breed Jules Seminole and his band of Crow scouts. Such news travels fast out here, for Gertie was well-liked by the Cheyenne and the Lakota, having herself lived among these tribes. She’s been in this country for years, got captured off a wagon train as a girl, married young the first time to a French trapper, who traded her for her weight in hides to the Southern Cheyenne, with whom she lived for a number of years, married a Cheyenne fella. Since then Gertie has moved easily between the Indian and white worlds; she’s scouted and driven mule trains for the Army, served as an informer to the Indians, been shot, knifed, and left for dead by both sides. You name it, Gertie has seen and done it all, and no one, Indian or white alike, seems to hold it against her. She’s just that kind of person who gets a pass from both sides, maybe because they know she does the right thing. So everyone took it real hard when they heard that the murderous scoundrel Seminole, who was hated as much as Gertie was loved, had done her in. Now as she rides through Crazy Horse’s camp, the people wonder if they’re seein’ a ghost, because everyone believes she’s dead.

  But me and Susie know she ain’t a ghost and I cannot say how happy we are to see her. Unlike the Lakota who just watch her silent as she passes, as soon as we part the tipi flap to see who is clip-cloppin’ by and we recognize Gertie—dressed in her regular old fringed buckskins she hardly ever changes out of, her braided hair startin’ to go gray, her face as leathery brown, beat-up, and wrinkled as an old boot—we come out at a dead run to her. With a whoop I swing up on the mule’s withers facing her, and Susie jumps on his back behind her, and we both give her big hugs, kind of a twin sandwich. “Goddammit all, Gertie, they said you were dead!”

  “I ain’t dead yet, but if you two Irish scamps don’t stop squeezin’ the damn wind outta me, I will be soon.”

  “We heard Jules Seminole killed you.”

  “Son of a bitch give it a real good try,” she says. “Invite me in for a cup a’ coffee, girls, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  And so Gertie pickets her mule outside our tipi, and we send the horse boy to bring a pile of dried grass for him to chew on. We boil up some coffee in the tipi and when we all get settled, Susie asks: “What are you doing here, Gertie? You didn’t seem surprised to see us. Did you know we were here?”

  “I was at Camp Robinson when Little Wolf brought his people in to surrender,” she says. “Brother Anthony told me you gals had stayed out with Crazy Horse.”

  “But how did you ever find us?”

  “Aw hell, girls, I know this Powder River country blindfolded, you oughta know that by now. It weren’t hard at all for ole Dirty Gertie to find ya.”

  “Then you know what happened to us down on the Tongue…” says I.

  Gertie gazes into the fire, tears rising into the corners of her bright green eyes, peerin’ out beneath hooded lids and sparklin’ wet now in the flickerin’ flames. We never seen Gertie cry before. We didn’t even know the tough old bird was capable of it. “Yeah … I know all about that,” she says in a low voice. “Broke my friggin’ heart when I heard. And it was all my damn fault, too. After that last visit I made to your village, I was on my way back to the fort to deliver May’s message to Cap’n Bourke. She wanted to tell him where you was located, and that Little Wolf had decided to come into the agency as soon as the weather cleared and it was safe to travel with the newborns. But Seminole had it in for you folks, and he didn’t want that message delivered. So he and his Crow scouts were layin’ for me on the trail, shot me the hell fulla arrows, until I looked like one a’ them damn voodoo dolls they poke needles into. Left me out there for dead. If it hadn’t been for a coupla Arapaho braves who come upon me and took me back to their village, the coyotes and the buzzards woulda been shittin’ me out for a week. As it was, I was laid up a good long time, touch-and-go. If I’d a’ made it back, you’d a’ never been attacked. It was that goddamned Jules Seminole who guided the cavalry to you, who told Colonel Mackenzie it was Crazy Horse’s camp, not Little Wolf’s. It was all on account a’ that half-breed bastard all this has come to pass.”

  “Where is Seminole now?”

  “They tell me he’s livin’ with the Crow,” Gertie says. “Right after the attack against you folks, General Crook called off the winter campaign on account a’ the cold weather. Too many soldiers was gettin’ frostbit, losin’ fingers and toes. That’s why they haven’t found this village yet. But if spring comes on early, like it’s maybe fixin’ to do, the Army’ll be on the move again real soon, and the Injun scouts will be back hangin’ around the fort lookin’ for work … When the bastard shows his face, I’ll be ready for him, that I can promise ya.”

  “But why would the Army use Seminole to scout for ’em again,” asks Susie, “if they know now that he led them to the wrong village?”

  “Hell, girl, you oughta know by now that the Army don’t give a damn they wiped out Little Wolf’s village ’stead of Crazy Horse’s. It’s still just one less band of renegades for ’em to deal with, either way. Sure, they lost some white women in the bargain, but the newspapers don’t even knew about you gals anyhow, so no one is the wiser. As to the babies they killed…” Gertie pauses here and tears up again. “Damn, I’m gettin’ soft in my old age, ain’t I,” she whispers as if to herself.

  “Brother Anthony told me what happened to your little girls,” says
Gertie after she collects herself. “I’m real sorry for you. I think you know I was with the Southern Cheyenne at Sand Creek in sixty-four when Chivington’s troops attacked our village. Our head chief, Black Kettle, wanted peace, he was flying an American flag from his tipi that day to show his loyalty. But Chivington ordered the attack anyhow. An’ before he did, he told his soldiers, ‘Kill and scalp them all, big and little, nits make lice.’ See, that’s how highly they think of the Injuns, that they ain’t even human beings, they’re insects … nits and lice…”

  Gertie stops here and gazes long into the fire. “The soldiers killed my two babies by my Cheyenne husband that day,” she whispers finally. “I never told that part to May, I never told her I had kids, didn’t want to scare her, her being a new mother and all. I took three bullets in the attack and the soldiers musta thought I was dead. But I wasn’t and when I come to, I was lyin’ under a pile a’ bodies. Maybe on account a’ the fact I was at the bottom, they hadn’t bothered to take my scalp. But I was hurt real bad and I didn’t even have the strength to crawl out from under. The soldiers were still sacking the village, rapin’ our girls, killin’ the wounded. Then I saw my little boy, Hóma’ke I called him … Little Beaver … five years old he was … he was cryin’ and wanderin’ around a ways off. He was lookin’ for me, see? He was scared and lookin’ for his mama … Two soldiers standin’ not too far from me, spotted him, and they pulled their pistols. They were laughin’, an’ bettin’ each other and they started takin’ turns shootin’ at him … I could see their bullets hittin’ the ground all around him, I tried to holler, I tried to scream, but no sound came out, and my little boy just kept walkin’, cryin’ … lookin’ for his mama … and then I saw my little girl, Little Skunk we called her, Xaóhkéso … she was runnin’ toward him … she was seven an’ she always took care of her little brother … I tried to scream, I tried to holler, but no sound came outta my mouth an’ I couldn’t crawl out from under the bodies. Just before Little Skunk got to him, one a’ the bullets struck her in the back and she went down … and the soldier who shot her hollered to the other, ‘You owe me a nickel, you sumbitch’ … and that’s the last thing I remember … ‘You owe me a nickel, you sumbitch.’

  “I don’t know how long I was out, but when I woke up the soldiers were gone, and the village was quiet. It took me some time but I finally managed to drag myself out from under the bodies and I crawled on my belly through the burnt ruins of the village until I found my babies … both of ’em dead … scalped … yeah … nits make lice … an’ you know what else? That Colonel Chivington was a preacher … that’s right, the Denver newspapers called him the Fightin’ Parson, a man of God. I tell you all this now, girls, so you understand that I know firsthand a little something about what you been through … it breaks my friggin’ heart … I am so sorry for you…”

  And then we all had a good long cry. The three of us, me and Susie and Gertie, held on to each other and we bawled like babies. It was the first time me and Susie had been able to cry for our daughters, and for our friends lost.

  21 March 1876

  Brother Anthony had told Gertie about the new group of white women here. Aye, that’s another reason she came to us, she says, figuring we could maybe use a little help with the situation. She was sure right about that, because when me and Susie tried to set up a powwow with Crazy Horse and the other chiefs we were told that they do not council with women. We shoulda known that because it’s the same with the Cheyenne, too. Even though women have considerable power in the tribe … in fact, they can be said to run the show from the background, they are still not allowed to participate in council. For that matter it’s the same with the U.S. government, ain’t it? We aren’t even allowed to vote. And why do you suppose it is that these very different societies have this in common? I’ll tell you why, it’s because the old men who make the decisions for everyone else don’t have the same amount of man juice runnin’ through their veins anymore, only the fadin’ memory of it, so they use the young men to stand in for their own shriveled bollocks and limp weenies. But mothers don’t want to send their babies off to war, and the old men know that if they allow women a voice in council, they will only get in the way of all their war plans. It’s as simple as that.

  But for some reason me and Susie couldn’t figure out until she explained it to us later, the Lakota chiefs were willing to council with Gertie. We were allowed to attend, and bring Molly along, but were not allowed to speak. Gertie knows the Lakota language, too, so we didn’t even need a translator. We love our Gertie and don’t hold it against her in anyway, but she can be rough as a bear’s arse, and often smells like one, and it’s true that despite her soft side, she’s got a manly way about her—walks like a man, cusses like a man, dresses like a man … about the only thing she doesn’t do is piss like a man, which is how she got found out by May, when we all still thought she was Jimmy the muleskinner.

  Now when it’s Gertie’s turn to speak, one of the chiefs, who she tells us is named Rides Buffalo, passes her the pipe. She takes a long pull on it, which makes me and Susie a wee bit envious, because we enjoy a smoke now and again ourselves. Then Gertie starts talkin’ and she goes on at some length, but of course, we understand nothing of what she says. We can see that the chiefs listen to her very respectful as she speaks. She finishes with what seems like a fancy flourish of language, and passes the pipe with some pomp and fanfare to the chief on the other side of her. Like the Cheyenne, these men do love to talk, and each goes on at some length when it’s their turn, all except for Crazy Horse, that is, who says only a few words, but seems to listen thoughtfully to everyone else.

  It’s useful havin’ Molly there with us. She’s real alert and pays attention and it’s clear that she makes a good impression on the chiefs. She’s a fine thing, a grand lassie with a real presence about her. She appears not to be at all intimidated by these men, who can be a wee bit scary, truth be told, and they in turn seem to admire both her appearance and the bold, direct manner she has.

  After the powwow finally concludes, we want Gertie to give us a full account of how things went with the chiefs before we inform the other girls. So the four of us go down and sit on the banks of the creek, which is still mostly covered with ice, except for the water holes kept open.

  “No decision has been reached yet by the chiefs,” Gertie begins. “It’s always like that with these folks, they like to mull things over for a good long while. I gave ’em a lot to think about, told ’em something I haven’t even told you gals yet. About ten days after Little Wolf surrendered his band at the Red Cloud Agency, they left again. The chief could not tolerate life there, with no game to hunt and nothing to do all day long, eatin’ outta tin cans what little food rations was given to ’em by the government. So they made a run for it. You Kelly girls know as well as I that no one can sneak off as quiet as a band of Indians when they set their mind to it, you and me have seen ’em do it, ain’t we? They don’t move like white people, who make a lotta noise even when they’re trying not to, they move like the wind, like a light breeze in the air, with only the faintest rustling no more noticeable or unnatural than that made by the movement of spirits. By the time the Army figured out what had happened, they were well on their way.”

  “Where did they go, Gertie?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Who knows? I expect Little Wolf took ’em north, lookin’ for open country and some buffalo herds, maybe trying to hook up with another band or two of Cheyenne who ain’t surrendered yet.”

  “And why did Crazy Horse and the chiefs need to know that?” Susie asks.

  Now this is what surprised me and Susie, and when Gertie said it we realized that she really has gone over to the other side: “I told Crazy Horse the Army was plannin’ another major military campaign against the Lakota and all the other scattered bands that hadn’t observed General Crook’s order to surrender. I told ’em more soldiers were headed out here from the East, more horses, more guns and supplies. I s
aid that the Cheyenne and the Lakota had long been strong allies, and that Little Wolf and Crazy Horse were the two greatest warriors and leaders of their people. I said the only hope they had against the Army was to put aside whatever differences were between ’em, join forces and fight together. Then I asked that the Lakota give up a dozen of the horses they stole off the train, and let the white women go. And I finished up by sayin’ ‘Now I have spoken true what is in my heart. I have told you what I know about the movements of the Army, and I have told you what I believe is good for your people and good for these women. I thank you for hearing me.’ See, the chiefs like it when you speak to ’em real respectful and formal like that. I give ’em valuable inside information and I ask for the horses in return without really having to say it’s tit for tat, ’cause everyone already understands how these things work.”

  Now me and Susie thought it was one thing for Gertie to be offered the pipe, and make a case for releasing the women in her custody, and something else altogether for her to be givin’ war counsel to the Lakota chiefs. What we learned in our time among the Cheyenne was that the best way for us to address the men with any kind of advice was real indirect, what May called “by allusion,” which was too fancy a word for me and Susie, but means kind of a way of hinting that allows ’em to think maybe they came up with the idea themselves. We found it was never a good idea to come right out and tell them what they should do because men almost always take offense to that.

  “But how is it, Gertie,” I ask, “that as a woman you can speak so frank that way to the chiefs? Even though we couldn’t understand ’em, we could see that they were listening real close to everything you said.”