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Authors: Jim Fergus

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BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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The Bony Bosom of Civilization
 
“How strange to recall that six months ago we departed Fort Laramie as anxious white women entering the wilderness for the first time; and now, perhaps equally anxious, we leave as squaws returning home. I realized anew as we rode into the cold north wind on this morning that my own commitment had been forever sealed by the new heart that beats in my belly; that I could not have remained even if I so wished.”
(from the journals of May Dodd)
 
 
This would seem an appropriate place to begin a new notebook, for perhaps it was at the very instant upon first laying eyes again upon John Bourke, that I understood beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was lost to me … and I to him. That I had crossed over, finally and irrevocably, to take up residency in “the other world behind this one” as the Cheyennes call the world that exists on the other side of our own.
The Captain could not disguise his horror when our eyes first met, could not hide the flicker of revulsion that crossed his face. We stared at one another thus for a long time before he finally turned his gaze away with something like relief—as though he had decided that he must have been mistaken, after all; that I could not be the person he had at first taken me for.
In the tumult of emotions I felt in seeing him again, I do not know which was more painful to me—the Captain’s disgust or his dismissal.
In an attempt to calm the racing of my own heart, I turned my attention to our immediate business here: we began to unstrap our hides from the packhorses and let the bundles slide to the ground, where they fell with a heavy thud—a line of thuds and a cloud of dust billowing up beneath the horses’ legs.
The proprietor of the trading post was a short, bandy-legged Frenchman by the name of Louis Baptiste, who now made his way from bundle to bundle, inspecting, counting, jotting figures in the columns of his ledger book. Baptiste had a large hooked nose and small, close-set eyes, and the Indians called him
Pe’ee’ese Makeeta
—Big Nose Little Man.
When Big Nose reached Helen Flight, she said to him: “I shall be negotiating my own trade, sir, independent of the gentlemen. And I authorize Susan and Margaret Kelly to represent me in this matter.”
“I only
beezness weeth
the braves,” said the trader,
“jamais avec les squaws.”
“On what grounds, may I ask, sir?” Helen inquired pleasantly.
Now Baptiste looked her up and down, his small eyes narrowed meanly. He grinned.
“Mais peut-être vous avez une
petite
squaw
under your buffalo robes,
madame, non?”
Helen’s smile never wavered. “These are my goods,” she said evenly to the man. “And I should be pleased to let those young ladies right there”—she pointed to the Kelly twins—“conduct my business for me, thank you so very much, sir.”
By now Susie and Meggie had sauntered forward. “
Aye,
Frenchy, you’ll be dealin’ with me and sister here,” said Susie.
Louis Baptiste raised his palms as if matters were quite out of his hands.
“Comme j’ai dit
,
mesdames,
” he said, “I do
beezness
with the braves.
Toujours. Jamais avec les squaws.
”
“Yes, well no doubt they are easier to swindle than the women,” observed Helen drily.
I spoke up myself then. “We are representatives of the United States government,” I said, “officially dispatched by President Grant to instruct these people in the workings of the Caucasian world. This would seem to be an excellent opportunity to begin their economic education.”
Baptiste aimed a stream of tobacco juice between his legs; some of it didn’t clear the hook on the end of his nose and dripped from it like rusty water from a leaking faucet. He snorted and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, which he then proceeded to study as if it were a matter of the greatest import.
“Oui,
I know who you are,
mesdames,
” Big Nose said with a nod. “You are the white squaw brides of
les sauvages, n’est-ce pas?”
He shook his head with something between astonishment and regret.
“Moi?
I have an Indian squaw woman myself—Arapaho. I find that they are less trouble than white women,” he said. And then he shrugged. “Yes, OK,
ça va
. Why not? You may come in the store, but
beeg
Chief he makes deal for everyone.” Baptiste moved on down the line of bundles, counting and jotting figures in his notebook.
“Frightfully unattractive little man,” said Helen Flight. “Impertinent, too. Never have cared for the French, personally.”
“Nor I,” said Meggie Kelly. “But he’ll not be gettin’ the better of the Kelly girls in a trade, I can tell
ya.
Right, Susie?”
Several army officers, including Captain Bourke, had gathered inside the store. Now they stood behind Baptiste, who sat at a long table with his ledger book open before him. Little Wolf was seated across from him, flanked by two of his young Elk warriors standing behind him. Unaccustomed to furniture, the Chief sat stiffly on the edge of his chair. Helen, the Kelly girls, and I stood just inside the door. I was surprised to find that being inside a building after all these months gave me a most peculiar sense of claustrophobia.
John Bourke did not look at me. Indeed, I had the distinct sense that he was trying very hard not to. My heart ached as I watched him … I could not help but remember the last time we had seen each other …
Big Nose tapped his ledger with a pencil and said, “OK, I
geeve
you four sacks flour, two sacks sugar, one sack baking soda, one sack coffee, six plugs tobacco, one bag wolf poison—”
Before the interpreter, a half-breed hangs-around-the-fort named Little Bat, could finish his translation to Little Wolf, I had pushed forward. “Nonsense,” I said. “Those hides and other goods represent an entire summer’s worth of labor. What you offer us in trade wouldn’t see a dozen of us through half the coming winter.”
Captain Bourke looked up from behind the table, seeming at first surprised and then embarrassed by my outburst; he colored and looked down.
“Supply and demand,
madame,
” said Big Nose with a wolfish grin. “
Beeg
Chief he understand that. Too many buffalo
’ides
this year. That
eez
my offer. Take it or leave it.”
“Ah, ya beggar!”
said Susie Kelly.
“Ya
think we’re damn fools, do
“ya?
Too many buffalo hides,
me
foot! Never
haird a sech
a thing. The buffalo are
scar
cer this year than ever before, and you know it as well as we do.”
“I am sorry,
mesdames,”
said Baptiste, raising his hands. “But that
eez
my offer. If
theez
don’t seem fair to you, I suggest you may take your
’ides
to the trading post at Camp Robinson. There
mon chèr ami,
Jules Escoffey, make you not nearly such a good deal, I think.
Moi?
Compared to Jules I
yam
Santa Claus.”
“What of gunpowder and ammunition?” asked Helen Flight. “We shall require those items for hunting.”
“Non, non, madame,
” said the proprietor, shaking his head.
“Je suis désolé,
I am sorry, no ammunition or gunpowder may be any longer traded to
les sauvages
by order of General George Crook.
C’est vrai, n’est-ce pas, Capitaine?”
he asked, turning to Captain Bourke behind him.
“That is correct, yes,” Captain Bourke answered. Now he turned to me and nodded with stiff military formality. “Please explain to your husband, madam,” he said, “that the Great Father in Washington has determined that for the Cheyennes’ own welfare gunpowder and ammunition will no longer be available to them as articles of trade. In lieu of such items the Great Father is offering a variety of farm implements at wholesale prices.”
I could not help letting an astonished bark of laughter escape. “Farm implements?” I said. “Wholesale? Excellent! Yes, well those items will certainly be of great use to us. Why what possible need shall we have for gunpowder and ammunition to procure fresh game when we shall have a ‘variety of farm implements’ to see us through the coming winter?”
“Aye,
isn’t that grand though!” said Meggie Kelly. “And are we expected to plant potatoes before the
folking
ground freezes?”
“As to the Great Father’s paternal concern for the welfare of his Cheyenne children,” I continued in a rising voice, “I imagine that although we are no longer allowed to trade our hides for gunpowder and ammunition, if we wished to trade, say, for a keg of rotgut whiskey capable of poisoning the entire tribe, such merchandise might still be available to us?”
Big Nose bared his wolfish teeth beneath his huge hooked nose. “Oh,
mais oui, madame,”
he said, “I throw in a keg of my best
wheesky
if that’s what the
Beeg
Chief wishes.”
Throughout this conversation, Little Wolf sat impassively, listening to the translation of the interpreter. Now I spoke to him in Cheyenne, surprising myself at the fluency of my anger. “The
vehos
are trying to cheat us,” I said. “Our goods are worth ten times what Big Nose offers.”
Little Wolf only nodded. “
Pe’ee’ese Makeeta
always tries to cheat us,” he answered. “But the People have acquired a taste for sugar and coffee; these goods are important to us, and so we make the best trade that we can manage.”
“And you do understand that by order of the Great Father in Washington,” I said, “there is to be no more gunpowder or ammunition allowed the People? Instead they offer us farm implements.”
Now Little Wolf looked genuinely surprised. As I suspected the interpreter, Little Bat, had not conveyed this last piece of information to him. “Farm implements?” Little Wolf asked. “Of what use are such things to the People?”
“Of no use,” I said, “until such time as the People move to the agency and become farmers.”
Little Wolf waved his hand in a dismissive backhanded gesture, in the manner that one shoos flies. “We are hunters,” he said, “we are not farmers. Tell the soldiers that we have no use for farm implements, that we must have rifles and ammunition.” And to Big Nose, he said, “Henceforth my wife,
Mesoke,
and the other women will conduct this trade.” With this Little Wolf stood from the table and with his usual great dignity left the room, followed by his soldiers.
Now the Kellys pressed forward to make their case with Big Nose. “There’s
noothin’
else to be
doone
now, Frenchy,” said Susie, “than to do some ‘
beezness’
with the squaws, is there,
ya
little cheatin’ bastard?”
I took this opportunity to approach John Bourke, who was gathering papers off the table, making quite a show of distracted busy-ness, all transparently designed to avoid having to confront me.
I did not allow him the luxury. “Why does the Army participate in this travesty, Captain?” I asked. “What possible interest does it serve to swindle these people.”
The Captain bowed politely. “Mrs. Little Wolf,” he said, as if addressing a stranger. “I’m afraid that this is not a matter which I am presently at liberty to discuss with you. Good day,” he said, touching the brim of his hat and walking past me.
Before he could do so, I grasped him by the arm. It was, I am aware, a presumptuous act on my part, but I could not help myself. “John,” I whispered, near to tears from my racing emotions, “for God’s sake, John, it is I, May. Why won’t you talk to me, why can’t you look at me?”
The Captain stopped and raised his eyes to meet mine, as if seeing me for the first time. “Good God, May,” he whispered.
“What did you expect, Captain?” I said. “That I would be dressed in my Sunday finest? Need I remind you that we have been living in the wilderness among savages? I’m sorry if my appearance offends you.”
“No, May,” John Bourke said. “Forgive me. You offer no offense. You look … only … very different than I remembered you …” And then as if torn by some great internal conflict, his brow furrowed in a storm of anguish, the Captain added, “Please excuse me, madam, I must take my leave. Perhaps we will have an opportunity to speak at a later date.” I watched as he strode quickly from the store.
Later that day, my old friend Gertie rode her mule into our camp. I went out to greet her in front of our lodge, alerted to her arrival by the noises of the small pack of children and dogs at her heels. She was roughly attired in woolen trousers and a man’s coat several sizes too large for her, wore a red bandanna around her neck, and an old cavalry hat that had been refashioned to a style quite beyond Army regulations, and was jauntily festooned with eagle feathers.
“Damn, honey,” Gertie said to me, sliding off her mount, “it’s a lucky thing I got a chin strap on this here old hat of mine, or I’d a been relieved of it for sure by now. There ain’t nothin’ an Injun likes moren’ a hat, an’ don’t ask me why.”
BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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