Sacajawea (123 page)

She was tired of living on snakes, horny toads, and dry grass roots. Her tunic was filthy with dust and dirt; her moccasins were but patches from various hides of small animals. Her hair hung in greasy strands. Her hands were dark brown from the sun and callused from leading the mare through rocks and small canyons, along dry creek beds. Now she rode and held loosely to the reins as the mare put one foot ahead of the other on and on in the cold day’s grayness. She was certain that the pronghorn was a talisman, a protector for her. Had he not called her daughter and told her not to be troubled?

She came to leafless willows at the edge of a shallow river. She sat in a slight dip in the land as protection from the cold wind. Her legs wobbled. She felt weak. She lay back between several stones. The earth was cold. She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them abruptly to check again what she thought her mind had told her was in the willow. A small, straight branch did not seem to belong. She stood up and worked it loose. It was a broken arrow shaft, about a foot long. It was bound with thin rawhide, and on the end that had been embedded in the tree was black obsidian. The head was cut in a manner that caused Sacajawea to turn it over and examine it more carefully.

“My people!” she exclaimed out loud. “Great Spirit, you must not play tricks with me.”

She knew well enough that this was too far south to be Shoshoni country. The dizziness came back, so she sat for a moment. Without much thought she began pulling her fingers through the tufts of ripened grass, collecting the tiny dropseeds in her skirt. She pinched some between thumb and forefinger and put them in her mouth. The little seeds were hard, but when chewed made a nutty-tasting, gummy paste that was quite good. She spent most of the day by the shallow river collecting seeds and putting them in the leather bag. She walked past several charred mounds that looked as though fires had been built there recently; beside the mounds were small piles of chipped black obsidian. She saw these things, but her mind did not connect them with any human occupation, for she was preoccupied with keeping the dizziness to a minimum.

She looked to see where the mare was and was startled to see dark gray-black clouds piling up in the distance. She could see small puffs of dust being blown up by the wind under the clouds. It grew darker and the wind began to blow, flattening the prairie grass. She noticed a sick, yellow-green color at the leading edge of the clouds as they swooped lower toward the earth. Dust devils whirled along the ground, closer now, carrying sticks of dry mesquite and stalks of dead plants along with sand and dirt.

With fascination she watched a spiraling cloud grow and slant down, bending and twisting from the heavy, dark cloud. Like the drooping tail of a coyote it dragged across the ground, roaring and sucking up mesquite and whole cottonwoods and willows. This slender tail of a cloud pulled up for a moment, then dropped again, picking up more dirt, gravel, trees, and grasses. It veered away from Sacajawea, moving quickly upriver. Within minutes she felt the fierce gusts of wind that trailed behind the long finger of the cloud, and heard them rush through the tops of the trees. Yellow streaks of lightning flew across the sky and she pulled the horse close among the willows for protection. She picked up the arrow again and took a closer look at it. The shaft was grooved from the end of the feathers to the headof the arrow point. There were two straight black grooves on one side. She turned it over and saw two red spiral grooves. Many times she had seen her own father cut just such grooves using a bone containing a circular hole with a little projection inside.
¹
Ai,
she thought to herself, can this possibly be a Shoshoni arrow? She crouched close against the willows. Suddenly it began to hail, and the horse twitched and flicked its tail as though it were being attacked by bloodsucking, green-headed flies. Sacajawea spoke softly to the horse so that it would not bolt away through the waist-high sage.

Sacajawea’s head ached, and she pulled her old blue coat over herself as protection from the pelting of the corn-size hail. She thought about the grooved arrow and she shivered. The hail did not last long, but the cold, blustery wind felt like it would blow forever.

She scraped at the melting hail with her toe. Just then a ruffed grouse flew up and away down the riverbank, but she did not try to chase it with a stone or with her bow and arrow; by now her hunger pangs were beyond feeling. She did not even think of hunting buffalo chips for a fire to keep off the cold. Her thoughts seemed more a dream than reality.

Sacajawea imagined she would get up soon and would then see Eagle fixing the morning meal. Baptiste would be there, his sturdy back straight as a lodgepole. He would smile as he told what had been done the day before in school. Her dreams faded; she slept. It was dark when she awoke. There were no stars in the sky. She pondered the funnellike cloud that had sucked up the land and growing things. Was it some device of the sky-people, sent for her to see? Did it have an important meaning? Was it related to the pronghorn experience? Was it a foreshadowing? She buttoned the old blue coat, thankful for it, and pulled her wet blanket closer about her shoulders.

The wind had now died down, and Sacajawea took a deep breath. Her mind cleared a bit, and she could detect a familiar odor in the air, but she could not name it. She pinched her nostrils tight and blew hard. Again she sniffed, taking only small amounts of air at a time. Then she knew. A wild dog or coyote was near. She heard the mare whinny. She wondered if the coyote wasnipping the mare’s legs. Then she remembered coyotes usually went after much smaller prey, unless it was carrion or something foul smelling. That was it! Foul smelling! She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the lower branches of a cottonwood. In doing this she had a whiff of her unwashed body. That caused her to hurry and she pulled herself painfully up into the tree.

From her perch she saw a restless, doglike animal pacing back and forth near the tree. The mare snorted once and moved away into the tall, brittle grass. Sacajawea could hear the swishing of the stems. The farther away the sound retreated, the more alone she felt. Her stomach knotted and her eyes watered. One foot was jammed uncomfortably in the fork of the tree, but she knew she had to stay put until the coyote left. Toward morning she saw another coyote join the first. They circled in opposite directions around the tree. Once she pulled off a branch and threw it at them but they only growled and ran faster. Her arms and legs grew heavy with fatigue. Her eyelids closed, but she dared not let herself fall asleep or relax her hold on the tree.

In the first light of dawn she saw slender shafts of white smoke rise in the south and merge with the pale sky. The smoke seemed to come from a broad gully three, four miles away. The coyotes had snuck away and she worked her foot loose. She wanted to see the arrow shaft again and she looked around for it. She wondered if the coyotes and the arrow were dreams or reality. Her eyes burned—they were puffy from crying and lack of sleep. Her head felt dull and oversized. She saw her mare munching a patch of Indian grass. Close by, staked to a low, scrub juniper, was a strange pinto pony. She rubbed her eyes, making them sting, and squeezed them down into narrow slits in order to see better.
Ai,
there were two horses and both were on rawhide tethers.

She moved her head and was surprised that she did not feel dizzy. She saw an orange flame between herself and the two horses. Hunkered over the fire, replenishing it with small mesquite sticks, was a strange man. She stared.

He appeared taller than the average Shoshoni, but she could not be sure until he stood up. His bare chestwas wide and thick and copper-colored. His shiny, braided black hair was long, falling below his shoulders. On one side of his head he wore a round silver plate, about the size of Sacajawea’s hand. She wondered if it were some good-luck token or his all-time helper. He wore close-fitting leggings attached to a leather string around the waist. The material was fringed, loose, and flapping beyond the seam. His moccasins had high buckskin tops, similar to the Shoshonis, with the seam down the heel. The fringe from the lace to the toe was short, but that along the back seam was six to eight inches long and it had bits of silver tied in the ends. A band of rawhide was wrapped around his left wrist so that he would not feel the sting of his bowstring.

He glanced up, his eyes meeting hers. They were slanted slightly upward and his wide, full mouth matched their curve. His nose was hooked like the hawk and his chin was round and firm.

Sacajawea licked her rough, chapped lips. “Who are you?”

“Comanche.”

To Sacajawea the word Comanche meant,
I am a human being.
²
She smiled at this answer and tried again. “Why are you here?”

“We are going to my lodge. You are a gift for my sister.”

She had to listen intently to his twang, and the way in which he flapped the
r
by placing his tongue against the roof of his mouth and letting it drop fast. When she understood she pulled herself up, her heart pumping. “I am no gift! No slave! I am Shoshoni! Maybe lost, that is all!” She was indignant.

“Shoshoni!” he sputtered, making the in-and-out, weaving movement with his hands. “So—that is why your tongue is different, but the same, if I listen carefully.”
³
He looked at her closely.

She was embarrassed, knowing that she was dirty, unkempt, and had not bathed in weeks. She was still in the cottonwood.

“Come down.” He reached into a leather pouch and held out his hand.
“Wadzewipe,
Lost Woman, try this with
penat
.”
⁴
He held a narrow piece of ordinary pemmican toward her. In his other hand he had a smallskin container and he motioned for her to dip the pemmican in the container. She hesitated, took a deep breath, then jumped out of the tree into the sand. She crawled on hands and knees toward the food. A clear, viscous, golden brown liquid clung to the stick of pemmican. She put her tongue to it and the taste was sweet and delicious. She licked off the honey and dipped again and again, her hunger awakened. She was starving.

The Comanche laughed and slapped the side of his leg. “You have more hunger than manners, my cousin. We have more honey. It is gathered in the summer near the black sage, where there is much thorny chaparral. The gatherers are either stung by the honey bees or thorns.”

She looked sideways at him. His upturned eyes were brown and clear. Many adult men had eyes that were muddied, the whites yellow and streaked with red. Slowly she got to her feet so that her stomach would not cramp. She shuffled down to the shallow river to drink. She cupped her hands and sucked in the muddy water, then stayed in the squatting position for several minutes to rest. She was glad this day’s dizziness was not overpowering. She put her hand to her head, scratched vigorously, and again wished for a bath. She was surprised to see that the Comanche had followed her to the river. He washed his hands and drank.

“I saw you yesterday. I imagined your village sent you away for some punishment. I watched you examine my spent arrow. It was meant for the speckled grouse, but the fool bird got away two, three times. Later, I found a skinny, young pronghorn, and shot it for food for my old grandfather. During the twisting wind, I yelled for you to seek shelter. You did not listen to my warning. You will like my sister—my mother—”

“Stop!” she snapped. “I am not going. I will never be a slave! Never!”

“Well, so—now, I hear what you say. Anyway, you come with me, cousin. So, fix yourself.”

“Fix? What? This is me! How can I be fixed?”

“How? Comb your hair. Wash your face. I think there is beauty somewhere, but it is deeply hidden. Fix yourself!”

She was so startled that she actually started for theriver, then stopped and looked him in the face. He had delicate little laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and his nose twitched. He stepped forward, as if to push her toward the water.

“You smell of sweat and trail dirt. Anyone standing downwind can tell you have traveled far.” He looked from her louse-infested head to her scruffy, makeshift moccasins.

Reddening, Sacajawea turned and hurried out of his gaze to a place behind some thick willows along the riverbank. “I might go to that camp, but not with you! I will not belong to anyone!” she called back.

He raised his voice so she could hear. “Shoshoni women are same as Comanche. Talk, talk, when there is little time and much work. I have butchering, if you know how.”

She felt weak and so kept her mouth closed. She shivered with the cold air when her soiled, ragged tunic was off. She rubbed small gravel mixed with water over her body, not only to clean it, but to warm it as well. Soon her skin burned as if the water were boiling. Using fine sand and water she scrubbed her hair. The wind dried her brown back with the long, white scars and she felt more alive than she had for many days. Finally she washed her tattered tunic, put on the old blue coat, and wrapped the gray woolen blanket about herself. Near the fire she put the tunic on a large mesquite branch to dry. Only then did she notice that he had hung pieces of a small bull antelope in the same mesquite tree.

“Can you cut and pack that in the antelope’s skin so that it can be carried on your lowly mare?”

“Lowly?” she asked. “Because you prefer stallions does not mean you can make base comments about my mare. She is patient, loyal, and probably can walk longer without complaint than your patchy-looking pony.”

He said nothing.

She closed her eyes and hoped she was not going to feel dizzy-sick. She found her butcher knife with her firesticks in the leather bag tied to her mare’s back. She managed to cut the meat in smaller hunks so it would pack well. She cut off a small piece of fat and rubbed it on her lips and over the scratches on her legsand arms. Then she chewed it, hoping it was not too rich for her griping belly. Neatly she tied the finished pack with strips of antelope hide, but she knew there was not strength enough in her arms to lift it to the back of either horse. She sat on the gravely riverbank to rest, her back against the meat pack.