Fools Crow (Contemporary American Fiction) (32 page)
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Authors: James Welch
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“That is acceptable,” interrupted Sully, who understood the Pikuni word for “kill.” He had been following the interpreter’s commentary. “Providing you bring in the body to the fort on the Sun River.”
Rides-at-the-door leaned forward and told Heavy Runner what the chief had said. Big Lake, Little Wolf and Sun Calf listened intently. Then they sat back with doubt and suspicion in their eyes. They knew that Mountain Chief would not be happy with such as drastic act. While they did not consider themselves followers of the head chief, they knew better than to make him angry.
But now Heavy Runner spoke angrily to them. Did they not see the position he was in? “You wish to see Owl Child dead as much as I do. He causes nothing but trouble!”
“Does Mountain Chief accept this?” said Little Wolf.
“In time he would see that it was the only way—the only thing to appease these white chiefs.”
“I don’t think he would like us to kill one of our own people to satisfy the Napikwans,” said Big Lake.
“Owl Child is not one of us!” Heavy Runner turned to Rides-at-the-door. “What do you say?”
Rides-at-the-door looked down the table to the General, who was listening to the marshal. Once again, the short bearded man was gesturing toward the chiefs. The General looked up, again directly at Rides-at-the-door.
“Tell this seizer chief that we will kill Owl Child.” He looked at the vacant blue eyes of Sully. “It is the only way to avoid war. And tell him we will return as many of the Napikwan horses as we can find. It is the only way.”
Heavy Runner grunted with satisfaction. He turned and faced up the table to the Napikwans who were awaiting his response.
“It is decided—we shall do everything in our power to rub out Owl Child and his gang.”
“But first you will do everything in your power to take them alive and turn them over to us,” said Sully. A public hanging would go far to soothe the outraged citizenry. He watched as Rides-at-the-door translated.
“Yes,” said Heavy Runner. “And we will see to it that the horses belonging to the Napikwans are returned. It will not be easy because my people are weak with hunger and cold. And now, some of the Pikuni bands farther down the Bear River are again touched by the white-scabs disease. Already many in the Black Patched Moccasins have gone to the Sand Hills. Many others are sure to follow them—”
Sully interrupted. He had heard Gates whisper “Smallpox.” “Do you mean this disease is here—among the Blackfeet?” He had heard that it had afflicted the Crows, but the Pikunis? He turned to one of his officers. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”
“We knew nothing about it, General. This is news to me too.”
“Didn’t Kipp say anything about it?”
The officer shook his head.
“The white-scabs catch us when we are weak,” said Heavy Runner. “We must have food and blankets if we are to survive. We must have ‘coffee’ medicine. Perhaps the great Grandfather would take pity on the Pikunis and provide us with these necessities.”
Sully pulled on his wispy beard and looked down at the chiefs. He seemed to be weighing this new information. He sighed. “You have my sympathy, Heavy Runner, but I’m afraid that will not be possible—until you fulfill the requirements of these court orders. The sooner you do these things, the sooner you will receive your food and blankets—and medicine.”
Heavy Runner listened, then said, “These things have been promised to us for many moons.”
“And so you shall have them. But only after you meet my conditions.” Sully did not bother to look down at his papers. “One, you shall effect the capture or death of Owl Child and his gang. Two, you shall return all horses stolen from the white people. Three, you shall cease all hostilities against citizens of the United States.”
Sully picked up the papers, straightened them and began to tuck them into a leather envelope. He was through with the chiefs, except for one last speech. As he handed the envelope to Marshall Wheeler, he fixed his eyes on Rides-at-the-door. “My messengers were sent among the Pikunis and Kainahs to deliver a communication of vital importance. If more of your chiefs had attended this council, we might have avoided a conflict that can only go badly for your people. But it seems that my messengers found most of your chiefs delirious with drink and not in any condition to speak with seriousness on these matters. One of my men almost lost his life at the hands of the Never Laughs. Fortunately, they were too drunk to see straight, much less shoot straight.”
The officer to Sully’s right hid a grin with his hand. It was his only sign of emotion during the meeting.
“But this is a serious matter. Your people claim they want peace but they prove otherwise. My people are sick and tired of this constant raiding, this constant murder of innocent citizens. When I deliver the results of this meeting, I’m afraid they will be very disappointed. Indeed, many will wish to settle the score in a less than peaceful manner. It is out of my hands now.
“It is up to you to deliver these ultimatums to the other chiefs. And you will have to do it with great speed.” He was speaking directly to Rides-at-the-door. “You must make the other chiefs, especially Mountain Chief, aware that war is imminent. Their people will be killed like so many buffalo. They themselves will be killed or brought to justice.
“It is not the wish of the United States Government that such desperate measures be taken. We are a peaceful people and we would wish to pursue a course of peace, to live in harmony with all Indian people. But we are capable, and some more than willing, to punish any Indians who would deliberately thwart that peaceful course. You are warned—and you would do well to warn those other chiefs who saw fit to ignore this chance for peace.”
If Sully had expected Rides-at-the-door to give any sign that he had agreed, or even listened, he was disappointed. The warrior, who was Sully’s only real chance to deliver his ultimatum to the hostile chiefs, turned to the window and looked again at the flag. But he had heard, and the seriousness with which the white General spoke had registered. He knew that many of the other chiefs, including Mountain Chief, would not trust any agreement Heavy Runner had made with the seizers. But if they were here, thought Rides-at-the-door, they would realize that their choices were ending. They would have to agree to these conditions or risk the end not only of their way of life but of themselves and their followers. He was only vaguely aware of Heavy Runner’s voice.
“... and so I ask the great seizer chief for a piece of paper with writing on it that states that I, Heavy Runner, am a friend to all whites. If your people decide to make war on the Pikunis, I would desire it to be known to them, on paper, that Heavy Runner and his followers are at peace.”
Big Lake and Little Wolf also requested such a document. After a moment of thought, Sun Calf assented.
And so the friendly chiefs waited in silence while Sully scratched out a few words that would signal to all that these men had cooperated with the United States and were therefore not to be considered hostiles. The pieces of paper were signed by General Alfred H. Sully and dated 1 January 1870.
PART FOUR
25
IT WAS ONE of the rare warm days of that winter, and the snow had melted just enough so the metal-rimmed wheels of the big wagons dug into the skin of earth and left a long, twisting, dirty trail far to the south. The sun rode close and yellow and caused the prairies to shine with a brilliance that made men wipe tears from their eyes.
The two men driving the ox teams were sluggish with the warmth and paid little attention to the squeaking of the wheels or the creaking of the loads. The metalwork of the big oxen’s harnesses jingled in the warm air, but the animals too did not seem aware of the small sound in all that space. They had crossed the last of the big hills that morning and now they worked steadily in unison to pull the wagons north along the Whiskey Trail.
Three men followed the wagons, riding shaggy bigheaded horses. Two of them wore long untrimmed beards, and the third had not shaved since they left Fort Benton four days ago. They were tired yet wary, and they kept their rifles within reach in scabbards by their right legs. The two shaggy ones had pistols tucked in their belts. The third wore an army holster and belt under his long gray coat.
He was still overwhelmed by this country that his companions took for granted. The rolling prairies were as vast and empty as a pale ocean, and the sky stretched forever, sometimes blue, sometimes slate. The few small groups of mountains, like islands in this sea of yellow swells, only seemed to emphasize its vastness. In the winter, when snow covered the land and lay heavy in the bottoms, the man was filled with foreboding dreams of an even larger isolation.
But he had escaped death more than once in the past several years and had come to feel that maybe his life was a charmed one, destined to go on forever whether he wanted it to or not. Many times he had wished for death, especially when he was young, a young Georgia cavalry officer riding time after time into the guns of the North. During each terrifying retreat, he thought of nothing but the comfort of the dead left behind, the end of the war come early. But the war did not last forever with him, and when he knew the end was near and sacrifice was senseless, he left camp one night and headed west. There were many fleeing men on the road, and he was almost killed in Louisiana for the horse he was riding. He survived and continued west into the Texas panhandle, where he was shocked by the serenity of the country, whose open spaces held no threat and where a man could wander with nothing on his mind but the thought of his next meal.
He worked one whole year for a rancher, building corrals and riding herd. Not once did he feel homesick, and when the war ended he hardly noticed. Whether cutting poles or wrestling calves, he worked with the knowledge that he was alive and the open country of the West had become his life. He would have stayed there forever if it hadn’t been for a quiet conversation he overheard in a saloon in Pampa. He’d come in for supplies, and while his wagon was being loaded over at the feed store, he wandered down to Bevin’s for a glass of beer. The first word that made him perk up his ears was “gold.” Then he heard, “Lots of it, just layin’ in those creek bottoms.” And finally he heard, “Montana—Alder Gulch all the way to Virginia City—miles of it.” He didn’t even know how far Montana Territory was from Texas, but as he drove the supply wagon back to the ranch he began to think of his life. Although he liked old Mr. Styles and didn’t mind the hard work, he knew that he couldn’t do it forever. And, too, there was talk of rebuilding the South. His father had once owned one of the largest dry-goods businesses in Atlanta. He had become involved in politics and entertained prominent cotton people, lawyers and merchants. He prided himself on making campaigns work, on electing his new friends to local and confederacy offices, on helping them finance their electioneering. He enjoyed this new world and began to pay little attention to his business. A year and a half later, the bank foreclosed and he was left with a large town house, a small cotton farm and three children. When it came time to call in debts, he found that nobody owed him, politically or financially. Just before the war broke out, the family had moved to the cotton farm near the hamlet of Green’s Gate.
And so it seemed to the young man as he drove the wagon home to Mr. Styles’ ranch that an opportunity too good to pass up had been presented to him. He had often thought of his family, and he had dreamed of returning home with enough money to put his father back on his feet. He had not allowed himself to think that such a possibility existed, because it hadn’t—until then.
The next day he had collected his wages and ridden north. It had taken him four months to get to the Montana Territory because he had to work along the way to keep himself fed, and when he arrived at Alder Gulch the gold was already playing out. By the time he had acquired a grubstake by working for a freight company, most of the fields had been reduced to a rubble of stone that did indeed stretch for miles, all the way to Virginia City. One thing that surprised him was the number of Confederates, men like him who had deserted the army of General Lee for the wide-open spaces of the West. Many were rough, treacherous men dug up in the last days of the war, caught and put into uniform. It was either serve or be shot. But it didn’t take long to see the way the war was going and they began to leave in droves, all of them heading west—to Texas, the Arizona desert, and north to Colorado, and finally to the goldfields of Montana.
Now the man rode silently behind the whiskey wagons, oblivious to the two bearded men who rode beside him. His eyes were sore from looking at the sunstruck prairies. His lips were dry and there was a scum of saliva across his front teeth. Although the day had warmed up considerably, he huddled deep within his gray coat and thought of the hot, humid summers of Georgia. He didn’t miss Atlanta—nobody will miss Atlanta because it isn’t there anymore, he thought with a grin—but he did miss the farm and those days he had labored beside his father as they tried to pull it together after several years of neglect. They had just finished planting the first crop of cotton and were eating a big supper complete with a bottle of French wine his father had saved for the occasion when the Negro from Parnell’s place rode into the yard on a mule and shouted that war had broken out. By the time they had reached the porch—all of them, his father and mother and two younger sisters who had been so gay only moments before—the Negro was galloping off with the urgency of Paul Revere.
The man had to take a piss but was reluctant to stop. His side ached and the insides of his thighs were chafed. He hadn’t ridden this much since leaving the goldfields almost three years ago. He’d had to sell his horse at Fort Benton to pay off a gambling debt. But it was a bustling town—the farthest landing up the Missouri River for the big steamboats—and he had worked off and on as a carpenter, first for the army, then for the settling merchants and ministers and others who kept the town expanding. He liked the work and had become good at it, but when the building slowed down he had taken this job as guard for the whiskey wagons on the spot. The regular guard—if any of them could be called regular, since they were recruited out of saloons —had broken his leg in a brawl the night before the wagons were to roll. Since he was broke and had never been to Canada, and since he didn’t much care what happened now that his dream of returning to Georgia a wealthy man had been thwarted, he had taken the job without hesitation.
The small caravan had started down a gradual slope to the Dry Fork of the Marias. They would pass within a few miles of Riplinger’s trading post, but they wouldn’t stop. Riplinger, like other legitimate traders, had little use for these whiskey runners, not because he felt their business immoral but because they took trade from him. And so the drivers knew enough to steer clear of him. They didn’t need him raising hell and putting pressure on the army to stop these illegal shipments.
But on the other hand they had chosen this route because of its proximity to Blackfeet camps. Although most of the shipment was due for the Canadian posts, they were not above selling whiskey in the camps en route. Most of the whiskey was in its pure state in the sixty-three gallon hogsheads lashed down in the wagons. But there were also several kerosene tins of doctored stuff that they would sell right off the tailgate. The drovers had mixed capsicum, molasses and tobacco before leaving Fort Benton; then they had filled the tins up with river water and whiskey. There was enough whiskey to make the Indians drunk and enough water to make it profitable.
As the party descended, the drovers pulled back firmly on the brake handles to keep the heavy wagons off the oxen. The wheel rims screeched beneath the brake shoes, and the muddy snow backed up and fell off in wet chunks. Finally they were on the flat and the wagon trail followed the Dry Fork down to the Marias. They were less than two miles from the river. The oxen smelled the water ahead and began to trot, their metalwork jingling in the windless afternoon air.
The man in the gray coat spotted a small stand of cottonwoods surrounded by brush a hundred feet off the trail. He reined in his horse until the others moved ahead, then trotted over to it. He thought about the thick stands of pine in Georgia as he swung down. His sisters would be grown now. He was suddenly filled with an intense loneliness. He longed to know if they were married, if the family was still on the farm, if his father and mother ever thought about him. At that moment he would have given anything to be back home, harvesting the cotton, hunting deer, sitting down to a meal of biscuits and gravy. Even the long days behind the plow or clearing land brought a brief smile. The yellow stream of piss steamed in the warm air as the man lifted his closed eyes to the sun.
At first when he opened his eyes he felt embarrassed and angry. He glared at the figure in the dark hat and buffalo coat. Then he saw the bone choker necklace above the collarless white shirt, the single brass and feather earring dangling from the right ear. As he looked into the dark face the earlier feelings gave way to a brilliant fear, but he made no move, didn’t even attempt to button his pants. Then he saw the rifle pointed straight at his breast. Oh, God, he thought, and he saw the ramshackle cabin and he was standing on the porch with his father and mother and sisters, watching the Negro riding away on the mule, shouting about war.
The single rifle shot echoed up and down the Dry Fork. Both teams stopped. The lead ox on the left of the trailing team swung his head back but the yoke prevented him from seeing the man lying at the edge of the thicket. He felt the sting of the bullwhip and heard the bellow of the teamster and he jolted forward, for an instant pulling the creaking whiskey wagon by himself. Then the others strained forward against their yokes and against the cracking whip and the wagon picked up speed.
A hail of gunfire from a chokecherry thicket to the left of the wagons snapped out. The bullwhacker in the lead wagon toppled sideways and one of his animals went down, bawling and skidding through the grassy mud as the others charged ahead in panic.
One of the men on horseback managed to pull his rifle free of the scabbard before a shell burst in his stomach, sending him back over the cantle of his saddle. His horse lunged forward and he did a somersault, landing on his feet, but his knees were already dead. The other horseman stood in the saddle of his whirling horse, firing his short-gun in all directions. When it was empty he threw it toward the thicket and spurred his horse up the shallow gulch. His fingers had just closed around the stock of his rifle when he saw the Indian riding at him. With a sudden series of yips the Indian urged his horse into a dead run. The white man had almost cleared the rifle from its scabbard when he saw the barrel of the musket swinging toward his head, and that was the last thing he saw.
Fast Horse caught the loose saddle horses, then got down off his own animal and picked up the weapons. One of the rifles was a many-shots gun. He wiped the mud from the barrel, then fired it in the air. It was a good find. He looked at the two men lying on the ground and saw that one of them was wearing a cartridge belt over his canvas coat. As he bent down to loosen it he looked into the face. The eyes were wide open and blue. The whites were red with bursted blood. As he pulled the belt from beneath the man’s body, he heard a long rattle from deep within the man’s chest. He drew back and looked again at the eyes. He thought he saw a flicker and knelt close to the face. He looked deep in the sunlit blue of the eyes, searching for life, and was surprised how far into the eyes he could see. But the man lay still and there was no life in him. Fast Horse had thought he wanted to take the man’s hair, but those blue sightless eyes spooked him.
As he rode down the Dry Fork he grew uncomfortable. The Pikuni camps were not far away. Mountain Chiefs camp was only a day’s ride to the northeast. The Hard Topknots were less than that. If the seizers came upon these white men and their wagons, they would attack the nearest Pikunis. We have done a bad thing this time, thought Fast Horse. We have struck too close to the camps. He looked around, searching the horizons, but he saw nothing.
One of the wagons lay on its side and its cargo lay scattered in the muddy grass of the draw. The big whiskey barrels had burst on impact and the smell of whiskey was in the air. Under Bull and Red Horn were picking through the debris. Not far away the team was grazing. Farther down the trail, several hundred paces away, the other wagon stood upright, still attached to the oxen. Black Weasel and Crow Top were slitting away the canvas with their scalping knives. Owl Child sat on his horse, examining a bullwhip. Suddenly he lashed out with it, wrapping the tip around a wheel rim. Crow Top looked up, startled, and Owl Child laughed.
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