Encounter: A Historical Novel

Copyright © 2012 by Joseph W. Ulmer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5788-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5787-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5786-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920381

iUniverse rev. date: 11/20/2012

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

PART I SNOW

Chapter 1: A beginning Winter, 1839

Chapter 2: Making the Peace Good Summer, 1840

Chapter 3: Tents on Wheels 1841

Chapter 4: Shadows 1842

PART II TURTLE

Chapter 5: New Boy 1843

Chapter 6: A Time for Growth 1844-1847

Chapter 7: Towards a Treaty 1848-1851

Chapter 8: Part 1: The Cleansing 1852

Part 2: The Spirits Come

Part 3: The Shield

PART III BEAR

Chapter 9: Years of Hunger 1853-1856

Chapter 10: Commitments and Portents 1857-1858

Chapter 11: Years of Peace 1859-60

Chapter 12: Meetings 1861-62

Chapter 13: The Gates Open 1863-65

Chapter 14: Ho-Pee 1866

Chapter 15 Hostiles 1867

Chapter 16: Déjà-Vu, The White Man’s Peace 1868-69

Chapter 17: Bones and Bone Hunters 1870-1872

Chapter 18: Long Hair and Crazy Horse 1873-1875

Chapter 19: Endings 1876

Epilogue

Bibliography

Dedication

To the Bear Spirit

and to

The Cheyenne People

(The victors don’t write all the histories)

My task is by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel—it’s above all to make you see. That—and no more, and it is everything.

Joseph Conrad

Quoted in Literary Genius, J. Epstein, ed.,

Haus Books, London, 2009

Acknowledgements

First of all, I wish to thank Miss Purington, who showed me so long ago that I could do it, and Peg Ellingson of the Santa Rose Junior College (CA) for her early encouragement and professional comments and insights.

Secondly, I want to thank Terry Wilson, a chance meeting with whom led to his reading the text and offering his expertise in the book’s editing. Terry is the retired Dean of Native American Studies at U.C., Berkeley.

I also wish to acknowledge the insightful comments and support of my friends of The Independent (Insurgent) Writers of Sebastopol; Tana, Maxine, Phyllis, Colin, Clyde and the Bruces. They’ve heard it all.

Finally, I want to thank my wife, Arlene, who has offered me patience as I struggled with this long journey, and who typed what she could read of my handwriting.

J. Ulmer

Sebastopol, CA. 2010

Introduction

This book has grown, first, out of a deep respect I long have had for the old Indian cultures, exemplified by strong community—the deep-seated understanding that we are only human in a social context, and the individual responsibility necessary for achieving that end. The book has also been written as an attempt to create some balance in the historical concepts which inform our national character and by which we generate our national identity, especially the machismo of the western mentality and the continued adulation we have shown for men like George Armstrong Custer, full of braggadocio and prime examples of the Peter Principle. For instance, the cowboy and the Custer Massacre are part of our national mythology but, in truth, Washita and Sand Creek were true massacres but are called battles. Had Custer been peacefully in camp and, without warning, attacked, then Little Bighorn rightly could have been described as a massacre. But our distorted vision of ourselves does not allow us to consider a battle lost, thus we console ourselves that the Indians somehow took advantage of Custer’s egotistically deployed troops. The historical patience and glowing remembrance we afford Custer is probably akin to the contemporary golden parachute given failed CEO’s, and I feel that it is high time that we face this particular aspect of our collective shadow.

Cowboys, on the other hand, probably were neither better nor worse than the average from which they sprang. Thanks to Remington, Wister and others, they were stirringly immortalized and elevated to Odyssean status, far beyond their historical import, Cooper’s Leatherstocking on the Plains. Such mythical representations mask the fact that there have been no victors—that we are all, indeed, losers.

Perhaps there are some who will complain that on these pages appears nothing more than a new Rousseauan noble savage, but the character here is no nobler than we have made the mythical cowboy. Again, you must allow me to attempt a redress of the balance we have so lamentably lost, both in our literature and in our historical record. As for the historical record, Custer’s eulogizing stems from his political potential at the time, both as a probable presidential candidate because of his over-blown, media-generated popularity (and we thought TV started it all) and, after his death, as a convenient image by which to demonize the Native Americans and justify our manifest destiny, an image and ideal promulgated by the numerous writings of Libby Custer.

The story chronicles two parallel lives that come in contact at various historical moments; Custer’s is so well known that it is peripheral to the story and is followed through timeline-headings at the beginning of appropriate chapters; the other, made of historical fiction, is central. We follow these lives during the period of most intense conflict between the cultures, between the European, expansionist, measuring, fragmented, tomorrow-oriented culture, and the Native American—place oriented, whole, and clinging to a remembered yesterday. Yes, conflict was inevitable; just the different views on land ownership assured conflict, from the first East Coast contacts on, but the conflict could have been different. The conflict could have generated the heat whereby we could have tried to forge a new culture, like bronze from tin and copper, instead of insisting on dragging along our cultural baggage from Europe and dumping it out, like dull lead, on the new land. There is something grandly tragic in what we have lost—what we could have learned—had there been the willingness to recognize that indigenous cultures had evolved in harmony with their environment. Perhaps we would not now have to relearn that lesson, in some senses after the fact—after the fact of habitat loss, species extinction, disease-causing pollution, and loss, in almost all aspects of our life, of human scale. We may, in fact, have learned to trust the Earth and take comfort in our place.

Within these pages I have, I hope, stayed within the acceptable limits of historical accuracy and have not offended those interested in the details. It is my devout hope, too, that the book does not appear as an Indian apology, nor yet as an apology to the Indians, but rather as an apology for the untold truth revealed by viewing history from a different, less ethnocentric, perspective.

Many of the seminal scenes came directly from dreams; make of that what you will.

PART I

SNOW

George Armstrong Custer; born December 5, 1839;

New Rumley, Ohio

Chapter 1

A beginning

Winter, 1839

Dark Cloud and Elk Calf knelt together, enjoying the meager warmth of the low, pale sun. They worked quickly, hoping to flesh the deer hide before sundown and certain snowfall. Many in the tribe envied these women, the wives of Antelope-Dances-in-Fire, one of the best hunters among these Southern Cheyenne. They were sure to have ample food and enough hides to make a good display, so they could always be generous. But even in this cold, mid-winter camp, the envy was good-hearted, as all knew that the two women were excellent providers in their own right and generous by inclination as well as ability because of the hunting prowess of their husband. The two young women gossiped and giggled, adding their happy sounds to the general easy feeling in the snug camp along Medicine Lodge Creek.

As Dark Cloud reached forward with her bone scraper to ease a stubborn bit of fat from the hide, she winced and pulled back to a sit. Elk Calf, they start, I think!

It is time. You’ve carried this baby half a moon longer than you should, just like my sister, Yellow Woman. But she wasn’t as big. Elk Calf made light to mask the worry she felt about the size of the overdue child, stretching so tightly the mother’s belly. You should be in the council with the old men—you’re a ‘Big Belly’ now, too. She saw the pain in Dark Cloud’s eyes, and no appreciation of her little joke, and said, I will finish this hide, let’s go inside, her breath condensing in the ever colder air.

Antelope, sitting at his place by the fire, cast a disapproving glance at his first wife for her remarks about the Chief’s Council. He turned quickly away from Dark Cloud, wary of showing unmanly concern, but revealing it in his rapid smoking and his stiff nonchalance as the two women bent through the tipi opening.

It will be so nice finally to hear baby sounds in . . . Oh! Calf, I’m sorry. Dark Cloud placed a hand on Elk Calf’s thigh, seeking to soften the hurt with her eyes.

Don’t be, Sister. It was I who asked for you to come to us when I was taking too long to make a child. I didn’t want people to think Antelope was not doing his duty. With falsely demure eyes and a quick check to see that her husband still smoked outside, she grinned and added, We keep trying, though. It is nice to keep trying!

Both women laughed their womanly laughs and glanced at Antelope who scowled at them, then went to check his horses to escape the embarrassing rowdiness of his wives. Dark Cloud whispered, I think we were too rowdy. Then they both spluttered as they tried to suppress their laughter before proceeding with some of their myriad small tasks. As they worked, they occasionally dipped their fingers into the cooking basket for a morsel or sipped from the water skin. When they drank, it was always from the horn spoon that was one of their prized possessions. Made of steamed and intricately carved horn, even Antelope was not sure of the animal from which it had come; three years before he had traded three prime beaver pelts and a horse to bring it home to Elk Calf from a Lakota encampment.

Dark Cloud stopped and sucked in her breath as a new pain developed. Oh, Calf, I didn’t finish the cradle board, and here I am starting. Both women touched the taut, distended belly and felt the muscles churn as the pains strengthened. Dark Cloud looked imploringly at Elk Calf, certain, finally, that her time had come. In response to a soft rustling outside, Elk Calf rose and opened the flap, inviting in the old woman waiting there.

I watched as you stopped work, and guessed that it was your time, Little Cloud. I came to see how you fared. Badger Woman was the birth helper and healer of the band, a position gained through both knowledge and necessity. She had lost her man in a raid against the Kaws years before and, too old to remarry and too proud to live solely by charity, she made herself indispensable to her people in this way. Over the years, her well-deserved reputation had spread north and south along the range of mountains they called the Creator’s Spine. Though dour and seemingly unapproachable, she willingly shared her lore with any who took time to ask.

You guessed right, Grandmother. She has started the pains. Elk Calf offered a dish from the simmering pot and Badger Woman sipped it noisily in true relish, not just from politeness.

As she wiped her chin with her sleeve, grown dark and stiff from this habit of hers, the old woman asked, Have the waters come yet?

Not yet, Cloud said, but the pains are long and hard.

We will go to the birth tent, then. To Elk Calf she said, Is everything ready? She knew it was, but wanted to include the childless young woman in the birthing as much as possible. She watched as Dark Cloud clenched her teeth and trembled, then said, You need not fear showing pain with me, Daughter. I know it hurts, and there are no men around, now.

Dark Cloud let out a low cry. Ai, they do hurt.

Elk Calf announced that all was ready, and left to get Dark Cloud’s mother. Calf would tend to the needs of Antelope, though she longed to remain in the birth tent.

Antelope-Dances-in-Fire, in his thirty-second winter, was a little old for his first child and wanted everything to be done properly. He watched discreetly, returning to his split-willow backrest by the fire only after the women had left, wary that he would forget some taboo in his ill-concealed nervousness. He no sooner leaned back to rest when he jumped up again and ducked back outside. He stood there, taking deep breaths, looking around at nothing. Younger men of the tribe, not yet fathers themselves, laughed and made comments that would be considered indecent if their elders heard them; others, who understood, overlooked his fretting and walked by with a smile or a nod. But neither nods were seen, nor jokes heard. Antelope correctly glanced away as Willow, Dark Cloud’s mother, hurried by, wishing everything to be well with his second wife.

When Willow was past, Antelope went out to his herd and carefully selected one of the animals which he took with him to the tipi of Split-Nose. My Father, he said after he was invited to sit, I believe my child is coming out to be with us. His voice was high pitched from nervousness. I will be honored if you will make the first naming.

Split-Nose grinned as he continued to draw on his pipe which he had filled when he saw his son-in-law coming toward his tipi. Here, my Son. Smoke. Relax. This is a time when men can only wait. As Antelope took the pipe, Split-Nose patted him on the back. I hoped you would ask me to name your first born. It will be my honor to do so; I will think and pray on the name. I thank you for the fine horse you have tied to my door. I thank you. Now—smoke with me.

In the birth tipi, erected weeks ago by the two wives of Antelope, Dark Cloud stripped and Badger Woman massaged her with sweet smelling real-bear grease as she prayed, Great Bear Spirits, be here with us; make the coming birth easy, as easy as a sow bear in her winter den. Willow built up the fire and the three women waited for the baby’s time. Dark Cloud rested between her contractions and the older women chatted and tended the fire, making sure to keep the air warm. Willow occasionally bathed her daughter’s face or gave her a sip of fennel and burdock-root tea.

It seems such a short time since we were drinking the tea, old friend. Now here I am waiting for a grandchild. Willow glanced at her daughter and encouraged her with a smile. The two women nodded together, knowing Dark Cloud’s ordeal, but knowing, too, that they could relieve her of none of it. But they had no doubt, either, that she would see through her personal journey.

Dark Cloud spent the rest of the night and the following early morning in increasingly sharp and frequent contractions, but still there was little movement of the child, though the waters had broken hours before. She hung resolutely in the birthing straps, eyes sunken in pain but still bright with eagerness to see through this bringing-forth-life.

I had another dream, Mother. Willow looked closely at her daughter. In the Moon of New Calves I dreamed this birth would be hard, so I have been prepared . . . Ai-e-e. She drew blood to her lip as yet another great convulsion moved the new one a little further. This spasm was more persistent, demanding yet more effort from the young woman who had already tried so hard. It started beneath the ribs and moved strongly, painfully downwards. She spoke again, partly as distraction, partly to reveal herself as completely as her body was revealed. That is why, she continued as the pain began to ease, I cut these . . . stout straps . . . from the back leather . . . of our last shaggy-head.

After a glance and a nod from the medicine-woman, Willow continued the conversation, hoping to distract her daughter. Did you dream else, Daughter?

Yes, Mother . . . I’ve told no one . . . I knew not what to . . . make of it. I’ve . . . hoped more dreams would come . . . to make it clear to me.

Tell us, Daughter. We may help you see meaning.

Mother, I dreamed . . . I would have a son . . . who would never be a chief . . . but who many will follow . . . into a deep hole in the earth. Dark Cloud rested to regain her breath, head down and sweating from her hard labor. The others waited quietly, knowing these were words she had to say. I dreamed he would have many arrows . . . shot at him . . . but the only thing that will harm . . . him . . . u-h-h-h-hn-n-nn. Again the sharp pain began, and from long experience Badger Woman recognized the time and shouted a strong and demanding, Now! at Willow, who grasped Dark Cloud about the top of the belly, giving a strong, slow downward shove to move the child. The exhausted young woman felt the movement and, with one more massive effort, dropped her body against the thongs and, despite her waning strength, gave a powerful, groaning shove. Badger Woman forced practiced fingers into the canal to hook the infant’s chin. She was able to maneuver a better position for the head and pull to give a little downward help. Again an urgent, Now! and with a final gushing, screaming contraction, Dark Cloud was delivered of her son.

By the All, he’s ugly . . . and big, were the first words that the new mother heard. Badger Woman chuckled as she deftly severed the mother-rope and handed the new infant to Willow for its first blessing. After checking the after-birth, she said, You have come clean, Little Cloud, and your tear is small for such a big one.

The child’s head was distorted from its long, hard passage, but, as he was laid against her sensitive breasts, his mother thought him most beautiful. As the infant began to suckle, Badger Woman coated Dark Cloud’s torn skin with healing salves and checked the new child for marks to make sure all was well. Willow gave the bison robe and parflech of jerky to the midwife who grunted her tired thanks and left to complete her final duty, the ritual drying of the cord and afterbirth.

The door flap had barely settled when Elk Calf rushed in. I heard the cry and saw Badger Woman leave, so I knew it was over. She pulled back the furs covering the infant. Ah, beautiful. We have a son. Thank the Spirits. Now I must tell that man of ours! She stood and danced and waved her arms in pantomime. He’s been as nervous as a youth on his first hunt; I’ll have to dress him in his finery so he can go out and show off that he is a new father. She looked again at the new child and smiled. Then, perhaps, I can send him out to hunt something for the pot. She beamed her excitement and pleasure at the birth in her family and was greatly relieved. She was, however, not yet ready to consider herself barren; she felt a twinge in her own breast as she tried to imagine an infant suckling there. Finally, she laid an exquisitely quilled pair of moccasins on the bed as a gift, and the two women clasped hands over the child and shed mutual tears of joy. When Elk Calf left, Dark Cloud fingered the beautiful designs worked on the moccasins and let her tears fall unchecked to the furs.

Thus was a child born on this cold day in the Big Hard Face Moon in the cold winter of Wood Cracking. Despite the difficult birth, the mother and son rested comfortably between the pelts of fall beaver on the springy sapling bed. The soft orange light of the birth fire played on the child as he suckled, relieving a little of Dark Cloud’s aching engorgement. After a few sips of water with the white sweetness in it, Dark Cloud drifted into a welcome, dreamless sleep of exhaustion. The child slept too, the newest addition to a proud people who loved children.

Dark Cloud slept most of the next day. She woke only to nurse and wonder at her child, then allowed Willow or Elk Calf to tend to the new son of Antelope-Dances-in-Fire. The next morning, after a bath and a hearty stew provided by Elk Calf, Dark Cloud left the small birth tipi to resume the tasks interrupted by the onset of her labor. When she entered the family tipi, Antelope was standing, and he began to shift nervously until Elk Calf nudged him with her elbow. He lifted the finest soft elk robe from his bed and held it out to her. My wife, he said quietly, I have seen our son. He is fine. May this robe keep you and him as warm as my love.

Elk Calf then lifted a robe. Hidden beneath stood the finished cradle-board, decorated with some of the elk teeth which were her pride, cut every second one from the fringe of her dance dress, and with swan down, tied on loose so that it fluttered with each movement like snow.

Dark Cloud took it from Calf and turned it, watching the down feathers flutter; she hugged it to her full breasts. This is fine, truly fine, Sister. Her voice broke as she looked at her husband and Calf. Thank you. The women hugged and Antelope found it necessary to look for something in his belt pouch.

In the late morning, with only a passing notice of the pain still present from the birth, Dark Cloud bundled her new infant in wildcat furs and held him close to her breast under her blankets. She and Elk Calf then started a circuit of the camp so all could see this good thing to happen during the hard winter. Women throughout the camp smiled and trilled their approval, having heard how she had withstood her hard labor. From the men, Dark Cloud received shy nods. Many of the People interrupted their tasks or looked from their lodge openings as Small Dog, the camp crier, followed the new mother’s path singing, and lisping through his broken teeth:

"Yo—the two women walk

with a strong new one.

He-ye, hai-ye

The People are proud."

Small Dog had the knack of making the simplest event seem grand. His new eye-dazzler blanket was like an out-of-season bloom, a reminder to the People that those warmer, brighter days would surely come. He walked slowly with his decorated lance and, with the fox pelt tucked in his sash dragging in the snow, led a few children and dogs to complete the child’s first parade through camp.

Glowing in the momentary joy of their position, the two young women chatted gaily, usually frowned upon, but overlooked now in this glad, mid-winter diversion. Dark Cloud fell silent when she saw the fine buckskin from Antelope’s herd tied at Badger Woman’s tipi, showing in a strong way his pleasure with his new son.

Just then, Small Dog began a new singing chant:

"Ho, People—Listen!

Listen, while Runs-at-the Enemy

shares with us his naming

of this new child you see here.

People, Listen!"

Split-Nose, almost forgetting his formal name, smiled to himself as Willow prodded him and he stepped out into the cold air. Always nervous when he was expected to speak, he studied his moccasins and cleared his throat as he collected his thoughts. He spoke slowly and clearly:

"People, hear me.

I have named the new child ‘Snow’,

for snow can be hard and strong,

yet yields to warmth as it nourishes

the new spring grass,

and snow covers everything.

Thus, my grandson, Snow,

will be strong and hard,

but be a friend to all.

Snow is also a reminder of the strength

my daughter shows to bring our band

such joy in this hard time."

Women trilled, Willow loudest of all. Elk Calf hugged Cloud and looked down at Snow, snug and sleeping under his mother’s robes. Split-Nose continued:

"Antelope-Dances-in-Fire,

the husband of my daughter,

has asked me to say that he has

a fine, big elk to make a feast

for all the People in his son’s name."

Small Dog nodded, smiling, and nudged the young warrior, Yellow Bull, next to him. Of course their great hunter would have an elk, even in this bitter cold time. Split-Nose looked back at Willow and returned her smile and winked. She nodded and motioned for him to continue. He turned back to his speech:

"People! Hear me!

My daughter gives her extra tipi

to Blackbird, the daughter of Red Lance,

so that she will not have to wait

until the summer hunts before

she has enough lodge-skins to get married."

Blackbird, startled, turned to Dark Cloud with wide and glistening eyes. She was about to speak, but backed shyly into her parent’s tipi, overwhelmed as all the People turned her way. The friends of Bull Tail, the eager intended groom, pounded his back and poked his ribs; the Bull had the largest grin of all. Split-Nose allowed the ribald sounds to die down before he began again:

"People, now listen to my last words.

In the name of my new grandson,

in the name of Snow,

I give two horses to Wolf Road,

and ask that he considers our past

differences and harsh words

forgotten, forever, as I am forgetting them.

From now forward they are forgotten.

Hou; I have spoken."

At this last announcement, there were many trills and happy words, as people nodded to each other and smiled in relief. Then all turned to Wolf Road as he stood and stepped before his lodge. The People were always glad to hear Wolf Road speak; he was never at a loss for words. Now they waited to hear what he had to say about the offer of Split-Nose to end their year-long feud over a horse trade. Wolf Road placed his hand on his dark blue shield with the band of stars, and nodded across the open area to Split-Nose. He waited with practiced ease for silence, then gestured, hands raised, to include everyone.

"My People, now hear me.

In honor of the new person among us,

in honor of Snow, the grandson

of my Brother, Runs-at-the-Enemy,

I have forgotten, forever, any differences

between us, and I accept this noble gesture.

In the name of Snow, the grandson

of my Brother, I pledge the first bison

of the summer hunt to a feast in his name.

I send my words with my breath

to the Great Spirit.

I have spoken!"

Again, there were many glad shouts, for no longer would the people of the band have to worry about the divisive argument which had arisen between these two popular, stubborn men.

When the announcements were over, Antelope rode in with a huge elk dragging behind in the snow, and there was much eager help to prepare it for roasting. Even winter lean, the elk was a happy change from the rabbits and jerked meat that had been their diet for too long. Old Grouse fingered her cracking stones in anticipation of the good, greasy marrow in the long bones.

The hard winter dragged on for more than three moons of the new year, sorely stretching the usually adequate supplies laid down in the abundant fall. Only by going far afield to the west and chancing hostile encounters with the Snakes, were hunters able to replenish the diminishing supplies with small amounts of fresh meat. Even in the open, windy places, hunters struggled through crusted, knee-high drifts. In the family of Antelope, Elk Calf felt the scarcity most, as she always gave Dark Cloud more than her share so that she could nurse the demanding growth of Snow.

Antelope, too, suffered. He worked feverishly to help maintain the People, and used all his skills to make long hunts for isolated bison and elk sheltered in small canyons or stranded in drifts. Many of these he caught by following on snowshoes until they were too tired to move, then cutting the big neck vein to let their pulsing life redden the snow. This was always done with respect, asking for forgiveness so there would always be others to take their place. But despite the heroic efforts of all the hunters, hunger sat at the small fires in many lodges. It was hunger that old, toothless Grouse, the matriarch of the family of Red Lance, took with her when she walked to her Spirits in the cold night, leaving her meager portions to the young ones in her tipi.

From several hunts, Antelope came in with the white patches of frostbite on nose and cheeks. Before the winter was over, he lost his two small toes, turned black and dead from too much cold. When Badger Woman came to oversee their amputation, she said, Ah, now the Antelope truly dances in fire. I have seen men weep from this pain.

Elk Calf and Dark Cloud conspired to keep Antelope from further hunts by making him tired from extra bed work. After a few days, Antelope said, I am a strong man, but I think I would get more rest if I went hunting!

When the rivers finally broke with loud cracks late in the Moon of Geese Returning, the camp came alive with the expectation of a break in the winter’s bleak monotony and hardship, and the tribe felt lucky to have come through such a hard winter with so little loss. With the death of Grouse matched by the birth of Snow, and with some cases of frostbite and shrunken belly and only a few horses lost, most thought that the winter could have been worse. Snow nursed successfully throughout and gave the harsh time no thought at all.

As the weather warmed with the northering sun, Split-Nose delighted in carrying his grandson among his friends and boasting that when Snow was grown he would be able to carry the whole tribe on his back. In the Moon of Budding Trees, Badger Woman gave Dark Cloud a small, nicely decorated, closed elk-skin pouch, the properly dried and smoked afterbirth for Snow’s first medicine bundle. Early summer saw Snow crawling through endless fields of purple coneflowers, yarrow and the black-centered flowers that looked like suns. He chased caterpillars and grabbed for butterflies while Calf or Cloud dug for roots, collected herbs or twisted barking-squirrels from their holes. When not in the fields, he hung secure in his carrier in the shade, protected from flies by the fluttering down on his carrier as the two women chatted over the scraping and softening of skins, or the dressing out of the abundant game brought in by their good hunter.

There was always a hot stew simmering near the small cooking fire so they could be good hosts to the women who came to spend a little time with them, or the many friends who came to call and have a leisurely smoke with Antelope. They came often, never worried that he would be shamed by an empty pot, or the lack of a smoke to share, or a sharp-tongued woman.

Chapter 2

Making the Peace Good

Summer, 1840

In the Moon of Budding Trees, the People camped at a favorite site where Beaver Creek, gushing out of the high mountains to the west, met the South Fork of the Braided River meandering slowly north. They raised their tents a little east and south of the Arapaho who had arrived earlier, and they hurried their preparations in anticipation of trading with their friends. The Arapaho always had white man things to trade; many Cheyenne secretly envied their easy confidence with the white traders and glumly acknowledged that they were good at bargaining. Yet the People always felt they had done well after a trade with the Arapaho. It was from these friends that that this little band of Cheyenne had gotten their first items of the black metal; they especially liked the big iron pots that could be set right in the fire. Cooking with hot stones in baskets was only done now for some of the older men who refused to change and said they did not like the taste the iron pots gave their food. Round Man, who lived up to his name, had heard of a young Lakota warrior who would eat nothing touched by metal. The Lakota have at least one smart man, he always said. Reed Woman complained of her man that, He would still walk beside his dog if he thought people would wait for him. Many of the older ones remembered the time before horses, their ‘magic dogs’, and some even remembered the earth lodges and cornfields along the Missouri.

The old men smoked and talked in this easy camp, and the women of the two tribes visited back and forth while the young men hunted. It was a time of peace and plenty that the old men discussed.

I miss the fights and long hunts, complained Elk Tail. Now all we do is take a pack horse to the Little White Man’s fort to trade. He puffed his sweet tobacco, making a cloud in the still air.

Wolf Road scoffed, You talk like an old man. If it was like the old times, you would not have the white sweetness you like so much or the black bitter drink to put it in.

We all like our coffee sweet, said Eagle Head, as he shifted a little to ease his thin legs, but I fear that Elk Tail is right. The young men will grow soft now that we go to make peace with the Kiowa and Comanche.

Wolf Road laughed, Ha. You and I liked to fight them because they were so close. The young men must travel far for raids on the Ute and Snakes in the mountains, and there are still the Crows. No worry; they do not grow soft like some people’s bellies I see.

Ice, the medicine man, who usually sat quiet and listened, said, Everything changes, my friends. Lean bellies become fat, the bison are always someplace different, and we see more of the white fur hunters with each circle of the sun. They seem like people, though they talk fast and smell bad. He wrinkled his nose and waved his hand in front of his face to blow away the imaginary stench. The others laughed and nodded.

Yes, Wolf Road agreed, but they seem harmless even if impolite. I have always wondered, however, why one man needs so many furs. They take them away and then come back for more.

Split-Nose, who had just come up to the gathering of old men, spoke as he took his place in the circle, next to Little Robe. I believe their wives must be very demanding. That is why they stay away so long and take back so many furs. He was more than half serious, though his smile made wrinkles next to his eyes as he filled his pipe.

I believe their wives are very cold, Mad Wolf smirked. That is why they try to get one of our maidens to share their robes.

Elk Tail grasped his knees and looked up like he was trying to see a distant scene—or remember one. I remember before the whites, when my father’s wives grew corn. Now we do not stay in one place long enough to grow any.

Hou. I, too, remember the yellow meal, and the cloud corn that grew big in the fire with a thunder noise, Split-Nose agreed, but I believe we are better people here in the open with the gift of the bison, where the One Above can see us always and keep us true men.

Hou. Hou. Many agreed.

While the men reminisced, the women traded for luxuries with their Arapaho sisters. Quilled moccasins, decorated parfleches, tanned hides and robes passed one way, and back came pots and metal knives and the new, tiny glass beads, so easy to use for decoration. Especially favored were the white man’s sugar and coffee, and the round metal boxes with fruit, especially the peechis. These were special because the can could be used for a long time as a small pot to boil coffee, and the lid could be used as a scraper, or sharpened into a fleshing knife. Elk Calf and Dark Cloud were sitting outside their tipi when Willow hurried over and began to talk excitedly without the proper formalities.

Look, she almost whispered, look what I got from Leaves Turning. She unwrapped a large butcher knife with a wooden handle attached by big, brass rivets, sharp and shiny in its newness. I always wanted one and I prepared all winter, but I didn’t have to give everything I was prepared to give. I have enough left to get some beads for Snow’s robe. Where is my little fat one?

He sleeps inside, Mother. Would you see him?

No, I’m off for more trading. I just had to show you this. She wrapped her new treasure and hurried toward the Arapaho circle again.

She was lucky, sighed Elk Calf. All I wanted was some red cloth to wrap my braids, but no one had any this time. None.

Your otter wraps still look beautiful. Dark Cloud playfully tugged Calf’s braid. Why don’t we sew some shells into them to brighten them?

Oh, you want me to look like an old woman. All the young women wear the red cloth now.

After trading, both tribes prepared to move south and east along the Flint River to the place agreed upon for the big treaty meeting. They did leisurely packing, as the journey would only take a quarter moon. At last, Snow was fastened into his carrier, snugly wrapped in warm furs and with soft, rubbed leather pads between his legs, then tied to the pack pony where the two travois poles crossed. Either Dark Cloud or Elk Calf always walked with this pony, not wanting to chance its sudden bolting at the sight of a tail-shaking snake or stumbling into a barking-squirrel hole. The rhythm of the horses and the creaking of the gear worked to lull the children to sleep, so mothers chatted quietly as they walked. Dogs chased prairie animals until their tongues lolled; their tongues lolled until they spotted the next reason for a chase. Puppies and tired children, and an occasional grandmother, rode in baskets on the travois.

Warriors not on guard duty rode as close as they dared to the pretty maidens who, in turn, made sure they were in the right places. Other young men, more ready to marry, were out for horses and other goods to build up a bride price; no Cheyenne would shame his bride by offering too few horses or furs to her family.

The column continued, heavily burdened with many fine skins of dark, shiny otter, big, round beaver and golden lynx, and large bundles of bison hides and fall elk. Travois poles sagged under the weight of beaded and quilled moccasins and shirts, black glass from the Valley of the Smokes, and cans of fruit. Young boys and old men sneaked many of the cans from their wrappings and hastily enjoyed them behind a bush. Women pretended not to see.

Most of the furs were to be traded for gifts for their former enemies to the south with whom they would pledge peace after the terrible wars of two summers before. Almost everyone bore scars from the gashings for loved ones lost, and all but the old men were glad to be ending the differences with their old enemies south of the Flint River.

After several days on the trail, three dogs started quarreling near Dark Cloud’s horses, and she threw a stick to scare them off. If you wake this child, you’ll all be in the pot tonight, she hissed. However, the stick precipitated a snarling, yelping turmoil that ended with one of the dogs limping away with a gashed haunch. Snow woke at the noise and started to cry. Dark Cloud yelled something about stew meat after the dogs, and then turned quickly to her son. She pinched his nose and held his mouth to make him stop crying while she sang,

"Quiet, my little One, or the Snakes will hear;

one never knows what enemy is near."

As with generations before, Snow gasped for breath and had no more for crying. Already he had learned that the only thing to draw a sharp reprimand was loud crying and would often stop a cry before his mother could apply the pinch.

The column snaked its way south along Cherry Creek as Dog Society warriors rode alertly at rear and sides, ever watchful for possible danger. Elders led; women and children rode or led horses in the center. Young boys, not yet in warrior ranks, herded the ponies in the rear. Neither the Cheyenne nor Arapaho were rich in horses, but those they had showed their good care as they grew sleek and fat on the lush, spring grass.

Each day of travel saw more bands joining the trek to the treaty gathering until over one hundred and fifty Cheyenne lodges and almost a hundred of Arapaho made long tracks in the short grass. The hunters ranged far to bring in enough food for the evening fires, and around those fires, as they drew closer to their meeting with the Kiowa and Comanche, thoughts were drawn more and more to the terrible events of two years earlier.

Those young men took the power from the Medicine Arrows by leaving before the Renewal was complete, Stone Forehead, the new Arrow Carrier, reminded the group one evening. We were told what would happen if we failed to respect the Arrows.

No man made a reply