Sacajawea (125 page)

Sacajawea remembered the times she had helped her mother, grandmother, and sister tie the four lodgepoles together. The remembrance brought a constriction to her throat. The women had pulled, pushed and steadied the pine poles to get them upright, then tied them securely near the top. Sacajawea sighed. She swallowed and set her mouth in a firm line after wiping the water from her eyes. She and her sister, Rain Girl, would pull the bottom ends of the poles out into an egg-shaped circle, then the rest of the poles were laid against the top crotch and pulled out to form the complete ellipse. The long leather rope that was left dangling from the top was then pulled tight and used to tie these other poles in place. Rain Girl stood on their mother’s shoulders to do this. Old Grandmother would always say, “Tighter, tighter, pull tighter. What weaklings girls are nowadays. This lodge will fall with the first hint of a breeze.” It never did as far as Sacajawea could remember. From on top of her mother’s shoulders Rain Girl used a rock to pound the poles solidly into the soft earth, keeping them three feet apart from one another.

Sacajawea remembered how it felt to grab the end of that rope and pull it outside the framework. She walked with the sun, went clockwise four times—the medicine number—pulled the rope upward as tight as her arms would permit. She could still hear the snapping of the rope as it whipped up into place. She left the rope hanging near the center of the floor inside, sothat Old Grandmother could fasten it to the anchor stake as tight as she wished. The anchor stake was about a yard long, two inches thick, and driven into the ground toward the back wall a few feet beyond the center fire.

This had been a happy time, Sacajawea thought. My mother sang and munched on dried fruit. Sometimes for more security Old Grandmother would set short stakes at an angle across the lodgepole, pounding them in the ground with a stone so that the lodge would be safer in harsh gusty winds.

The buffalo hide covering was pushed upward from the inside by a long pole. Rain Girl stood on her mother’s shoulders to fasten the covering at the top. Then it was stretched around the outside of the poles and fastened at the front with finger-sized wooden pegs on either side of the door flap. Those lodge cover hides were usually replaced every two years, because of wear and weathering.

The widest part of the floor was from the entrance directly to the back wall. The place of honor was next to this rounded, back wall, where the man of the lodge slept. Beds of the other occupants were on both sides of the egg-shaped floor space. The beds were elevated above the ground about six inches with poles and rawhide slats. Buffalo robes were spread on top for bedding. Pillows were made of rabbit skins and stuffed with sweet-smelling grass. Sometimes a buffalo hide was hung between beds for privacy.
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Sadly, Sacajawea wondered if she would ever see those Shoshoni tepees again. From her resting place she looked through the open front flap of the tepee. The snow had melted. Jerk Meat was at work wrapping arrows in front of a fire.

Big Badger was slouched down beside the cottonwood tree facing the tepee, his eyes closed against the bright winter sunshine. Big Badger was thinking, Our horses have never been more numerous, and our donkeys are fat. We have nearly one hundred warriors, and our tepees are mended. We are like a mighty bow drawn taut, ready to shoot arrows in any direction with force. The Great Spirit has brought us to this superb condition.

Approving what he saw of the equipment of his village, the old man next studied his tribe. It was well organized, faithful to the one unifying Great Spirit, disciplined, vigorous. It was as cohesive a unit as could then have been found in the desert regions—less educated, perhaps, since no member was able to pound silver or polish turquoise—but unified as no other tribe of the Comanches could be, for it had been Big Badger’s stern command in the warriors’ secret society, of which he was headman, that no strangers be allowed to enter the Quohada tribe without a period of indoctrination so rigorous as to repel most applicants.

Sometimes a Mexican lived in the Quohada village. Often the Mexican was captured as a small boy and held as a slave by a blood covenant with one of the warriors. Blood was taken from a vein in the captive’s arm to signify he was a slave and had a right to life, food, and protection. No one dared molest him as he was chattel property. Of course, the owner could sell him at any time, and then the blood ceremony was repeated.

When the Mexican captives were grown, they could become members of the tribe. Some of the Mexican Quohadas made excellent warriors. After a successful raid they were usually given a Comanche name and even allowed to take a Comanche wife.

With women, the problems were different. In their constant raids with other tribes, the Quohadas often took prisoners, and generally the women, if enticing creatures, were kept and never traded back to their rightful owners. In those early years, not even Big Badger’s son, Pronghorn, stayed away from the women prisoners. Big Badger was smart enough to realize his impotence in this matter. Rape of women captives was not looked down upon, as it was with the true Quohada women. Jerk Meat had taken a Kiowa woman as his wife nearly ten years ago in order to protect her from Kicking Horse, the Medicine Man, and some of the other more brutal Quohadas. The woman was loyal and a strong worker. Big Badger respected her as a true Quohada. She died from injuries received when the horse she was riding put its foot in a gopher hole and fell on top of her. Her child was born dead and she died twodays later. Big Badger’s grief was great and it was many weeks before he could smile again. Jerk Meat also grieved long and deeply. He could not eat for days and he found it hard to carry on a conversation. He suffered constant pain in his belly, and found no joy in a successful raid or hunt. At the end of that year Big Badger advised that he find another woman.

One morning before Sacajawea was barely awake, Hides Well came into the tepee and began cutting off the remainder of Sacajawea’s hair. All but her most tattered tunic had been taken away, and now she was warned not to use much water, nor to rub grease on her head or skin. By now she was well enough to perform the menial tasks required of the women of the Quohadas—cutting and fetching wood, pounding corn, dragging away dung, carrying water, and helping the other women scrape flesh from pegged-out hides.

Although some of her strength had returned, she felt depressed. This was a new life. But she was a slave, something she abhorred. She had grown accustomed to living in the manner of the white people, and it had been much easier than this hard existence in this harsh land. She was determined to make the best of her situation and complain to no one. The Quohadas had willingly taken her in, and they were kind to her—she would comply with their rules of living. She rested frequently between tasks and each time discovered that she was an object of great curiosity in the village. She saw eyes watching her from the tepee doors or from underneath tepee flaps. Wherever she went, she felt curious stares. Children were fascinated by her. They constantly followed her, saying, “Tell us stories. Are traders white-skinned? We have seen the Mexicans, and they are brown.”

Jerk Meat went hunting and in two days came back with an elk, which he took to Kicking Horse for healing the fever of Wadzewipe.

Soon Sacajawea lost herself in the satisfaction of the work, and the depression lifted. Sometimes she hummed one of the Quohada songs with the women while she worked or was in the process of making a good thing, and she felt satisfaction at this accomplishment.

But after these times of forgetfulness, she would suddenly see clearly and feel guilty. How could she, a mother, have forgotten? She would feel as if she had been unfaithful to her son who loved her. She believed that one day she would find her son, Baptiste, when he had returned from the land across the Great Eastern Waters. She felt that the boy Tess would follow in the tracks of his father and become a trapper and trader, working more easily with the white men because he had gone to the school.

Early one morning she was up helping roast the antelope and elk that would be part of a feast day with games and contests celebrating the winter sun before it was lost from sight behind snow clouds.

Spring, who was pleasing to look at, with a broad face and kind black eyes, stirred the outside fire under a roast. There were no regular eating hours in Comanche families. Food of one kind or another was always kept in readiness for whenever any member of the family became hungry. As Spring turned the meat, Sacajawea noted the thickening around her middle. Hides Well came up with bark plates and said, “And so—she is going to have the child by early spring. Big Badger will be delighted to have a boy to train and teach the ways of a warrior.”

It was the custom in most tribes, when there was no father left in the family, for an aged relative to take over the training of the child. If it were a boy, Big Badger would teach him to be an expert with a child’s bow and teach him to harden himself by the time he was twelve summers, so he could run seventy-five miles a day through the cactus and mesquite-laden country, up and down mountains and canyons, with a tirelessness that would be the despair of the white men who tired to follow him.
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Sacajawea caught her breath as she thought, And so—the child might be a girl. Oh, joy, I will help in the small one’s training. I will show her how to sew beautiful designs on fine white doeskins with dyed quills and antelope teeth and small, polished bones. I will teach her the Shoshoni way of weaving baskets of strong, tough grass.

“I am thankful my brother found you and had sense enough to bring you home,” Spring said to Sacajawea.

“I am thankful to have friends,” said Sacajawea. “Have you been eating finely ground uncooked bone? You must so your papoose will have strong bones and your own teeth will be preserved.”

Spring looked up, startled. “Wadzewipe, you talk like my older sister.”

“And so—I feel I am.” Sacajawea smiled. “You must be strong to raise a child with no father. I will help you teach her.”

“I was thinking—thinking about finding myself a man.” Spring giggled behind her left hand.

“Ai,
and deprive Big Badger the great pleasure of training your small boy? It would make the old man live again. It would put a sparkle in his eyes and quicken his step. He would look at the new day with eagerness. Now he is only sad and wonders how long he must wait before he enters the Happy Hunting Ground. Would you take away my pleasure of training your small girl? I think of it each day and make plans.”

Spring giggled again. “One of you will be disappointed. I can’t help but think Big Badger has already found someone that lights his day. He has a sparkle in his eye when he looks your way. He wonders about where you have come from. What are the black white men?”

Sacajawea looked sharply at Spring.

“It’s true you said something about one when you were burning with the fever—a white man and a baby. Where did your trail begin?”

Sacajawea lowered her face. “So—I have told you I come from the Shoshonis, from the land of deep snow and spring flowers. My people are proud; they have feast days and merriment and are not always hungry.”

Spring stared at Sacajawea for a long moment. “Why did you leave them?”

“I was taken by an enemy when I was a small child to be a slave. I am looking for a day to come when I can be of more help to my people. Then I will go back,” said Sacajawea softly, her head lowered so that Spring could not see her eyes.

“There is more to your story—but I will wait untilyou are ready for the telling.” Suddenly Spring giggled so her shoulders shook. “I do not think my brother wishes for you to go. I have seen him also look at you in a way that men look at women when they are thinking—”

“Oh, it cannot be. No man thinks of me,” gasped Sacajawea. “I am not young. I have seen plenty of winters. But it is nice of you to say this. And it is good to know that he is not sorry he brought me to his camp.”

Big Badger came from his tepee dressed for the day of festivities, a leather band around his forehead and new drags on his moccasins. He came to the fire and tasted the roast by poking a stick into the side and pulling off a small piece. He licked his lips and smiled. “You women cook good.”

“We will cook all day if you feast on our meat. Why don’t you try some of the contests?” asked Spring.

“The young are all alike, sharp of tongue and no respect,” said Big Badger, wiping his fingers down his buckskins. “None of my women spoke to me that way or I would show them the sting of my hand across their face. They would not like that sting. They always talk nice to me.”

Sacajawea moved quickly away from the old man. Her thoughts were of Charbonneau. Quickly she composed herself, looking more closely at Big Badger.

“Oh, Grandfather,” said Spring, “you never could discipline your women. Mother tells how kindly all your women were and how good you were to them, and you had many. You would never disgrace them with a slap of your hand.” She sighed and put her cheek against her grandfather’s. The old man laughed silently, his belly shaking.

Sacajawea sighed.

The contests were held in a small canyon. The ground was packed firm from many tramping feet. When Sacajawea and Spring came to watch, there were eight boys standing in a straight line. Chief Pronghorn was talking to them in his slow, resonant voice. In his hand he held a small gourd of water.

“Each of you take a mouthful,” he said, “but do not swallow it. Hold it in your mouths. You are going to run four miles with no swallowing.” The eight boys, dwarfed by his size, nodded eagerly. They took the waterin their mouths, and then, at a signal from Pronghorn, they started out trotting. Pronghorn ran behind the boys to see that they did not rest on the way. Big Badger called out derisively, “Pronghorn, try to keep up with those young ones—you are like an old turtle. Ha-ha-hee-hee.”

When the boys returned, they again lined up, and then, as Pronghorn walked from one to the other, they spat the water on the ground. All the boys but one had held the water without swallowing.