Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (31 page)
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Authors: James Welch
BOOK: Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction)
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Rides-at-the-door ignored this last statement. “Who is this General?”
“General Sully? Why, he’s in charge of Indian policy in this territory—at least, for now.” This time the smile came.
The two men followed the chiefs and a pair of escorts toward one of the doors. Rides-at-the-door turned and looked at the seven young warriors who stood in a clump by the wagon. They were staring after the procession. The two women who had been gesturing were gone.
The room was long and low-ceilinged. Light entered through two small windows that looked out onto the courtyard. The sun was low to the southeast. The chiefs stopped and stared at a small creature which lay in a square of sunlight. It had pointed ears and a long tail and was licking the inside of a front leg.
“Get that damn cat out of here,” said General Sully. “And don’t disturb us.”
The chiefs watched as one of their escorts scooped the animal up and carried it out. The other man followed him. Rides-at-the-door had been in this room before. It was here he had eaten with the agent and his family. But he felt uncomfortable under the low ceiling, and the plank floor was springy under his feet. He wished they could have met in the iron-pounder’s lodge, for it was on the ground.
Now the seizer chief spoke to them, motioning with a sweep of his arm for them to sit on the square platforms with legs. Heavy Runner, with a broad smile, sat at one end of the table and told the other chiefs to do likewise. “Coffee,” he said, using the Napikwan word.
General Sully laughed and instructed the striped-sleeve to bring the pot of coffee that was resting on the barrel stove in the comer.
While they waited for the sergeant to pour the coffee, General Sully spoke in low tones to the other two officers. Rides-at-the-door couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could see that they were not pleased. One of the Napikwans at the other end of the table, a short man with a trim black beard, seemed especially agitated. He talked and gestured sharply toward the chiefs with a sheaf of papers in his hand. Rides-at-the-door had not caught his name, but he knew from the way the man dressed and the way he spoke to the General that he was not one of the seizers. At last he sat back, with an exasperated sigh, and the sergeant put coffee cups with steaming black liquid before each man. Then the sergeant sat down by the elbow of the General.
The chiefs watched Heavy Runner take a sip of the coffee. He made a face and spoke to Rides-at-the-door.
“He wishes the white sand to make it sweet.” Rides-at-the-door spoke Pikuni to the sergeant.
After the chiefs had doctored the bitter liquid, General Sully spoke, at first with a faint smile. It soon disappeared and a look of concern came into his eyes.
Then the striped-sleeve spoke: “General Sully wishes to thank Heavy Runner and his chiefs for the honor of their presence. He knows that Heavy Runner”—here the sergeant glanced down at a piece of paper—“and Sun Calf of the Kainahs and Big Lake and Little Wolf of the Pikunis are friends to the American people. And he extends the greetings of the Grandfather, who lives in that place where the sun rises. It is for the Grandfather that the General speaks.
“However, the General would also desire that his disappointment be known to you, because he had expected more of your chiefs to show up. It is only through the cooperation of all the Pikunis and Kainahs that these great issues before us can be resolved and peace attained. And that requires face-to-face talk with the chiefs. Again, he would like to emphasize his disappointment that your major chiefs chose not to attend.”
Heavy Runner had been sipping his coffee, but this last statement made him look up. He was not foolish enough to think that he was as influential as Mountain Chief, but he was a major chief with many followers. The striped-sleeve seemed to be finished, so Heavy Runner cleared his throat. “It is good for the Pikunis and Kainahs to get together with their brothers, the Napikwans. I, Heavy Runner, one of the major chiefs of the Pikunis, speak for all, with a good heart. It is our desire to live in peace with the Napikwans, and so it shall be, for we know that peace is in the hearts of our brothers.”
After the sergeant had interpreted Heavy Runner’s words, the General nodded, then looked down to the papers on the table. He studied them for a moment, then looked up. His eyes had lost any warmth they might have possessed. “As you are no doubt aware, there are two main—three main points of contention. If the first two are resolved, then the third takes care of itself. I have been instructed by my superiors to enumerate these points and to elicit a promise from the Pikuni and Kainah chiefs that they will assist in all ways possible to attain justice. If the chiefs refuse, I have been instructed to remind them of the grave consequences of their actions. And the consequences will indeed be serious.”
The General kept his eyes on the papers before him as the sergeant spoke the strange tongue of these red men. He pulled on his beard, vaguely aware of the impatient breathing of the marshal who sat on his left. Sully had dealt with the Indians many times in the past and had learned the value of patience. Still, he wanted this meeting to be as brief as possible, for he knew that it would be fruitless to parley seriously with this small a representation of Blackfeet. Sully was also aware that his reputation would suffer, for he had instigated this meeting with the expectation that, if successful, it would avoid the great conflict that his colleagues pressed for. Sully’s moderate stance had already earned him a reputation as an “Indian lover” with the territorial politicians, the press and his fellow officers. Already the wheels were in motion for an action designed to punish the Blackfeet severely. This meeting could have made such an action unnecessary and, as an added benefit, would have enhanced Sully’s reputation as a man who brought peace to the northern plains. But now he realized that that was not even true—the people of Montana Territory wanted not peace but punishment. They wanted to run these red Indians right off the face of the map, push them into Canada or, failing that, kill them like wild animals. It was an emotional issue for the people, a practical one for the politicians and bankers. They wanted to open up the Blackfeet land for settlement. Sully knew that he was a hindrance and, furthermore, that the deck had been stacked against him from the start. Even if all the chiefs had shown up, it would not have changed the simple fact that the Blackfeet were to be eliminated by any means possible, or at least forced into a position they would never peacefully accept. Sully shook his head, a rueful smile hidden by his mustache. The only question now was, who would be eliminated first—he or the Blackfeet? He was suddenly aware that all the eyes in the room were on him. He picked up the papers.
“Point one: I have here a warrant for the arrest of Owl Child, Bear Chief, and Black Weasel in connection with the murder of Malcolm Clark and the near-fatal assault on his son, Horace. The government of the United States, as represented by Marshal Wheeler here”—he indicated with a toss of his left hand the short bearded man—“requires the assistance of all the Blackfeet peoples in bringing these fugitives to justice. They are to be handed over and dealt with in the white man’s court of law, for it is against the whites that they have committed their depredations.”
General Sully studied another piece of paper while the sergeant interpreted to the chiefs. He was aware that the chiefs had begun to talk among themselves. From their excited whisperings he knew that they had now become aware of the seriousness of the proceedings. He glanced up and noticed that the other Indian, Rides-at-the-door, was leaning into the small circle and talking in a calm voice. Sergeant Gates had said he knew the English language, but Sully hadn’t expected the respect with which the chiefs were listening to him. He motioned Gates closer.
“Just who is this Rides-at-the-door?” he said.
“A Lone Eater, sir. They are somewhere in the middle, but Kipp thinks they lean more toward Mountain Chief. Rides-at-the-door is one of their chiefs—war chief, I believe. He has negotiated with us before. He’s a cunning one.”
“I see,” said Sully. His spirit began to rise for the first time since he had seen the pitifully small group of chiefs outside the agency compound.
“Captain Snelling thinks he is one of the tribe’s principal advisers—behind the scene, so to speak.”
Sully looked down the table. Rides-at-the-door was looking at him. Their eyes locked for a moment, then Sully lowered his eyes to the paper.
“Point two: It is estimated that in the past six months nearly a thousand head of livestock, mostly horses and mules, have been stolen from the citizens of the Territory of Montana—not to mention a good number stolen from the United States Army. It is a further requirement of the United States Government that these animals be returned to their rightful owners immediately.” Sully put the paper down and looked up. “We know that many of these animals have been driven north and sold to the traders on the Saskatchewan in Canada. It is, of course, illegal for these traders to buy property stolen from citizens of the United States, but until now there was nothing we could do about it. As you shall see, we are about to remedy that problem.
“What concerns us now is the return of all horses in the possession of the various bands of Blackfeet, be they Pikunis or Kainahs. Therefore, we charge you now with the return of said horses. And we will expect results within two or three weeks—let us say, within a moon. You will begin this operation immediately as a sign of your good faith.”
Heavy Runner started to say something after these words were spoken by the sergeant, but Sully cut him off.
“Point three: I also have here a general indictment of all the Blackfeet people in reference to the harassment and killing of the citizens of this territory. Many deaths have occurred in the past six months, the result of your raiding villains. Men, women and children have been forced to live in terror of Blackfeet threats against their lives and property. Traders find it unsafe to ply their wares among you. Miners have been shot and scalped for their earnings. Woodcutters no longer feel safe to venture out after fuel. As a representative of the United States Army, I tell you that all such activities will cease as of this moment.
“Now”—Sully leaned back and faced the chiefs directly—“it has been the history of the Blackfeet to commit these crimes and then sneak off across the Medicine Line into Canada, knowing full well that we could not pursue them into that country. There they felt secure enough to sell horses and buy whiskey and rifles and generally live high on the hog until they felt it was safe to return. Canada has long been regarded as a haven for your people because their government refused to cooperate with my government.” Sully moved forward suddenly, his chair scraping on the pine floor. “It’s different now. I have been authorized by my government to cross the border and bring the criminals back, and, by God, that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Rides-at-the-door stared out one of the windows while the sergeant’s deep voice droned dutifully on in translation. He could see only the tops of the roofs and the flag, which now hung limply from the pole. He looked at the sky beyond the flag, but he couldn’t tell if it was blue or gray or white.
Mountain Chief himself, even if he were so inclined, could not meet these requirements, thought Rides-at-the-door. It was strange to think of the head chief of the Pikunis as powerless. Yet not even he possessed enough authority to stop the young men from preying on the Napikwans. Nor could he deliver up the horses demanded by this seizer chief. And certainly not Owl Child.
Heavy Runner leaned toward him. “Is it true these seizers can now cross the Medicine Line?”
“The big chiefs of the Napikwans up there live far to the east. By the time they heard of the seizers’ raids, it would be too late. The seizers would deny they had been up there. Yes, I believe this chief speaks the truth when he says he would follow our people across the line.”
Heavy Runner grew thoughtful. There was a long silence in the room, save for the impatient breathing of Marshal Wheeler. Finally the chief spoke. “It is as the great seizer chief says. There has been much trouble between my people and the Napikwans. It is true that many of our young men run wild, inflamed with the white man’s water, desiring wealth and honor at the expense of the Napikwans. Many of these young men do commit the crimes you charge them with. For this, I am ashamed for myself and my people.
“As you know, already it has been a difficult winter—much snow and cold. It is difficult to hunt, and many of our people are cold and hungry. We have been promised food and blankets by your people, but we do not see these things. Some of our people grow impatient because of their suffering. Some of them, the young ones, take matters into their own hands, and then the trouble begins again. Some, like Owl Child, take pleasure in making the white people cry. But he is no friend to the Pikunis. Among our people he is known as a murderer and a thief—he has caused us to suffer as much as the whites. He has even killed a member of my band, and for that he should be punished. But he is a bad head and an outcast—he is not welcome in the Pikuni camps and so he should be handed over to the Napikwan chiefs.
“But how is this possible? He and his gang are seldom seen. They leave no tracks. They do not visit our camps that we might have an opportunity to seize them and hand them over to you. Many of our people are afraid of them and so let them have their own way. No, I see no way to capture Owl Child. It would be easier to kill him as one would kill a reallion, who would seek to—”
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