Wilderness Double Edition 21, page 8
Did I mention those horses yet? Horses were their currency, their gold, a measure of their status. The village contained no more than two hundred and fifty Shoshones, but their horses numbered in the thousands. Small boys guarded the herds within sight of the encampment.
Everyone flocked out to greet us, and I do mean everyone. Every last warrior, woman, and child. These were not dirty, half-starved scarecrows. The men were strapping specimens. The women were not what I would call beautiful by white standards but were attractive nonetheless. And the children were like children everywhere: inquisitive, playful bundles of energy.
Their friendliness was undeniable. I did not see one hostile face upturned to us as we rode in. I saw smiles, lots of smiles, and heard warm words of welcome whose meaning was conveyed by their expressions.
My men deported themselves in a manner befitting soldiers. They sat straight and tall in the saddle, and when we wheeled into the circle and drew rein, they did so with the crisp efficiency of a unit on parade. I had them stand at attention a good ten minutes to impress the Shoshones with our bearing and our discipline. Whether it worked or not, I cannot say. I do know the Shoshones showed us great respect and courtesy.
Touch the Clouds and Drags the Rope were giving me a tour of the village when I set to prying information out of them. “You mentioned Nate King earlier. I’ve heard of him. Do you know him well?”
“We call him Grizzly Killer,” the giant answered. “Many winters ago he was adopted into our tribe. We regard him as one of our own.”
“He has a Shoshone wife, doesn’t he?” I feigned ignorance.
“Winona. She and I are cousins,” Touch the Clouds revealed. “They have two children, Stalking Coyote and Blue Flower. Or, as you would call them, Zach and Evelyn.”
“Is the son a chip off the old block?” I asked, and when they did not understand, I rephrased it. “Does the son follow in his father’s footsteps?”
“Stalking Coyote is much like Grizzly Killer. He is very strong, very brave. And he never turns his back on his mother’s people.”
“So if the Shoshones were in trouble, Zach King would come to their aid?”
“Yes,” Touch the Clouds answered without hesitation. “I am proud to call him my friend.”
I pointed at Borke, Clemens, and Sewell. “See those whites? They say it wasn’t Crows who wiped out the traders. They say Zach King had a hand in it, and the Shoshones helped.” I had played my trump card to gauge their reaction, and it was everything I had hoped.
Touch the Clouds stopped in midstride and glanced sharply at me, then leaned toward Drags the Rope and whispered something in their language.
“He says he will forgive your insult but you must not accuse us again. We have brought you here to show you we spoke with a straight tongue when we told you our people can be trusted.”
“I have no doubt of that,” I said glibly, and permitted them to guide me into the largest lodge. You would not think, to look at them from the outside, how spacious they are. The women stayed to one side, while the men sat in a semicircle in the center. Only older warriors were present; the rest had to stand outside.
“We will smoke the pipe of peace,” Drags the Rope informed me.
Indians place a lot of stock in ceremony, so I decided to go along with their wishes for the time being. I am not a smoker and never have been, so I am afraid I coughed and hacked when my turn came, much to their amusement.
It is often said that whites and Indians are nothing alike, but I can say with the authority of firsthand knowledge that they are more like us than you may think. They smile. They jest. They laugh. They talk up a storm at their councils, exactly like certain politicians I can think of. Their most esteemed warriors each gave a speech reaffirming the bond between their people and ours.
Drags the Rope droned on and on, translating, the particulars. One oration tended to blend into the next, and between that and the heat, it was all I could do to keep from dozing off. But it is amazing what you can accomplish when you put your mind to it, or must be on your guard against possible treachery by scores of heavily armed warriors.
You might think ill of me, but I didn’t fully trust them. How could I, when I had yet to establish their innocence with regard to the massacre? Only a fool lets down his guard when he is invited into a wolfs lair.
I was expected to give a speech. I limited myself to a few brief statements about how happy the White Father in Washington would be when he heard about our kindly reception. I also stressed that the key to continued peace between our two peoples depended on the Shoshones always being truthful and sincere. This met with more than a few averted faces. They had no more guile than children, these Shoshones, when it came to hiding secrets.
Last to make an address was Touch the Clouds. It was more of the same until the end, when he looked directly at me and said through his interpreter, “Yes, my people and yours have long seen through the same eyes. Yes, we have been proud to call the white man our brother. But that could change if the White Father does not respect our wishes and leave that which has happened for us to work out.”
Was it me, or had he just issued a threat?
Ten
True to their reputation, the Shoshones had treated us kindly, but under the surface lurked a current of apprehension. They did not want us prying into the trading post massacre. Several times I tried to draw Touch the Clouds into a discussion about it, but the most he would commit himself was to say the traders had been “bad men” and it was a good thing they had been slain.
They insisted we pitch camp in the center of a great circle. For our protection, Drags the Rope told me. But we were surrounded by lodges, and the thought of all those warriors resenting our presence was enough to make my rest extremely fitful.
Small wonder, then, I was up at the crack of dawn. I had not undressed the night before, so all I had to do was jam my hat on my head and step out into the crisp chill of the morning air. I stretched, admired the remaining stars, then stepped to where our fire had been with an eye to rekindling it so I could enjoy a cup or two of coffee.
To the west, a horse herd milled about as if the animals were restless. I did not think much of it and squatted to select kindling from a pile my men had gathered the night previous. It was so quiet, so still, that the shuffling tread of someone approaching the circle reached my ears. I looked, and there was a dark figure weaving as if intoxicated. It stumbled and tripped and pitched to the ground, and I heard a groan.
My first impulse was to give a general alarm. But that would wake the Shoshones, and they might not take kindly to having their slumber disturbed. Drawing my pistol, I went to confirm my hunch.
The figure was crawling toward the lodges. I realized it was one of the boys assigned to guard the herds, and I sank to one knee and put a hand on his arm. He jerked back when I touched him, then saw me and tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth was blood. Only then did I see the wound. He had been stabbed in the left side. Gritting his teeth, he raised himself on an elbow and with his other arm pointed at Touch the Clouds’s lodge and said something in Shoshone.
I did not understand the words, but his message was plain. As I ran toward it, I glanced at the horses and saw they were more agitated then ever. Among them flitted two-legged shapes.
Have you ever tried to knock on a tepee flap? I smacked it several times as hard as I could and called out urgently, “Touch the Clouds! Quickly, man! It’s Lieutenant Pickforth.”
The flap was flung aside, and he poked his head out. He was dressed in a breechcloth, nothing more, and even bent over as he was, he was huge. His face screwed up in a quizzical question mark, and I pointed at the boy and urged, “Come! Come!”
Once Touch the Clouds noticed the small prone form, he reached the boy in several long bounds and scooped him into his arms. The boy croaked a few words and went limp. Touch the Clouds spun toward the herds, recognized the scope of the crisis, and throwing back his head, gave voice to what I can only describe as a keening yip. A signal, evidently, for hardly had it faded when lodge flaps all around the circle began opening and warriors burst out, most partially dressed but fully armed.
Touch the Clouds ran to his own lodge and ducked inside with the boy. He was in there barely twenty seconds. When he reappeared, he had his bow and arrow and a knife at his hip.
The warriors converged on their leader, and at a whoop from him, they streamed toward the horses. They seemed to have forgotten me and my men, since no one thought to enlist our assistance. I ran to the center of the circle, where, for once, Corporal Fiske was doing something right; he was rolling everyone out of their blankets and forming them up to ward off an attack.
“What is it, sir?” the corporal asked between shouts. “Are the Shoshones fixing to do us in?”
“Their village is being raided,” I enlightened him. “Someone is after their horses.” It could be any one of a dozen tribes: the Crows, the Sioux, the Cheyenne, or others. Such raids were common, with each spawning a reprisal in an unending cycle.
“What do we do, sir?”
I was wondering exactly that. Colonel Templeton had stressed that I was to avoid conflict with Indians as much as possible, and to never engage in combat unless to defend ourselves. I was to “remain neutral towards all,” were his exact words. But the Shoshones were friendlies. And the image of the young boy with blood gushing from his mouth did not sit well with me.
Accordingly, I led my men on foot toward the heart of the commotion, leaving four troopers behind to watch over our animals.
Everyone in the village was astir by now. Most of the warriors had gone with Touch the Clouds, but enough remained to guard against a flanking maneuver. I was surprised to find that almost all the women were armed and, by their attitude and stance, fully prepared to sell their lives dearly in the defense of their loved ones.
The sun had risen. Its spreading glow revealed a huge cloud of dust where the horses should be. I caught glimpses of warriors darting hither and fro, attended by a chorus of whoops and shrieks. But I could not make sense of who was doing what, and indeed, could not tell friend from potential foe.
I brought my men to a halt. All we could do was wait as the light brightened and the dust grew and the sounds of conflict drifted to the northwest.
Presently, from out of the dust sprinted Drags the Rope. He was naked from the waist up, and in his right hand he clutched a war club smeared scarlet. He was making toward the lodges, but when he spotted us he veered in my direction.
“Who has attacked you?” I inquired. “How fares the battle?”
“Piegans!” he spat. “They killed our horse guards. We have caught them, but they will die hard.” He hurried on.
I debated what to do. The Shoshones had things well in hand, apparently, and did not need our help. There was nothing to stop us from leaving as I originally intended. But I could not help being curious. Here was a rare opportunity to observe Indians at war, something few whites had ever witnessed.
“Do we head out, sir?” Fiske asked.
“We do not.” I wheeled them and double-timed to our horses. Fortunately, we had tethered our animals in the circle with us or the Piegans might have tried to steal them, as well. We wasted no time saddling up, and in short order I was at the head of the column, trotting to where the Shoshones had the raiders at bay.
I will describe the scene in particular detail so its uniqueness may be better appreciated.
Not quite half a mile from the village reared what was left of a small bluff. Long ago, a natural upheaval had caused part of it to collapse, leaving a three-sided horseshoe of perhaps an acre, with walls thirty feet high. Into this the raiders had retreated. The high earthen walls offered as much protection as a palisade, and were so steep that the only way the Shoshones could get at the Piegans was through the mouth of the horseshoe, which was littered with boulders behind which the raiders had secreted themselves.
The Shoshones had the bluff surrounded and were content for the moment to wait for reinforcements. Soon hundreds were present, and the leaders called a council to decide on the best course of action.
“Look there, sir!” Corporal Fiske declared, pointing.
A tall Piegan had climbed onto a boulder to survey the situation, heedless of the risk to his person from bullet and arrow. It was our old acquaintance, Bear Child. He noticed us and raised an arm, but whether in salute or derision, I cannot say. We were sixty yards southeast of the bluff, well out of harm’s way but in an ideal position to view all that transpired.
The racket the Shoshones made was deafening. Everyone, from oldest to youngest, male and female, screeched and screamed like banshees, the better, I suppose, to instill fear into their adversaries. But if Bear Child was any indication, the Piegans regarded the Shoshones with ill-concealed contempt.
“Do you think that bunch will surrender, sir?” a private piped up.
“If they don’t, they’ll be wiped out,” another commented.
“They’ll be wiped out anyway” was the opinion of a third. “I’ve heard Indians never let an enemy live.”
“They take women and children captive sometimes,” the first one remarked.
“Quiet,” I said, to instill discipline. I had them dismount and bid them be at ease, then I roosted on a convenient log to await developments.
Corporal Fiske stayed by my side. “Here comes that one who can speak English, Lieutenant.”
Drags the Rope was flushed with excitement. “I bring word from Touch the Clouds. He is sorry. But he says this is a Shoshone matter. We must deal with this ourselves.”
“I fully agree,” I assured him.
“No matter what?”
“No matter what,” I reiterated.
“It will not be—” Drags the Rope hesitated, as if seeking the right word, and the one he chose almost made me laugh: “pretty.”
“We are grown men. Nothing that happens will upset us.”
“You are sure?”
I was perplexed by his insistence. “You have my word as an officer and a gentleman that we will not interfere. Go back to Touch the Clouds and tell him he is free to do as he pleases.”
Drags the Rope clapped my arm and ran off. A few shots had been fired at the Piegans by the few Shoshones who owned rifles, but the raiders were too well entrenched, and as near as I could tell, it was a waste of lead.
The screaming and keening died down and I saw the Shoshones prepare to attack. They formed into a large body, thirty or forty warriors abreast. With Touch the Clouds at the forefront, they advanced up a short incline to the mouth of the horseshoe, where they were met by dozens of arrows. Quite a few were felled. Then they were in the opening, but it was so narrow that only half a dozen could engage the Piegans at any one time. The fight was fierce and heated. After a few minutes the Shoshones broke off and retreated, the taunts and hoots of the Piegans heaping shame on top of injury.
I could not fathom why the Shoshones had given up so easily until I saw several warriors supporting Touch the Clouds.
“They’ll take that as a bad omen,” Jacob Hyde said.
I had forgotten about the scout and the civilians. They were crouched nearby, as fascinated as the rest of us. “Do you honestly think the Piegans stand a prayer?” I asked.
“It depends on how long they can hold out and how many Shoshones they can kill,” Hyde answered. “Indians don’t like to lose a lot of their own. If a fight is going against them, they’d rather live to fight another day than die for no reason.”
Another foray was hastily organized. I did not see Touch the Clouds among the Shoshones. Again their warriors surged into the pocket; again the Piegans repulsed them after a savage contest of arms and wills. Shoshone dead and wounded were carried back and another council was held. In the meantime, women moved among the warriors, passing around water skins and distributing food.
It occurred to me that all the Shoshones had to do was starve their enemies out. Seven or eight days without food and water, and the Piegans would be too weak to offer much resistance. I mentioned this to Jacob Hyde.
“They could do it, all right, but they won’t. The Shoshones pride themselves on being warriors, and warriors would never do anything that cowardly.”
An hour went by. The Piegans continued to shout taunts and insults, but the Shoshones did not rise to the bait. Touch the Clouds reappeared, his side bandaged. He roved among his people, encouraging them. After a while he came toward us, Drags the Rope and several others in tow.
“I am glad you were not gravely hurt,” I said by way of greeting. “Those Piegans mean business.”
“One of my ribs deflected an arrow,” Touch the Clouds said through his friend. “A little lower and I would not be standing here.”
“Those are the same Piegans I told you about last night. The ones who caught us on the prairie.”
“They will never bother your kind or my people ever again after we are finished with them,” Touch the Clouds predicted.
“Do you ever show mercy to your enemies?” I wondered. An instructor of mine at West Point believed mercy was the one quality that most set us apart from the lower orders.
“We show them the same mercy they show us. To do otherwise would make them think we are weak, and weak tribes are driven from their land and forced to live where there is not much game or water. Or they are wiped out.”
I thought of the Kanzas and the Otoes. “What would happen if you asked the Piegans to surrender?”
“They would think we insulted them. And they would laugh at us.” Touch the Clouds grew somber. “The Piegans will fight us to the last warrior, as they must.”
“Taking a lot of yours with them.”
