Frontier America Page 4

  Preacher leaned to the side to look around Butterfly and grinned at his grandson and granddaughter.

  “How are these two young’uns doin’?” he asked. “They’re growin’ like weeds, ain’t they?”

  “Eagle Feather, Bright Moon, say hello to your grandfather,” Butterfly told the children.

  “Hello, Grandfather,” Eagle Feather greeted Preacher. The boy stood up straighter, still maybe a little bit nervous about talking to the old mountain man but determined not to show it. His little sister remained shy, though, and clutched at Butterfly’s buckskin dress as she peeked around her mother’s hip.

  “Does Hawk That Soars ever take you huntin’ with him?” Preacher asked his grandson.

  “Sometimes. But only close to the village. He said he might have to go far today.”

  Worry lurked in Butterfly’s eyes as she said, “Our hunters must go farther and farther away to find enough game.”

  “Big Thunder told me about that, and so did Broken Pine,” Preacher said with a nod. “They blamed it on the white wagon trains.” He rubbed his chin. “I ain’t so sure about that, though. Huntin’ grounds get played out from time to time. That’s just the nature of things.”

  “Broken Pine says the village may have to move.” Butterfly shook her head. “I would not like that. I have been here longer than anywhere else in my life. But what is best for our people is what we must do.”

  Preacher couldn’t argue with that. He let Butterfly get back to preparing her family’s supper while he talked with his grandson Eagle Feather. Bright Moon stayed close to her mother, but as Eagle Feather relaxed, he began to chatter more and eagerly showed Preacher the bow Hawk had made for him.

  “Are you a good shot with it?” Preacher asked.

  “Very good,” Eagle Feather boasted. “Would you like to see?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come with me,” the boy said. He led Preacher to a meadow at the edge of the village. It was bordered by trees, and Eagle Feather pointed at one of them and went on, “See the knot on that tree trunk? I will put an arrow right below it.”

  “Are you sure? That’s a pretty good ways.”

  “I can do it,” the youngster said confidently. He had slung a quiver of arrows on his back before he and Preacher walked out here. Made to use with the smaller bow, they were shorter and lighter than the arrows a full-grown warrior would use. Eagle Feather reached up and back to select one of them and nocked it to the bow.

  Preacher nodded in approval of the craftsmanship that had gone into the arrow. He asked, “Did you make those yourself?”

  “My father and I made them. He showed me how, and I did most of the work.”

  “Good. That’s how you learn.”

  Eagle Feather raised the bow and pulled back the string. He aimed for a moment, then let the arrow fly. It zipped across the distance between him and the tree and smacked solidly in the trunk about six inches below the knot he had pointed out.

  Preacher whistled in admiration and said, “That’s some pretty good shootin’.”

  “I can do better,” Eagle Feather said eagerly. “Let me try again.”

  Before the boy could draw another arrow from the quiver, though, someone called Preacher’s name. When he turned, he saw Hawk That Soars striding toward him. Hawk was trying to look serious and dignified, as he always did, but Preacher could tell that his son was glad to see him.

  They embraced and slapped each other on the back. Hawk asked, “What are you doing here, Preacher?”

  “Can’t a fella come and visit his family? I was driftin’ in this direction anyway, and then when I ran into Big Thunder, I decided not to wait any longer.”

  “Did you and Big Thunder fight?”

  Preacher grinned and said, “Shoot, of course we did. That boy wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Eagle Feather looked up at his father and asked, “Did you find any game?”

  “I brought us a deer,” Hawk replied with a solemn nod. “It was a good day, and for that we must thank the spirits of our ancestors.”

  Eagle Feather pointed at Preacher and said, “He is our ancestor.”

  “But I ain’t a spirit just yet.” Preacher grinned. “So I can’t take no credit for your pa’s good luck.”

  “Come,” Hawk said as he put one hand on his father’s shoulder and the other on his son’s shoulder. “Let us return to the lodge and talk of many things.”

  “Hunting?” Eagle Feather asked.

  “That,” said Hawk, “and more.”

  * * *

  The children were asleep in their buffalo robes. The cooking fire outside had been put out, but a small fire burned inside a ring of rocks in the center of the lodge and beneath the smoke opening at the top. Preacher and Hawk sat next to the flames while Butterfly was beside the children but still attentive to what the men were saying.

  “Some of our scouts were in the foothills last week and were able to look far out onto the plains,” Hawk said, gesturing fluidly to illustrate what he was telling Preacher. “They saw wagons to the south and east.”

  “The pass that most of the immigrants use is a ways farther south of here,” said Preacher. “I ain’t sure what a wagon train would be doin’ this far north unless the fellas guidin’ it were searchin’ for a new route.”

  “A path that would get them to their destination faster than the others traveling west would be a good thing for them, would it not?”

  Preacher considered that and nodded.

  “Folks are just naturally competitive, especially ones who are bold enough to set out across hundreds of miles of untamed land in hopes of makin’ a new start somewhere else.”

  Hawk grunted and repeated, “Untamed land. White men are strange. I do not see how land can be tamed or untamed. It just is.” He paused, then added, “I do not mean to insult you by calling white men strange, Preacher.”

  The mountain man chuckled and said, “Don’t worry about that. I reckon you could say that most folks are strange, though, in one way or another. But you’re right: if a wagon train guide could promise to get the folks who hired him to Oregon sooner than some other guide would, that’d be a mighty valuable thing for him. The settlers would be fine with gettin’ there ahead of the others, too. They’d feel like they had a better chance of claimin’ the best land and water.”

  “And along the way they will kill the game and foul the streams and attack our people out of fear or the sheer viciousness they feel toward us,” Hawk stated with more than a trace of bitterness in his voice.

  “Maybe not,” Preacher said, but in truth, he knew that more than likely Hawk was right. The history of the Indians’ encounters with the white men as they pushed the frontier farther and farther west was filled with hard feelings at best—and bloody violence at worst.

  Hawk knew that, too. He said, “We could fight them. Try to make them go a different way through the mountains.”

  “You could,” Preacher said, nodding slowly and solemnly. “You might be able to turn back a couple of wagon trains, too. But then word would get around about what happened and the pilgrims who come along later would just hire more men with more guns to escort them . . . and some of them would start yellin’ to Washington for help from the army, too.” He paused, then added heavily, “You don’t want that.”

  Hawk sighed and said, “The Crow have always gotten along with the white men. They are more inclined to work with the whites rather than to fight them.”

  “That’s a good thing, ain’t it?”

  “It is . . . until the children begin to cry in the night because their bellies are empty.”

  “It hasn’t come to that, has it?”

  “Not yet,” said Hawk. “But if the hunting continues to get worse, it may, and not very far in the future, at that.”

  Preacher seemed to be staring into the fire, but actually his eyes were directed elsewhere in the lodge. One of the first things he had learned after coming to the mountains all those years ago
was not to impair his vision by looking directly into flames. That was a good way to be taken by surprise . . . and being taken by surprise on the frontier usually meant winding up dead.

  “So if you don’t want to have a fight on your hands . . . a fight you’d have a hard time winnin’, in the long run . . . the best thing to do is move.”

  “Indians never stay in one place for too long,” Hawk pointed out. “This band of Crow has been here in this village for more years than most remain without moving.”

  Butterfly spoke up, saying, “It is a good place for a village, the best I have ever seen. The river protects us and gives us good water that never runs out. The mountains to the north and west shelter us from the worst of the wind and storms during the winter. The buffalo herds graze near to the foothills in the east so our men can ride out and hunt them, and many elk and antelope roam the high country.”

  “They do,” said Hawk, “but for how long?”

  “How long?” repeated Butterfly as she impatiently flung out a hand. “How long will anything last in this world? We do not know. We cannot know such things. All we can do is have faith in the spirits of those who came before us, and faith in those we love in this world.”

  “You can’t argue with that,” Preacher said.

  “A wise man does not argue with his wife,” Hawk said with a hint of a smile. “Now that you know the problems we are facing, will you think on them and talk with me and Broken Pine and the elders tomorrow?”

  “You reckon they’ll put any stock in what a white man has to say?”

  “I believe you are the only white man they will truly listen to, Preacher,” Hawk said.

  CHAPTER 5

  The council took place in the middle of the next day, in Broken Pine’s lodge. Broken Pine was there, of course, along with Preacher and Hawk That Soars.

  In addition, half a dozen other Crow warriors sat around the fire in the center of the lodge. Preacher knew all of them from previous visits to the village or had at least met them. A couple of the men glanced at him and frowned when he came in with Hawk, as if they weren’t sure about the wisdom of having a white man sit in on the council with them, but no one voiced any objection. Everyone knew that Hawk was Preacher’s son and that Preacher had fought side by side with Broken Pine in the past. The mountain man had always been a good friend to the Crow.

  But he was white, and sometimes it was hard to put that fact aside.

  Broken Pine began by talking about something they all knew already: the white settlers bound for the Pacific Northwest, along with their wagons pulled by teams of massive oxen or rawboned mules, had been spotted coming closer and closer to this river valley where the village was located. Most Indians never used one word when ten could be made to express the same idea, and Broken Pine was no different. His opening oration was lengthy and eloquent.

  Then he launched into a recitation of how it was becoming more and more difficult to find game within reasonably close confines to the village. Preacher wanted to speak up in response to that, but he held his tongue. When dealing with Indians, everything had to run its natural course and proceed at its own pace.

  Finally, Broken Pine brought his opening statement to a close by saying, “It has been suggested that the wisest course of action we might follow is to move our village and search for a new, more suitable location for it. I would hear what all of you think about this idea.”

  That led to more lengthy speeches. As one who had come from somewhere other than this village, Hawk waited until all the other warriors had gone before him. Then he said, “I have fought many white men in my time. They cannot be trusted. You never know what to expect from them. As evil as the Blackfeet are, when you do battle with them, you know what they will do and what they will not do. There are things not even a Blackfoot will stoop to.” Hawk shook his head solemnly. “The same cannot be said of a white man. If he wants to win badly enough, he will do anything.” Hawk leaned back and crossed his arms. “For this reason, I say that we should fight the whites if we must in order to protect our hunting grounds . . . but if we can find better hunting grounds, we should go there instead of fighting.”

  Several of the other men had expressed that same sentiment during the council. The rest were violently opposed to the idea, though, including a warrior named Many Pelts who was the most passionate about it. He leaned forward now as he sat cross-legged beside the fire and slammed a fist against his thigh.

  “The Crow do not run away and hide like frightened children,” he said. “Those of you who have suggested such a thing should be ashamed!”

  Hawk bristled at that, and he wasn’t the only one. Several men muttered angrily and looked like they were about to get to their feet.

  “Hold,” Broken Pine said sharply. “All are free to say what they wish in this council. If you wish to take issue with Many Pelts, do it outside this lodge.” The chief looked at Preacher. “You have not spoken.”

  “Bad enough we must listen to one who is half-white,” declared Many Pelts as he sneered toward Hawk. “Nothing a white man could say holds any interest for me!”

  “Preacher is an elder among his people and has long been a friend to the Crow,” Broken Pine said. “And he is my friend, Many Pelts. You will speak of him with respect.”

  Many Pelts scowled and didn’t say anything, as if he would rather keep quiet than show any deference toward Preacher.

  Broken Pine nodded to the mountain man and went on, “I would hear your thoughts, Preacher.”

  “And I’ll be happy to share ’em with you,” Preacher said, “but you may not like some of them.”

  Broken Pine gestured for him to continue.

  “First of all, I have a question. I don’t doubt that the wagon trains have been comin’ closer. I trust the eyes of your scouts. But what makes you believe they’re responsible for the problems you’ve been having with huntin’ in this area?”

  One of the men asked, “What else could be the cause?”

  “Nothing else has changed,” said another. “The land goes on as it always has, and that means the game should be as abundant as ever. But then the white men came, and a hunter can go all day without ever seeing a deer or an elk. It is because of the white men. It must be.”

  Preacher wasn’t sure how to argue with that logic. What the warrior had said made perfect sense to him. Preacher knew he had to try to make the men understand, though.

  “Did it rain in the spring?” he asked.

  “Of course, it did,” Many Pelts said. “It always rains in the spring.”

  “As much as it usually does?”

  Broken Pine said, “There was an entire moon when no rain fell. The wildflowers did not bloom until much later than they usually do.”

  “And the grass didn’t grow as tall or as thick, I’m guessin’,” Preacher said.

  “The flowers bloomed and the grass grew,” Many Pelts burst out. “What difference does it make?”

  “The grazin’ isn’t as good when it’s been dry like that. Animals know that. They wander on, lookin’ for someplace where there’s more to eat. And then that carries on over to you folks. You have to look for a better place, too.”

  “Bah! The grass is there! The game left because of the white men, not because it did not rain for a time.”

  Broken Pine said, “It seems to me that Preacher may be right. All of us”—his expansive gesture took in the other members of the council—“have either heard about such things, or seen them with our own eyes. A bad winter, a bad spring, these can cause much hardship among animals and people alike.”

  “That is why all the tribes never stay in one place forever,” said Hawk. “It is in our nature to move.”

  “And it is in our nature to fight when we are threatened!” Many Pelts insisted. “I will not be driven away before my enemies. I will stand, and if I have to, I will die where I stand!”

  What it came down to, thought Preacher, was that Many Pelts wanted a fight and was bound and determin
ed to get one, no matter what it took. But Broken Pine was a smart chief, and he would be aware of the same thing.

  “We have talked much,” Broken Pine said. “Now we will think about what has been spoken.”

  “There is no need,” Many Pelts insisted. “I say we decide now, and my decision is that we place scouts in the foothills and wait for the next wagon train to come near our land. When it does, we will ride out and attack it and drive the white men away!”

  “Our land!” Broken Pine repeated sharply and scornfully. “The land is not ours, Many Pelts. It belongs to the Maker of All Things. We only live on it and make use of it.”

  Many Pelts let out a disdainful snort that made Broken Pine stiffen with anger.

  “Ask the white men if they believe that. You know they do not! They believe that everything in the world belongs to them.” Many Pelts jerked a hand toward Preacher. “Ask that white man if he believes that he and his kind should own all the land between the great waters on both sides that we have heard about.”

  “Manifest Destiny,” Preacher muttered in English.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’ll tell you what I own, Many Pelts. The clothes I’m wearin’. The gear I carry. These two guns.” Preacher rested his hands on the butts of the Colt Dragoons. “A Sharps rifle, a knife that’s served me well for more than twenty years, a good tomahawk. The same sort of things you own. I’ve never set foot on ground that belonged to me and don’t care if I ever do. And I’m the only white man I speak for.”

  “A good answer,” Broken Pine said with a nod. He looked hard at Many Pelts and went on, “We will make no decision today. Go to your lodges and think on what has been said. We will talk again.”

  Many Pelts didn’t like that, as his glare made clear. But he didn’t argue anymore, as even those other warriors who leaned toward agreeing with him didn’t want unnecessary trouble with Broken Pine. A chief could be overruled or even removed from a position of power, but neither of those things was ever done lightly or hastily.