"Three Fingers, Cheyenne" (1898) by Frank A. Rinehart
From the New York Public Library
CHAPTER 21
Swift Fish, Lots of Trees and Red Cherry fretted for their husband who risked his life like a
daredevil on the battlefield. However, they carried their worry no further than that. They did not
expect Morning Star to change because he was a father of a son whom the boy’s godfather had
named Black Panther for one that had been spotted near the village at the time of his birth three
years ago.
Morning Star’s wives and dozens of other women and their children washed clothes at a wide
stream in the morning. They slapped clothes against the rocks and rinsed them in the cool water.
The three woman worked near enough each other to talk comfortably.
“Morning Star is away fighting all the time,” Swift Fish said. “He doesn’t have to go so much. He’s a
chief now and a member of the Dog Soldiers fraternity. Why does he fight like a maniac?”
“He loves it like most men and he needs a challenge,” said Red Cherry, who had survived her
scandalous entry into the family.
After Red Cherry’s third journey with Morning Star on an expedition and his third beating by her
former husband, the Dog Soldiers shamed Big Rain into letting Red Cherry follow her heart. Big
Rain succumbed to her choice in exchange for one horse, ten guns, ten chiefs’ robes, ten pairs of
leggings and moccasins, and a bolt of scarlet cloth.
“You don’t mind because there’s less work when he’s not around,” Lots of Trees teased Red Cherry.
Swift Fish laughed.
Red Cherry was lazy. She loved indulging in sleeping, eating, and dressing in fine clothes. Morning
Star often grew irritated with her. Not only did she expect people to do work for her, her vanity
was as great as his. He thought soon after he won her that that was all she was—a pretty prize to
gaze upon. Morning Star’s other wives, however, spent more time with Red Cherry. They
recognized her flaws but they also saw how caring she was for little Black Panther who filled her
hollowness.
As a baby, Black Panther was often cranky, crying for no obvious reason. Instead of the traditional
custom of holding his head back and dribbling water into his nose, Swift Fish would hand him to
Red Cherry who would sing him a lullaby about a baby eagle. Black Panther always would stop
crying and start gurgling as though he were trying to sing along. Today, at the stream, it was Black
Panther’s clothes that Red Cherry washed.
“You can laugh all you want, but you know that I do my share of the work,” Red Cherry said, in
mock defense.
Then she splashed water on Swift Fish and Lots of Trees. They splashed back, playing in the water
and laughing until their sides ached. Black Panther, who had been running with other children his
age, ran over to them. He held his arms out and started to whine.
“You want to join us,” Red Cherry asked, walking to him.
She picked him up and carried him to where his mother and Lots of Trees stood. Then she let him
down gently. The rushing water tickled his toes, making him smile, and then his calves and thighs.
“You spoil him, Red Cherry,” Lots of Trees said, pretending to scold her.
“I know,” Red Cherry said.
“Let’s get out. We’re done washing,” Swift Fish said, abruptly.
Red Cherry, Black Panther in her arms, followed Swift Fish who carried a woven basket filled with
wet clothes. Lots of Trees trailed them with another basket to a grassy spot where they began to
spread the clothes to dry in the summer sun.
“Are you angry at me for coddling Black Panther,” Red Cherry asked Swift Fish, after she put him
down and he ran off again.
“Angry,” Swift Fish repeated, in a surprised tone. “No. I wasn’t even thinking about that.”
“What is it then,” Red Cherry asked. “Something is bothering you.”
“Yes, but it’s not you. It’s Morning Star.”
“Morning Star,” Lots of Trees interjected, in astonishment.
“Something is bothering him,” Swift Fish said. “I think that he feels uneasy here. I think that he
wants to go.”
“Go,” Red Cherry asked. “Go where?”
“Back to the whites,” Swift Fish said, as she sat down after laying out the wash with Lots of Trees.
“Why do you say that,” Red Cherry asked, from a reclining position.
“I’ve felt something amiss for a long time—since before Black Panther was born. I didn’t know what
it was then but it’s clear to me now.”
“I’ve felt it, too,” Lots of Trees admitted, as she threw herself on the ground. She laid on her
stomach, propped up on her elbows. “He does go away more frequently and when he’s with me, I
can see in his eyes that he really isn’t. He is far away. I thought that I was either imagining it or that
it was me he didn’t want anymore. You may be right, Swift Fish. Morning Star was raised by the
whites. It’s only natural that he would miss those people. Do you think that he’ll go and not come
back, Swift Fish?”
“I don’t know. I would be sad if he left but, truthfully, that isn’t what concerns me most.”
“What is it then,” Red Cherry asked.
“It’s Black Panther,” Swift Fish said. “I’m afraid that he’ll take Black Panther with him.”
“What,” Red Cherry said, sitting up and folding her legs under her. Lots of Trees did the same. “No,
I won’t let him.”
“How will you stop him if he kidnaps Black Panther the way he was kidnapped,” Swift Fish asked. “I
hear stories—tragic stories about the children of traders—from women of other tribes.
“There was, I am told, an Omaha woman called Mitain whose big-time trader husband, Manuel
Lisa, took their daughter and then tried to take their youngest, a boy, back with him to St. Louis
where he lived part of the time with his white wife.
“Mitain actually gave him her daughter willingly. Can you imagine? He said the girl would be better
off living among his people. Of course, Mitain didn’t believe that. She hoped that their daughter
would tie him to her. It was silly and it didn’t work. I think she loved him more than she loved her
own child. There’s something eerie and unnatural about that.
“Anyway, when Manuel’s wife in St. Louis died, he married another white woman there. But this
time, he brought her back with him to the fort and sent word beforehand that Mitain should leave.
Can you imagine? He takes her baby and then tells her to find another home. The sadder thing is
that Mitain obeyed him, taking their little son with her. But she couldn’t stand being shut out of his
life for long. Out of stupidity, she sent her boy to see his father. Don’t you know that Manuel told
Mitain that he had decided to take the boy back to St. Louis to live with the whites.
“Mitain showed some sense by grabbing her baby and rowing him across a stream where she
roamed the night in anguish. I don’t know why, but that fool woman returned to the fort the next
day begging Manuel to take both of them and to allow her to see her children now and then. Manuel
refused. He didn’t want her in St. Louis. She accused him of deserting her. He said the marriage was
long over. She sobbed for mercy, clutching her son, who also started crying. Manuel wrenched him
from her arms. He would have taken him if a United States agent monitoring trade hadn’t stepped
in and forbade Manuel from taking the boy from his mother.”
“What happened to the daughter,” Lots of Trees asked.
“I don’t know,” Swift Fish said, “Nor do I know what happened to the little boy. But I am going to
take care of what happens to Black Panther.”
“Morning Star wouldn’t be so cruel,” Red Cherry said. She had not noticed anything strange about
him, but she also realized that she was barely observant of him.
“Not knowingly,” Swift Fish said. “But he would do what he thinks best for his son. And I think he’s
confused about what the best is.”
Red Cherry and Lots of Trees said nothing. Their hearts beat hard and with fear, the way that Swift
Fish’s heart had beat for years as she watched Morning Star with Black Panther.
Morning Star liked to have his son around, especially after the baby began walking. Swift Fish and
Black Panther often accompanied him on journeys to the trading post. Strangers adored Black
Panther and he loved an audience. He would utter a few English expressions that his father had
taught him, and then he would clap his hands in delight.
“What a showman,” the traders would say.
“Who is your father,” the same men would ask.
The cheerful Black Panther, who was rarely grumpy around Morning Star, would run to him.
Morning Star would scoop him up in his arms, beaming with pride.
“He is my son,” he would say. “He is Little Jim.”
And Swift Fish’s heart would start beating like a fast-paced, loud drum, the way it beat now at the
water’s edge.
“I can’t go on like this wondering what he plans to do, especially now that his most recent contract
with the American Fur Company is coming to an end,” Swift Fish said. “I’m going to ask him.”
“He’ll tell you the truth,” Lots of Trees said.
“I know,” Swift Fish said.
“Morning Star is my husband but Black Panther belongs here. I’ll do whatever I can to keep him
here,” Lots of Trees said.
“Me, too,” Red Cherry said.
"Double Runner's Son, Blackfoot, Montana" (1900) by Edward S. Curtis
From the New York Public Library
That same morning thirty miles away, Morning Star and his warriors moved like one person
although they numbered one hundred. They were confident that they would win their battle
against the Cheyennes tomorrow. Morning Star walked on familiar ground and he harboured no
doubt about his fighting ability. He needed to feel that confidence and be around what he knew.
There was a woman named Pine Leaf who fought with the men as a fine warrior. Her twin brother
had lost his life in a battle against the Blackfeet when he was twelve ten years ago. A brave who had
watched him die told Pine Leaf who ran off, got a knife and hacked off a joint from the pinkie of her
left hand. She mourned her brother in this traditional way, and she vowed to avenge his death by
killing one hundred Blackfeet warriors. Until she accomplished her pledge, she refused to accept
any marriage proposals. Although Pine Leaf had long ago killed her quota of Blackfeet as well as
many warriors of other tribes, she fought and lived as though she had a long way to go. Many a
man, beside whom Pine Leaf fought shoulder to shoulder, was disappointed by her stand.
Pine Leaf’s strong body, fast movements and quick wit exuded a sensuality that attracted men. It
was rare for a woman to choose war and Pine Leaf’s prowess at it gave her prestige. Men fantasized
about loving a woman who also had tasted the eroticism of war. She would be the closest ideal to
loving themselves.
Morning Star was one of those men. He had proposed to Pine Leaf shortly after she became a
warrior. She had answered: ‘I’ll marry you when you show me a red-haired Indian.’ Not long after,
he asked her again and she had answered with the old saying: ‘When the pine needles turn yellow, I
will.’”
That night under a crescent moon that lounged low in the sky and stars that showered the ground
with light, Morning Star thought he would try again. It had become a game of words between
them and an opening to conversation between friends who had saved each other’s lives. Morning
Star fell back in the march, ordering another warrior to replace him in the lead. He placed himself
behind Pine Leaf so that he could admire her sure-footed walk. Then he eased up on her and said
softly:
“I think that you are one of the most pretty, the most intelligent and, certainly, the most
courageous woman among the Sparrowhawks. You and I together would make a fierce couple.”
“Morning Star, your persistence amazes me,” Pine Leaf said, while suppressing a smile. “When it
snows in Green Grass, I’ll become your wife.”
“Your rejections will chase me away, send me back to St. Louis,” Morning Star said, playfully.
“Whatever for,” Pine Leaf asked. “What is there for you in St. Louis?”
“A woman, perhaps,” Morning Star said, half-teasingly.
“You have three wives. Why would you be wanting another? And one who’s so far away?”
The repartee lost its light-hearted quality as Morning Star began to talk again.
“I wish that you would have taken my advice and stayed at home this time.”
“How could I have received your proposal of marriage at home?”
“I’m not joking, Pine Leaf. You’ve been going out too much. You don’t give yourself a rest between
battles.”
“And you do,” she asked, rhetorically.
Pine Leaf had not known how to take Morning Star’s advice. She knew that it was sincere but she
wondered whether she was being singled out because she was a woman.
“All right, so maybe I’m doing the same thing,” Morning Star said.
“I have to go out,” Pine Leaf said. “I have no choice. You understand.”
“Yes,” he said. “I understand.”
For another day, the warriors walked to the scene of their next encounter. The hot, July air stifled
them. The smell of sweat mixed with leather filled their nostrils. They moved slowly and rested
often. They meant to save their strength for the fight to come. The day was hazy but their mission
was not.
The Sparrowhawks arrived at the Cheyenne camping ground during early morning when it was still
dark. They stormed into battle.
“Go on, Morning Star,” Pine Leaf yelled, as she plunged into battle.
But it would take more than a fellow warrior’s cheers to make the Sparrowhawks win this one. They
were only one hundred; the other side had double that number. They fought valiantly, but the heat
and long march had sapped them of a crucial amount of stamina.
Pine Leaf’s voice was drowned in the cacophony of sure-fired bullets and bloodcurdling screams.
She was shooting calculatedly, but quickly, and in a circular fashion. She and Morning Star had
been covering each other until it got so manic that it was all they could do to protect themselves.
Morning Star had been brought to the ground by a Cheyenne who wielded a knife whose edge
stared lustfully at Morning Star’s neck. The two men were ensnarled like two strands of rope. Then
Pine Leaf’s screams pierced through the din of death. Morning Star wrenched the knife from his
opponent’s hand and sank it into its owner’s back. The man died with Morning Star inside his arms.
The Sparrowhawk chief barely noticed as he broke out of the embrace to follow Pine Leaf’s call.
Morning Star’s head swirled. He tore through the battlefield, stumbling over bodies, bumping into
fighting. He went straight to Pine Leaf who lay with an arrow near her heart. Conflict raged around
her. He kneeled down, picked her up and carried her to the edge of the massacre where he lay her
down.
Morning Star leaned over and placed his ear near her mouth. She struggled to say, “I am not
afraid.” Then he tried to clear his head of thought because he wanted to stay clear of death. He
knew he could hasten her death by thinking about it. Instead, he stroked her hair and soothed her
with words about the feast they would savor when they returned home. Then he pulled the arrow
out whole and bound her chest tightly with scarlet cloth he wore around his forehead. Pine Leaf
spurted blood. The tourniquet turned a deeper shade of red and Pine Leaf lost consciousness.
Morning Star prayed to God that she would live.
The fighting lasted four hours. The Cheyennes dashed away as the victors. The Sparrowhawks,
devastated, attended to the wounded, who called out in pain, and they cried over the dead who had
lost their voices. The air smelled like blood. Metallic. Although it was morning, it seemed as though
there was red in the sky. The mountains encircling the valley battlefield were tinged with a purplish
red cast. There was red everywhere.
The survivors who would work, thirty or so, constructed litters for carrying the casualties. Four,
even five, dead bodies were placed on one stretcher because of the scarcity of bearers.
One warrior, who knew herbs, found a clump of a plant whose leaves help clot blood. He
distributed it to men caring for the wounded. Morning Star applied them to Pine Leaf’s chest. He
and another man carried her back to the village. Morning Star kept removing the cloth and
replacing soggy, red leaves with fresh, green ones.
Please don’t die, he prayed. Please don’t die. He wanted her to live because she was his friend. He
liked his wives but did not talk deeply with them. Laughing Coyote and Pine Leaf were his only
friends among the Sparrowhawks. He did not want to lose Pine Leaf.
As the band approached the village three days later, a little Sparrowhawk boy playing alone
spotted it. He ran home to shout the news of the battered war party’s arrival. The village waited
paralyzed with horror, not wanting to hasten the meeting, not wanting to know the truth.
Slowly, the party straggled into the motherly arms of home. Most everyone limped either from
sustained wounds or from the sheer exhaustion of defeat. Many of the pallets had fallen apart
under the weight. Some of the injured had not survived the entire march. Along the way, a number
of dead cadre had been left under blankets of tree limbs until more people could return for them.
Morning Star carried Pine Leaf in his arms.
The waiting looked for husbands, fathers and sons; most found a dead body or promise of one not
far away. They elicited screams of terror and cut off their fingers in grief. The scene looked almost
as bloody as the battlefield. Morning Star retched. As he walked toward Pine Leaf’s family lodge,
his wives caught up with him.
“You’re alive,” Lots of Trees said. “Oh, but what happened to Pine Leaf?”
“Poor Pine Leaf,” Swift Fish said.
“What happened,” Red Cherry asked.
They all kept walking as Morning Star explained in a weary voice. After he finished, Red Cherry
said:
“She’s strong. She will recover.”
No one from Pine Leaf’s family had come looking for the warrior. Her mother greeted them at the
entrance to the lodge. She pointed to a lair of skins along the far side of the house. Morning Star
carried Pine Leaf to it and lay her down. The other people there were Pine Leaf’s father, an older
sister and her husband, and a woman famous for her knowledge of healing herbs. The family must
have sensed that something was wrong, Morning Star thought.
“We didn’t get a chance to try to save her brother’s life,” her mother said, stoically. “We have that
chance with Pine Leaf. It seems like not so long ago that Pine Leaf took up fighting. She still is
mourning her brother. We are, too. That is why we can’t mourn her, also.”
The herbalist examined Pine Leaf. The unconscious woman’s family knelt beside her except for her
mother who stood and talked in shock to Morning Star and his wives. After a few minutes, they left
and she fainted in the same spot.
To escape the display of sorrow, Morning Star and his wives slipped into Swift Fish’s lodge. Black
Panther ran to his weak father and smothered his legs with kisses. Morning Star sat down and
solemnly caressed his son. The women looked nervously at each other. They did not know what he
was thinking. They did not know that he was thinking nothing and feeling dead.
“I hope that Pine Leaf gets better,” Lots of Trees said.
Morning Star stayed silent. The other women agreed with her. They admired Pine Leaf’s toughness
to fight with the men despite the braves’ comments about her soft beauty not qualifying as the
makings of a warrior. Pine Leaf had responded to their quips with barbs pinpointing their
weaknesses. The men had stopped teasing her.
Swift Fish, Lots of Trees and Red Cherry knew of their husband’s marriage proposals to Pine Leaf.
They believed that having Pine Leaf in the family would be a tremendous honor. They also thought
that she would retain her hard-won prestige outside the sphere of marriage.
Morning Star fell asleep. Lots of Trees and Red Cherry left for their lodges.
The next day, Laughing Coyote returned from a solitary hunt and came to see Morning Star,
hoping that he had survived the massacre.
“So many died,” Laughing Coyote said. They were alone, sitting. “I didn’t know you were alive until
I got here to the lodge.”
“Yes, I’m alive,” Morning Star said, without a smile, without relief, without life. Why do we do it?
Why do we go into battle?”
“What a question, Morning Star. We have to do it. Everyone does it.”
“It was horrible out there,” Morning Star said. Laughing Coyote was a warrior who could
understand better than his wives. “We were outnumbered two to one. We didn’t have a chance. I
don’t know why I’m not dead. Pine Leaf took an arrow near her heart. She’s been unconscious for
days.”
“Oh no!”
“Yes, our famed warrior is fighting for her life. She shouldn’t have to be! Why do we go into battle,
Laughing Coyote? Tell me why.”
Laughing Coyote did not answer. He had never seen Morning Star so distraught.
“It’s a fatal sport we play,” Morning Star continued. “I don’t understand it anymore. I’m not going
back out until Pine Leaf gets well and, then again, maybe I never will.”
“Never,” Laughing Coyote repeated.
“Never,” Morning Star said. “I’m feeling estranged here after the battle where I watched so many
grasp for their last breath. And the scene here when we got back was all red and screaming.
“I hate it, Laughing Coyote,” Morning Star shouted. “I hate the way we fight and mourn. We’re
hurting ourselves.”
"We're making ourselves stronger," Laughing Coyote shouted back.
“What are you getting at, Morning Star,” Laughing Coyote asked, staring into his brother’s eyes.
Morning Star paused and then said:
“You know me well. I didn’t even know I was getting at something but I guess I was.”
“What is it,” Laughing Coyote said, comfortingly.
“I’ve been here so long that I’d forgotten there was any other way to live.”
“We are your people, Morning Star. This is the way you should live.”
No, you’re not my people, Morning Star thought. I’m a fake. I’ve been living a lie for ten years. I
am James Pierson Beckwourth.
“I didn’t grow up like this,” Morning Star said.
“It’s in your blood. You can’t deny it.”
“I’m not sure how much that counts.”
“What a thing to say! You are in a strange mood. The battle against the Cheyennes must have been
catastrophic.”
“It was. Something’s happening. I feel isolated.”
“Isolated,” Laughing Coyote repeated. Sadly, he stared down at the ground.
“I’ve got to leave,” Morning Star said. “I’ve got to go back.”
“So, the time has come.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When Pine Leaf gets better.”
“And what if she doesn’t?”
“I can’t stay here.”
Laughing Coyote stood up and started to pace. He talked as he walked.
“You sound so self-righteous,” he said. “What do you think? That the whites don’t fight? That they
don’t kill? Do you think that they are somehow better than us? Is that it?”
Morning Star started to speak but Laughing Coyote cut him off.
“You think only of yourself. What about your family? What about your wives? What about your
son?
“What about me,” Laughing Coyote screamed. He stopped pacing and swung around to look
at Morning Star. “You’re my link to the tribe, to family, to being a part of the world. You’re my
brother. You changed my life by becoming my brother. You can’t just walk away.”
Morning Star got to his feet. He went over to Laughing Coyote and took his hands.
“We’re brothers always. But we’re both outsiders. It’s a strong bond between us. And just as I gave
you acceptance into the tribe, you’ve got to give me my freedom. You’ve got to let me go.”
Laughing Coyote pulled his hands away.
“You don’t make the rules for everyone,” he said, and then walked out.
Why had he even bothered to try to talk with him, Morning Star thought. Because they had vowed
themselves brothers; because they had promised to tell each other secrets.
“He makes me so damn angry with his selfishness,” Morning Star said, aloud.
“Who does,” asked Swift Fish, who had come in at that moment.
“My brother,” Morning Star said, flippantly.
“Laughing Coyote passed me on his way out, but he was so intent that he didn’t see me. What were
you two talking about? Wasn’t he glad to see you alive?”
“Laughing Coyote is naïve. He doesn’t think things can change. He expected me to be alive and here
waiting for his morning call.”
“Well, that’s hardly reason for anger. Was he upset about Pine Leaf?”
“No, he didn’t have much to say about her. That’s why I’m angry.”
“Laughing Coyote is not as close to Pine Leaf as you are. He’s a loner. You are the friend he cares
about most.”
“That’s becoming clearer to me.”
Morning Star lied to his wife because he did not know what else to do. Swift Fish heard the
hollowness in his story, but she did not dispute him because she was afraid to know the truth. She
could sense change in the air.
“Where’s Black Panther? Where’s my Little Jim,” Morning Star asked.
Swift Fish’s heart tightened. Blood stopped flowing. Her hands grew cold, her face white. Was she
right? Did he plan to take Black Panther away? Was that the change that upset Laughing Coyote?
“He’s with Red Cherry,” she said, and then she asked cagily, “Morning Star, do you know whether
your contract with the American Fur Company is going to be renewed again?”
She wanted to talk, Morning Star thought. She watched him to know what was going on in his mind.
“No, I haven’t asked about the company’s intention,” he said. “But I don’t know if I want to
continue working for it. I think that it’s been too many years. It isn’t satisfying anymore. I want to
do something else.”
“What, Morning Star?”
“I don’t know. But I think I have to go back to St. Louis to find it.”
“When do you leave,” she asked, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought and speech.
“In a few weeks,” he said, caught in the flow of truth.
“Will you go alone,” she asked.
She had to know, she thought. She had no choice.
Morning Star did not know what to say. Swift Fish had stayed so close to him since Black Panther
was born, Morning Star thought that she wanted to go with him.
“He ha,” Morning Star said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “You have been a good wife, a very
good wife. I would like to take you with me but the way is long and dangerous. I will miss you but I
cannot in good conscience take you.”
“Are you taking Red Cherry or Lots of Trees?”
“It would not be any less dangerous for them than for you.”
“You are taking Pine Leaf then?”
“How can you even say that,” Morning Star said, dropping his hands, “When she may be dying as
we speak?”
Swift Fish could see that her direct questions were starting to anger her husband. She hoped it was
not too late.
“Black Panther will be disappointed,” she said, and she waited, praying for a confirmation.
Finally, after a long pause, he said, wistfully:
“I know he will be.”
Swift Fish wanted to shout out her joy. She wanted to run into Morning Star’s arms and hug him.
She wanted to tell the world that she had been wrong. Instead, she said nothing and kept a numb
expression on her face as Morning Star assumed a stern look and said, seriously.
“Swift Fish, experienced mountain men lose their lives on this trail. I cannot take anyone with me.
That’s all there is to it. I’m not going to say another word about it.”
Morning Star turned and barrelled his way out of the lodge on his way to see Pine Leaf. He felt
fenced in by his life. His decisions affected many other people. When did that start to happen? It
was not always like that. When he was younger, he had the sense of living for himself. Is it just a
matter of time before responsibilities glue themselves to everyone? Does one commitment
proliferate into many?
It was not easy to consider leaving Absaroka, the homeland that had embraced him and made him
over. The Sparrowhawks honored him but he needed to make a name for himself among his
people. He loved his family, but he could not live there any longer. He promised himself that he
would visit; he would see the changes in Black Panther as his son got older.
Swift Fish had not asked her husband whether he planned to return. It was not as important to her
as finding out about her son. She had not thought about the effect of not being touched by a man.
She had not thought that she would become brittle around the edges as though the fires of passion
had dimmed inside. She had not thought that she would forget the healing powers of sex.
Black Panther’s mother dashed away to Red Cherry’s lodge to give her friend the good news and to
hold her son. Later, when Swift Fish heard that Morning Star would visit regularly, she was pleased;
Lots of Trees felt abandoned and unsure about her future; Red Cherry prepared to look for
another husband.
Morning Star spent the next seven days faithfully sitting with Pine Leaf. On the eighth day, she
opened her dark eyes. He trembled with happiness.
“Pine Leaf, you’re going to be all right,” he said.
Morning Star,” she said, with difficulty. “What happened?”
“We were fighting the Cheyennes. Remember?”
“No, I don’t…Yes, I do,” she said, shakily before closing her eyes again.
Morning Star excitedly called her relatives who were moving about the lodge. They hugged and
squeezed each other and then laughed for the first time since Pine Leaf had come back from the
war. They knew that she had crossed the major hurdle although she was not able to stay awake for
long.
Morning Star kept up his daily vigil for two months, all the time knowing that his departure was
drawing nearer. He hoped to obtain another position with the fur company in St. Louis. He wanted
to ease back into the life of the city.
Laughing Coyote brooded over his brother’s impending journey. He avoided him and Morning Star
did not pursue him. When Pine Leaf found out that her friend planned to leave, she tried to
persuade him against it.
“Are there buffalo hunts in St. Louis,” she asked.
“No,” Morning Star said.
“Are there handsome women warriors,” Pine Leaf asked.
“No,” he said.
“Is the art of archery displayed in battle?”
“No,” he said.
But in his mind, Morning Star said yes to theatre, yes to paved streets and yes--oh yes—to Eliza. He
had sent another letter to her a month ago in August by the Express, the canoed mail passage
between Western trading posts and St. Louis. He wanted to marry Eliza as soon as he got back. He
daydreamed about a whole new life for himself on the early morning walks he began taking alone.
He watched the day break when everyone else slept.
One warm afternoon in Dying Grass Moon, September, the sun struck the stream with a white light
that made it spangle like a serpentine jewel. Black Panther and other children chased yellow
butterflies beside it. Swift Fish watched them as she beaded a bag with forked figures. There was a
calm that sparked peaceful memories.
That evening in Swift Fish’s lodge, Morning Star said goodby. Black Panther started crying; Swift
Fish wished him a safe journey. His other relatives and admirers sanctioned his decision by not
saying much. Morning Star was sad about leaving, but he pushed sadness aside to make room for
tomorrow.
A scene by Swiss lithographer John Caspar Wild of the St. Louis riverfront in 1844 with the old St. Louis Courthouse dome and church steeples, including the old Cathedral on the far left
PART III
CHAPTER 22
James Pierson Beckwourth cringed when he took to the streets of St. Louis—the many streets. The
town looked so much larger than he had remembered it. Had he guided himself two thousand seven
hundred and fifty miles from the headwaters of the Yellowstone to the steamboat at Jefferson City
only to lose his way in the labyrinth of his hometown? Was it the town’s layout that had changed so
dramatically or was it his nervousness that had made him forget?
The pace had quickened. People dashed down the wooden sidewalks pass shops of different kinds
—for dresses, provisions, animal feed. Horse-drawn carriages suffered a slow journey in the
congested streets. St. Louis looked like an old Eastern city must look, Jim thought, all built up with
nowhere to roam. He was so disheartened by St. Louis that when he passed Casner’s blacksmith
shop and saw that it was still there, he was relieved. Then he walked to a livery where he hired a
horse for two days.
No one anywhere looked twice at Jim. Not one person recognized him or, if they did, they were too busy to approach him. Jim looked
much the way he had when he left. His body still moved with the ease of a wild animal but his wavy hair, worn loose, reached the small
of his back. And his smile had vanished; his awareness of his mortality had drenched his face. Although dressed defiantly in the skins of
antelope, deer and mountain sheep decorated with elk’s teeth, he felt death breathing down his neck.
Jim found his way out of the maze of St. Louis. The miles between town and Beckwourth’s Settlement showed many more houses than
there once were but there were no changes in the road leading home.
On arrival at his family’s house, he stood outside a few minutes and looked up at its grandeur. Then he climbed the front steps and
swung the brass door knocker. When a young woman with an open face answered the door, nothing was said by either party for a spell.
Then Jim greeted his youngest sister in his old way:
“How do you do, Lou?”
“Jim,” she said, in utter amazement. “You are alive and well and back home.” One month ago, she had opened a letter from a trader
informing the family of Jim’s dead body being carried into Fort Cass.
They embraced and Jim walked over the threshold. He was happy to see Louise, but he felt estranged from her by the time he had spent
away. Surely, she must have been thinking the same thought. But no, she was not. Louise had heard all about Jim, the mountain man,
from fellow mountaineers who passed through the area. She was meeting the men in Jim’s stories. The hero was back home. He had
defied death again.
“Where is everyone,” he asked. “The house seems quiet.”
“Not all of us—, “she started to explain when Randolph entered the living room and interrupted her.
“Jim, Jim, Jim. My brother, Jim. Welcome home. Thank God you’re alive. We got word not so long ago that you were killed by a band
of Indians.”
They shook hands and hugged. Randolph’s graying hair shocked Jim.
“I don’t know how that rumor got started,” Jim said. “As you can see, I’m flesh and blood.”
“This calls for a celebration,” said the oldest of the Beckwourth clan. “Louise, can you plan a dinner for tomorrow evening. We can
invite Jim’s old friends.”
“Of course, Randolph. I’ll take care of it.”
“Where is Father? And where’s Mattie,” Jim asked.
“Oh my dear lost brother,” Randolph said. “You have much to catch up on. Sit down, please.”
Everyone sat. Randolph, however, dominated the conversation.
“Mattie lives in Paris now. She has her own family and a writing career. She’s been in France several years. I’ve got her first novel
upstairs. It was published in England under the masculine-sounding name, M. Clive Beckwourth, to avoid hurting sales. It’s a Western
adventure based on your stories and letters. You have to read it. Matilda’s writing is deeply felt like Mother’s guitar playing and her
songs. We’re very proud of Mattie.”
“How many children does she have? Who is her husband?”
“She has one child, four years old. She married a Haitian man, a doctor. I haven’t visited them but Mattie writes that they live in a
spacious house which is tastefully decorated. She says that she is happier than she has ever been. She writes early in the morning.
Someone comes in to take care of her daughter, Yvonne, while she works. Her husband, Marcel, keeps his office in the house. I have
met him. They came here shortly after they married. I wasn’t surprised by him. He’s charming, witty, several years older than Mattie
and seems to be very much in love with her.”
“If it can be said that dreams come true, they seem to have done just that for Mattie,” Jim said. “I can’t believe it. But then again, I can.
I found it impossible to imagine Mattie living in St. Louis.”
Jim regretted, however, that he would not be able to talk tonight with the sister dearest to him. He would miss Matilda fussing over him
and confiding her secrets.
“How is everyone else,” Jim asked.
Randolph took a deep breath and continued to fill in the twelve missing years of Beckwourth family history.
“Father finally decided to move back to Fredericksburg, Virginia. He said that he felt it was time for him to go back. He wrote that it
was as beautiful as he remembered it. Most of his friends were still back there; they had never moved.
“So Father did well. He was happy for ten months. And then, about five years ago, I’m sorry to have to tell you, he died with a bad
heart. He’s buried back East. We all went for the funeral. Virginia hadn’t changed a bit. It’s just as racist as it ever was.”
“Father is dead,” Jim asked, slowly, disbelievingly.
“Yes,” Randolph said.
The news sent a chill down Jim’s back which had stiffened instantly. He shivered noticeably. Death had occurred frequently in his
travels to people he knew but he had not expected it to happen to anyone at home. His father was gone forever. He did not want to
believe it, but the chill persisted.
“I don’t know what to say, Randolph,” he said.
“I understand, Jim. Perhaps I should have waited to tell you. I didn’t see any other way. I’m so used to his absence. Father left
Beckwourth’s Settlement so long ago. Maybe it was easier for me to accept his death because he wasn’t living here anymore. I’m sorry,
Jim.”
“I wish it weren’t true. I wish I could have seen him again,” Jim said. Then he stared at the floor for a few minutes, saying nothing.
Randolph said: “We can talk again tomorrow if you like.”
“No, no,” said Jim, snapping out of his trance. “I want to know the rest. How is everyone else in the house?”
Jim set the announcement of his father’s death in a corner of his mind, but it kept moving to the front, washing over everything that
Jim heard.
“Not many of us in the house,” Randolph answered. “After Father gave us our freedom and we got older, many of our brothers and
sisters left Missouri. Most of us went to live in Northern cities where we could enjoy a sophisticated life without the fetters of prejudice.
“After Father’s funeral, Caswell, Benjamin and Jocelyn disappeared, we believe, up north. Where, we don’t know. No one seems to. I
don’t even know if they stayed together. That would have been the practical thing to do. But maybe not for those three. They wanted to
leave the family. They wanted to leave the past. They wanted to be white. If they stayed together, it would be more likely that their black
features would be recognized. Goodness knows, all three of them were light enough with straight enough hair to pass for white.”
Randolph paused and sighed deeply. Sadly. He continued:
“Theirs is the most tragic story of all of us. They might as well be dead,” said Randolph, in the voice of a judge pronouncing a sentence.
In a changed, softened tone, he said, “Not long after you left, Peter died in a riding accident. You remember he was always a daredevil
on a horse.
“Evangeline and Abigail married and live in Chicago with their families. They are in good health and doing well. Joshua and Edward
moved to New York City. They write every other year at Christmas. Amy lives in Philadelphia with her husband, a well-to-do lawyer.
She loves tending to her rose garden in good weather. She hasn’t had any children yet.
“And there we are. I’ve mentioned everyone, haven’t I? Remember how Mother would always leave one of us out when she was calling a
roll or accounting for all of us. She’d leave out someone different every time. At least she was fair about it.
Jim agreed. Randolph’s final comment added a lightheartedness to their heavy-hearted conversation.
“Yes, you’ve named everyone,” said Jim, overwhelmed by the changes to which he had returned.
The Beckwourth family, so permanent in the past, was now a fragmented and flimsy thing. Jim had paid rapt attention to Randolph’s
report though Jim had never been particularly close to his younger siblings; he had left home before they grew up. Jim thanked God
that he was also Morning Star. He thanked God that he had a son. However, a part of Jim was floating, unattached to anything. And it
made Jim feel lost.
Randolph also had news about some of Jim’s friends from Mr. Niel’s Academy. Many still lived either in St. Louis or nearby. Jim said
that he wanted to visit whomever he could. When he asked about Eliza, Randolph grew quiet.
“What’s wrong,” Jim asked. “Is she ill? Is she—“
“No, she’s not dead, Jim. So much has happened in her life. Two years ago, her mother died tragically. She poisoned herself. Eliza
found her on her bed dead one evening. It was horrible. Since then, Eliza’s been running the school and doing well with it.”
“I must see her,” said Jim, in a maniacal voice.
Everything depended on Eliza. Stability rested in Eliza.
“I’ve got to see her. But I’m going to wait until I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep and put on fresh clothing. Tomorrow morning, I’m going
to ask her to marry me now.”
“Jim, I’m not—, “Randolph began.
“I know that she’ll be angry with me at first. But she’ll forgive me. She always does. She loves me. And I love her.”
Jim ran upstairs without turning around. Otherwise, he would have seen Louise clutch Randolph’s arm and Randolph start to tell him
something.
If it had not been for the physical exhaustion of traveling, Jim would not have been able to sleep. He dreamt about walking along the
Rappahonnock River, his mother’s hand holding his in a warm, safe cocoon. Then suddenly, his mother’s hand was gone and his was
so small and cold. In fear, he closed it into a fist. He woke up feeling abandoned. Quickly, he bathed and dressed in his mountain best.
He dashed out of the house before he saw Randolph and Louise that Saturday morning.
Jim rode tall into St. Louis. A thick, gold wedding band pressed against his heart. He carried it as proof to Eliza that, this time, he was
serious. The prospect of holding Eliza’s soft hands excited him. He arrived at Eliza’s house effortlessly, as if in a dream.
Eliza swung open the door quickly. Her wide smile vanished when she saw Jim standing there. She was shocked to see him there—and
to see him alive. Politely, she invited him into the house. As he walked in, he leaned over to kiss her cheek. She pulled away so that his
lips brushed strands of her fiery hair brushed back from her small face but let loose in the back. She has the profile of a lioness, Jim
thought, and a stance that connotes strength.
Eliza showed him to the downstairs parlor, her emerald green dress swishing. She cuts a figure of power, Jim thought, a different
woman than the one I remember. Eliza excused herself, returned with the tea set and sat opposite Jim—out of touching distance—and
then Jim was convinced that Eliza had changed.
“The years have made you surer of yourself,” he said.
“For a long time, I had only myself to be sure of,” she said, as she poured and served the tea.
“Yes. Randolph told me about your mother. I am sorry.”
“Thank you for your condolences—late as they are. And you, Jim, how have you been,” Eliza asked, in a disinterested tone. Jim believed
that she was pretending not to care and that he could conquer any challenge.
“I’ve missed you, Eliza,” he said. “My work has taken me away from you but I’ve saved seven thousand and eight hundred dollars. I’m
back now and I’m here to stay.”
Jim thought that confessing his assets would help him cross the deep ravine separating him from his love. But Eliza did not respond to
mention of his money.
“Back here to stay,” Eliza asked. “You were out there twelve years, Jim. Are you leaving someone else behind?”
Eliza merely was testing Jim but she stunned him with her realistic approach. He blurted out an answer:
“There were women who were sad to see me leave. After all, I lived with the Sparrowhawks for ten years. I became part of their tribe.
And I dissolved any doubts about my allegiance by taking wives. I took three. It secured my social standing and it assured my trading
business.”
It was Eliza’s turn to be stunned. Three wives! But she hid her shock and kept talking.
“Do you have children,” she asked.
“I have one child, a son named Black Panther,” Jim said, ignorant of the reaction that he was sowing. “But his mother, Swift Fish, and
my other wives, Lots of Trees and Red Cherry, knew I was leaving. I came home to begin a new life.
“I’ve always loved you, Eliza. My relationship with those women had nothing to do with us or my feelings for you. Our love is still the
most important thing in the world to me. I worship you. I adore you. I love you first and always. Eliza, I want to marry you today—no
later than tomorrow. Will you do me the honor of marrying me now?”
Eliza trembled with anger. She knew that Jim was egotistical but she could not believe his audacity. Did he expect her to believe him?
Why couldn’t he be honest? But if he were honest, what difference would it make? She had waited many years—faithfully—for this man
to come home to her and marry her and live with her and give her children. And now, here he sat before her calming saying that he had
gone and done all that with someone else who did not matter as much to him as she did.
Eliza was heartbroken. What she thought she had with Jim never was. She shrieked:
“Love, love. What good is this love you talk of? What does it mean, what, when it can’t keep you home? When you give yourself to other
women? When you take them? What is this love when you try to own me like a painting or a piece of sculpture? Love what? Love
whom? Our love! I don’t know who we are anymore. I only know that I cannot see the end of the pain. Do you hear me, Jim
Beckwourth?”
“Darling Eliza, what are you saying? I only did what I had to do out there for our sake. For our love. For our life together!”
“Jim, please, please, please shut up,” she said, her eyes squeezing shut by the last word and popping open wide again. “They’re lies.
You never went out West, from the start, for our sake. It was for you. You wanted to leave St. Louis. You wanted to explore. You did what
you wanted to do for your sake. It had nothing to do with us. You’re a skunk, Jim. A selfish skunk.”
Jim froze. How dare she call him names! There was no reason for that. He had not expected this outburst. Why was she so upset?
Eliza continued talking in a lowered voice as though she were thinking aloud:
“If only my confusion, my whirligig thoughts, could have been about someone who was worth it. All those sleepless nights. All those
prayers. All that worrying.”
She turned back to addressing Jim directly in a strong voice:
“You weren’t worth it, Jim. And I hate you for it.”
“Eliza, you’re blowing everything out of proportion,” Jim shouted. “Why can’t you just accept me as I am?”
“Because I’ve accepted someone else. On two occasions, we’d gotten word of your death. This last time, you may as well have been dead
as far as I’m concerned. How were we to know otherwise? You didn’t go out of your way to communicate. Now I know why. You didn’t
have much free time what with three wives to satisfy, a tribe to lead and a son to raise! Busy man!”
“Eliza—“
“For a long time, I felt unfaithful to you even feeling something for another man. But then I asked myself, ‘To whom do I owe my loyalty
—to a man whose face I can barely remember or to the man who is here needing me and taking care of me?
“A year ago, I accepted a marriage proposal from an honest, decent abolitionist from back East. I wanted to wait until you got back to
tell you but then we heard about your early demise. I have been married one month, James Beckwourth. I am now Eliza Whitmore.
Mrs. Frank Whitmore. Here is my ring.”
She extended her left hand to display a floral engraved gold wedding band. Jim had not noticed it before.
“Why, Eliza,” he asked rhetorically, in a broken voice. “Why? Why? Why?”
The dejected suitor stumbled out of his sweetheart’s house. It was over. Everything was over. What had made him think that he could
come back to St. Louis? There was nothing here for him. What life did he have? Eliza had betrayed him! He never thought that she
would do this to him. He thought that she loved him. He loved her. No matter what he had done when he was away, always he had
remembered her. He had returned to her. What did she want? Did she want him to marry her before he was ready? Did she want a boy
for a husband? Who did she marry, Jim wondered. The man she described did not resemble anyone that he knew. He was probably an
intellectual; he probably never traveled West; he probably doesn’t take chances. Well, good luck to him. Eliza could be ornery and
domineering. She always insisted that she was right.
While Jim derided Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore and bemoaned his own fate in love, he rode his horse to Estelle Jacobo’s boardinghouse.
Perhaps he could…oh, really, he did not know what he could get anymore. He had not seen Estelle since that night when he caught his
father in her bed. Jim remembered how comforting she could be. Comfort was what he craved more than anything. He was losing his
footing—falling, falling. Losing his dreams. He needed arms around him. He needed to be wanted. He hoped that Estelle still had a
place for him.
The boardinghouse stood in the same spot. Jim dismounted, tied up his horse and climbed the front steps with his heart in his mouth.
He had no idea what he would say. Before he could compose an introduction, Estelle answered the door. She was completely gray; she
was carrying many more pounds on her short body and lines under her eyes on her still pretty face.
“Jim Beckwourth, I never thought I’d see your face at my door again! Did you just get back to town? My, you’re looking fine! Looking
for a room? Come on in.”
They moved into the parlor. Estelle excused herself for a moment. She came back, not long after, wearing red lip color and a bit of
rouge. The make-up became her. She offered Jim chocolates from a box on the table. He took one. She offered him a sherry. He asked if
she had any whiskey. She did. She poured him a drink which he downed quickly. She made him another and sucked on a chocolate. In
the haze of the liquor, which Jim rarely drank, Estelle’s essence shined. She was a delightful woman who loved laughter. She was the
woman who had seduced him many years ago. She was the woman he wanted that morning. But he was cautious.
“Have you married again, Estelle,” he asked.
"No, Jim. I haven’t. And I have no regrets. I’m still enjoying my life.”
“Why don’t we go upstairs and enjoy it together,” he suggested.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said.
They spent the entire day in bed making love, napping and eating chocolates and making love, napping and eating chocolates. It went
on like this.
“So, you know about my father’s death,” Jim said, after one of their cycles of getting reacquainted.
“Jim, I’m so sorry that you didn’t see him before he passed away,” she said.
“I am, too. I never expected it. I know it’s stupid but I never really thought he would die. It’s been years since Mother’s death. I guess I
thought one death was enough for the family.”
“Your father changed,” she said. “He became gentler when he got older.”
“How do you know? Did you see him?”
“Yes, Jim. He came back. We were such good friends. It was impossible for us to stay away from each other.”
Jim felt angry. Then he calmed down. Wasn’t he doing exactly as his father had?
“He talked about you frequently. He was so proud of your daring. He often said that he wished he had your courage. He collected any
newspaper or magazine articles about mountain men.”
“I’m so glad you told me that,” Jim said. He looked away. Tears filled his eyes. He swallowed them. Estelle held him as a mother would.
He had come to the right place. Estelle understood. He sobbed unabashedly.
“So much has changed at home,” Jim said.
“I know. But Jim, it was bound to. I know it’s hard to accept. But I look at you. You’ve changed. You’re older and more confident.
Changes aren’t always bad, only if you try to step backwards in time when the truth is, you can never go back. Keep marching forward,
Jim. Then St. Louis won’t look as dismal as it does now to you.”
Jim shivered. Estelle’s words reminded him of Chief Lots of Stars’s prophecy years ago. Jim had forgotten all about it.
They fell asleep and woke up again in late afternoon.
“Isn’t there a dinner in your honor this evening,” she asked.
“Yes. I forgot all about it,” Jim said.
“Well, I didn’t. One of your servants came by early this morning to extend an invitation. I wasn’t going to go. I’m relieved that you came
to visit me. I bought a purple dress and a rose colored shawl for my birthday two months ago. I look stunning in those colors despite
the extra weight I’ve put on.”
“You look stunning now,” Jim said, sincerely.
“Thank you,” said Estelle, truly appreciating the compliment from the mouth of a man who had known her when she drew admiring
glances from passers-by in the street.
A feverish wave came over Jim. And then chills.
“What’s wrong,” Estelle asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not one to get sick. But I was caught in a canoe during a rainstorm that lasted a few days after leaving Fort Canaille. I
was feeling weak in Jefferson City but didn’t want to delay my homecoming. Anyway, I thought I’d worked this out of my system. It
doesn’t look like that happened. I guess I was too anxious yesterday to remember to be sick. Maybe being back in this civilization is
making me ill.”
“There could be some truth to that. You’ve been removed from city diseases for a long time. And that trip coming back sounded
harrowing. Weren’t you afraid that your boat would capsize?”
“I was working to keep us upright. I had a small boy, Samual Pappen’s son, Gerald, as my charge. I was instructed countless times to
take good care of the son of one of our prominent businessmen. So when the storm broke, I had little time in my head for worry and
fear.”
“That’s the difference between you and most people, Jim, who make room for fear. Do you feel up to the dinner tonight?”
“Oh, yes. That’ll be fine.”
Jim deduced that no one there would notice. Mattie would have known something was wrong. She would have felt it.
“I’d better get back to the house and prepare for this gala occasion. You’ll be fine coming over?”
“Yes. I’ll have my man take me,” Estelle said.
They rose and dressed like an old married couple. They kissed goodby in a familiar way. Jim was so happy to know her; she was
grateful for Jim.
On his way to Beckwourth’s Settlement, Jim tried not to think. But it was difficult to block out sweet memories of his wives and son and
life among the Sparrowhawks whom he had left to return to a town that was strange to him.
“Jim,” accosted his brother, Randolph, as soon as he walked into the house. “Join me in a drink, won’t you?”
The mountain man readily agreed. He wanted to be distracted from his pathetic predicament.
“What will you have? Whiskey?”
“That sounds good. I’ve had two already today.”
“I know,” Randolph said. “I smelled it on your breath. Did you see Eliza today?”
“Yes, I did. You were trying to tell me she was married, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was. I still intended to this morning but you were too quick for me. I’m sorry, Jim. I know how much you cared for her.”
“Thank you, Randolph. But I’m not so sure how I felt about her. When she told me she was married, I was upset, torn apart. I’m still
hurt but I’m fast growing accustomed to the idea. I also keep thinking of Eliza’s faults that would have gotten in the way of a happy
marriage. I don’t know, Randolph. Maybe I thought I loved her because I thought it was expected of me. Her family background is so
similar to mine. And we’d been a couple for so long.”
“I never knew family background was so important to you,” Randolph said. “What does it matter? This is America. Look at Mother and
Father.”
“They were a scandal,” Jim said.
“They were a happy scandal in love,” returned Randolph. “I’ve been seeing a woman secretly who is a slave. She’s uneducated, never
received formal schooling of any kind. But she is wise and kind. Her name is Christine. I love her. And I want to marry her although I
haven’t asked her yet.
“I hope to secure her freedom for her. I think I’ll have of father’s friends execute the purchase for me. That way, there won’t be any
complications. The owner will feel comfortable selling her to another white man for whom he will assume she will work as a slave. He
won’t have to know that he’ll be selling her into freedom.”
“Congratulations, Randolph. I hope it works out.”
“It will. But anyway, as I was saying, I didn’t know that social background meant that much to you.”
“It does and it doesn’t. I began a family out West.”
Then Jim proceeded to talk with his brother about Swift Fish and Black Panther, and Lots of Trees and Red Cherry. His wives were all
prominent women because of their connections and their talents and abilities. Jim was astounded that he and his brother were talking
so intimately when they never had before. Randolph was always so wary of him. So envious. He confessed that he had been jealous of
Jim’s relationship with their father. But after Jennings set his children free and Jim left home again, Jennings and Randolph had
become friends as men. Randolph told Jim that their father had not left much money. He showed Jim Jennings’s will. Since only
Randolph and Louise lived at Beckwourth’s Settlement, he was trying to sell the house. He said that he would split the profit equally
nine ways.
“I’ve been closing down the house gradually,” Randolph said. “We have only a handful of servants. I’ve given everyone their freedom
and kept on a few whom I felt we needed and could pay without any strain. Understand, brother, it’s not that we’re in the poorhouse.
Father made some unfortunate investments before leaving Beckwourth’s Settlement, ones he thought would take care of his children for
the rest of our lives. Well, it didn’t quite work out that way. I’m making sure that we don’t live above our means.”
“Do you mean, Randolph, that if I had waited another year to come home, I would have found another family living at Beckwourth’s
Settlement in our house?”
“I am saying, Jim, that if you had waited another few months, you would not have found Louise and I here. That’s correct.”
"Isn’t there any way that you can hold onto the house,” Jim asked. “It represents our family. It holds memories of Mother and Father
and all of us growing up.”
“It represents the past,” Randolph said. “I’ve got to move on. We all do. I’ll soon be looking for work in a business, managing it or acting
as its accountant. I want to start my own business. But I’m taking it slow. Managing family assets is socially acceptable no matter what
color you are but a black man managing his own business is a different thing. I’ve got to be careful in how I approach my new career.
You understand. Anyway, I don’t want to keep drawing on my inheritance and the profit from the house.”
“If you’re going to get a position, then why move out,” Jim asked.
“Because I will have to provide for my family’s future after I’m gone. You know what I mean, Jim, being a father and all.”
No, he did not know. His brother’s comments jabbed Jim. He had not thought about providing for his son’s future or his wives’. They
lived in a different world. Family would take care. Jim did not think and plan like his older brother. He did not want to give up the
house at Beckwourth’s Settlement. But could he live in it? Alone? With Randolph and Louise? Not with Eliza and their children. God,
his life was topsy-turvy. He could not imagine buying property because he felt rootless. The house was a shrine to the rooted past.
At dinner, Jim looked about the dining room as though it were a mirage. He was giving a farewell performance to that room. A dozen
guests, including Jim, Randolph and Louise, laughed, moaned and guffawed at Jim’s latest escapades. No one—not his siblings or
John and Christine Hierophant, General Ashley and his wife or the four other classmates of Jim—could outdo him or even tried. They
led sedentary lives. Jim was different from them.
“What’s the news in the world? I got snips of it very occasionally,” Jim said, in a courteous effort to draw others into the conversation.
“You must have heard about Texas,” Estelle said. “The Alamo at San Antonio fell to the Mexicans earlier this year. And then a month
later, Sam Houston, the former governor of Tennessee, and his men cried ‘Remember the Alamo’ as they defeated the Mexicans at the
Battle of San Jacinto. There is now a Republic of Texas. Houston is its president, and there is also a city named for him.”
“No, I hadn’t heard about it,” Jim said. “I must have been traveling.”
“Arkansas is now a state—the twenty-fifth,” John said.
“The war in Florida against the Seminoles is still going on,” Ashley said. “The Indians and their black slaves massacred one hundred
U.S. soldiers. I believe that atrocities are being committed by both sides. I guess that’s what war does. It dehumanizes all of us.”
“General,” Jim exclaimed. “I’m surprised to hear you express such sentiments.”
“I’m older now,” Ashley said. “I’m not moving as quickly anymore. I’ve had time to look at myself in the mirror. Since I left trapping,
I’ve enjoyed a rewarding public life. In 1831, I was elected to Congress and been twice re-elected. I’m running for governor again. I lost
in 1824. I’ve been lucky in life, and I have the luxury of looking it over and evaluating it. One thing that I realize is that I abhor war and
wish there were a substitute for it.”
“I’ve had my fill of war for awhile,” Jim said. “As a Sparrowhawk chief, I fought countless battles against our enemies—the Cheyennes
and the Blackfeet. It was a way of life. And I won’t lie—I loved the headiness of war! But recently, I almost lost a dear friend of mine in
battle. I couldn’t make any sense of it. Passion wasn’t answer enough.”
“I believe that war does have its place,” Louise said, “When the fight is for a cause, an ideal.”
Jim thought that if Mattie were present, she may have made a similar statement. He smiled broadly at his youngest sister, now a
woman.
“What did you have in mind,” Randolph asked.
“Nat Turner’s Rebellion,” Louise answered.
The table hushed with fear.
“It was a slave uprising in Virginia five years ago,” Louise said. “Nat Turner was a slave who killed his master and his master’s family
as they slept one night. Then he and several dozen slaves fought for their freedom. Many lost their lives in the two-day period. Sixty or
so whites were killed.
“Slavery is an evil, inhuman, unchristian institution,” Louise said. “Mattie wrote in a letter that a few months after the Virginia
rebellion, there was one in Jamaica called Samuel Sharp’s Rebellion. The slaves there forced the sugar plantation owner, at gunpoint, to
sign papers freeing them. People will risk death for their freedom.”
“Death is what those two men—Turner and Sharp—got, too, wasn’t it,” Ashley said. “They were hung.”
“Their deaths won’t take away the appetite for freedom,” Louise said.
“You sound like that Northerner, Eliza Shepheard’s husband. What is his name…Frank Whitmore,” Ashley said. “He walks, talks and
breathes abolition. He’s a crazed man, I say.
“And to you, m’dear, I say that violence and bloodshed will not win freedom for the slaves in the United States. The country is not ready
economically or morally for that. We have to take care of those who cannot take care of themselves.”
“Rather than being taken care of like a child all my life, I’d choose to go to Africa,” Louise said.
“That’s what the Dutch Boers are doing,” Randolph said, in an attempt to defuse the conversation. “They are founding states in South
Africa.”
“Is that right,” Jim said, understanding his brother’s tactic of diversion and not wanting to talk about race. “I don’t know anything
about the Boers.”
“I don’t know much either,” Randolph said. “Only that they’ve been moving to South Africa since last year.”
John Hierophant asked Jim what everyone else was thinking: “When are you leaving again?”
The guests had not thought that Jim may have considered St. Louis the last stop. How could a man who risked his life as a matter of
course think seriously about forsaking adventure for stability. Jim’s friends felt that he acted as their emissary. He had escaped for all
of them. They loved to see Jim at home as they loved to see him leave and collect more stories for the next dinner.
“I don’t know when I’m leaving or if I’m leaving,” Jim said. “I only returned yesterday after years on the road. I think I deserve some
time to make a decision. You will grant me that, won’t you, my friend?”
“Of course, Jim,” said John, who dressed and moved with the confidence of a successful man as did Jim’s other peers. “I just thought
that you had plans. You usually do.
“Well, we have got to be going. We left the children with someone. The little ones said they didn’t mind and that we should ha ve a good
time tonight. Naturally, I’m suspicious. I think we ought to be getting back. Who knows what they have planned for the evening. Thank
you so much, Louise, Jim and Randolph for a wonderful dinner.”
The other guests also excused themselves from the table and thanked the hosts before making their departures. They all offered
practical reasons for leaving so early. Several mentioned that the invitation one day in advance was too last minute. Attending the
evening involved rearranging of schedules.
By this time, Jim was running an unmistakeable fever. He retreated upstairs to bed. Alex, a servant, brought him pots of tea and
checked in on him frequently. What Jim needed most was rest. After a few days, he recovered from his bout with fever.
Jim’s first day out of bed found him in the rococo grandeur of the St. Louis Theatre, which was cloaked in gilded gold. Angelic nymphs
frolicked overhead in a pastoral scene. The deep wine red stage curtain fell with a velvety thud at the end of the second act of a play by
Victor Hugo. As most of the full house rose and walked out during intermission, Jim garnered a number of appreciative looks from the
ladies. He had dressed conventionally for the occasion in dark trousers, jacket and white shirt, but his long hair flowed down his strong
back. He looked unworldly, not of St. Louis. It was this strangeness that appealed to some women.
A drawing of a lynching by fire of Francis L. McIntosh in St. Louis on April 28, 1836. McIntosh, a free black and cook on a steamboard, had been on his way to visit a black chambermaid, who worked on another steamboat that had docked that day, when he was stopped by police. There are conflicting stories as to what led to his arrest for breach of peace. When told that he would serve a minimum of five years in prison, McIntosh fought, fatally stabbing a St. Louis County sheriff's deputy and seriously injuring another. He fled and hid in an outhouse, where a crowd gathered. One man smashed in the door, knocked down McIntosh and took his knife. The crowd took him to jail. Then, a white mob broke into jail and seized McIntosh. The mob took him to the outskirts of town, chained him to a locust tree, and piled wood around him uo to his knees. When the mob lit the wood, McIntosh asked to be shot and then began to sing hymns. Future President Abraham Lincoln said: "...And all within a single hour from the time he had been a free man, attending to his own business, and at peace with the world."
In the theater’s smoky saloon, Jim bought a sherry at the bar made of bird’s eye maple. At the other end stood Tom Fitzpatrick, a
trapper with whom Jim had worked. He wore a frightful, combative scowl, however, that stopped Jim from hailing him. Suddenly, four
strong-armed man surrounded Fitzpatrick. They were up to no good, Jim thought. Before he could figure out what was happening,
Fitzpatrick yelled in Jim’s direction: “There’s the Crow!”
The four men shouted: “Then we are the Blackfeet. Let us take his scalp!”
They drew their knives and rushed down the length of the bar. Jim had no defense. He carried
no weapon. This was St. Louis, for God’s sake. He placed his hands flat on the bar and swung
his body over to the other side from where he threw glasses at his assailants. Two of them fell
before they reached him. An old friend of Jim’s walked behind the bar, furtively passed him a
huge bowie knife and left. Jim stood with the knife drawn contemplating the Sparrowhawk war
whoop when Sheriff Busby slapped his hands on Jim’s shoulders and requested an end to the
trouble. Jim was infuriated; he was frustrated. The rough and ready boys angled toward the
main theatre as though they were above incrimination. Jim ran after them and challenged them
to a fight outside the theatre. The sheriff chased Jim. He threatened to jail him so the mountain
man left to avoid trouble with the law.
The fight was not over yet, Jim knew. He waited at the exit a few minutes. Then he borrowed a
loaded pistol from a friend on the street and proceeded to walk away. But he sensed that he was
being followed. He stole a backward glance as he turned a sharp corner. The same five men
tailed him. They tottered because of the liquor they had imbibed in the saloon. Jim waited for
them to catch up. They were less than one foot away when he stepped out, pistol drawn, and
ordered them to cross to the other side of the road. Lo and behold, they did.
Jim had no idea why those men were after him. He had no memory of clashes with Fitzpatrick.
But a few days later, Jim met up with two of the same party. Jim had learned since that one of
the men, Forsyth, had a reputation for maiming men.
“I hear you’re spreading rumors about a murder attempt on your life,” Forsyth said, loudly so
that others in the street could hear. “People tell me that you’re saying I tried to kill you.”
“People tell you right,” Jim said, in a steady voice. “I’ve made no secret of your effort to kill me
a few nights ago.”
Forsyth, a tough, wiry man, drew his knife, his ‘Arkansas toothpick’ as he put it, from his
pocket.
“I’ll teach you,” Forsyth said, and then spat.
As Forsyth reached for his weapon, Jim did the same. But Jim’s knife was too large to fit into
his pocket. He had strapped it onto his back. He reached for it and whipped it out momentarily.
“Now,” Jim said, with a snarl, “Let’s have it out here, you piece of dirt! I’ll leave you here on
the street to blend with the horse droppings!”
The other man, Kenny, seeing their predicament, interjected: “Come, let’s not degrade ourselves
by using such vulgar language in public.”
Forsyth returned his knife to his pocket. The two walked off again as though nothing had
happened.
Jim had no more trouble with those men. But a few weeks later, he saw Fitzpatrick with several
other trappers at the American Fur Company office.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I’m sorry I missed the opportunity to speak with you at the St. Louis Theatre,
but I was kept quite busy,” Jim said.
“Jim, I’m sorry about that night,” Fitzpatrick said. “When I was out West, I had been told that
you had organized a horse-stealing campaign against me. So when I saw you that night at the
theatre, I wanted to teach you a lesson. Since then, I’ve been set straight and no longer believe
the charge.
“I’m glad I saw you here,” he continued. “I should have apologized to you before but I was
embarrassed that I thought wrong of you. I should have known better. We’ve worked together
before.”
“You should have known better,” Jim said, gruffly. “But we all make mistakes. And reality
changes out there.”
“Glad you feel that way,” Fitzpatrick said. “Let’s shake on it. Friends again.”
They ended their trouble then and there.
With the threat of danger passed, Jim’s life seemed even emptier. From day to day, he cast
around for things to do.
He visited friends frequently, especially General and Mrs. Ashley, Estelle and John. He also
adopted a table at Le Barras’s saloon downstairs from the hotel. He held what he drank but he
drank every day, a far cry from the teetotalism habit he had espoused and practiced in the
Rockies. He spent much of his money in the saloon, buying drinks for himself and for the entire
bar. For other diversion, he would drop in on his tailor, who was making several suits for him.
Life could not have seemed freer for the gentleman, except that he felt out of place and lost.
St. Louis seemed superficial. The customers from Le Barras’s who hailed him on the street
merely wanted to keep in good graces with him so that they could hold onto their own money
and drink at his expense. His friends kept asking him when he planned to leave again. He was
becoming uncomfortable around them; they felt odd having their easy-living friend in town.
So when Jim got word that the Sparrowhawks had been told that white men had murdered him
and that the Indians planned to kill Sam Tulleck of the trading post in retaliation, he was more
than ready to leave St. Louis. Apparently, Tulleck had prompted little Black Panther to ask that
the chiefs wait until the cherries turned red before executing their plan. Jim had to get back
before then, roughly two months from now. The fur company officials worried about the one
hundred thousand dollars worth of goods in the fort. They paid Jim five thousand dollars to
leave immediately and stave off an explosive, costly situation.
Jim hired two men whom he paid one thousand and five hundred dollars each. The three of them
rode as fast as the wind would carry them. Still, they traveled slower than they had hoped. A
month passed quickly. Then forty days, fifty. In fifty-three days, they arrived in Sparrowhawk
country. A few early cherries were smudged with red.
When Morning Star arrived at the Sparrowhawk village, he galloped through, without stopping,
wearing a scowl and shouting that he was angry. Then he rode directly to the fort where Tulleck
was being kept hostage. Morning Star struck the gate with his battle ax while he demanded
admittance.
“Jim Beckwourth is back,” he could hear traders saying, inside the fort. “Jim Beckwourth is
back to save the day.”
The heavy wooden gate swung open. Morning Star rode through, yelling greetings. He and his men dismounted. The two took care of
the horses. Morning Star sat down at a
table outside, silently, sullenly. The braves approached him in a circle. Swift Fish, Lots of Trees
and Red Cherry did the same, each pressing her hand on the back of his neck as a measure of
calming his anger.
Yellow Belly, a head chief, walked over to Morning Star and stood erect in front of him. In a
voice of authority, he asked him why he was so upset. The returning chief answered with a
question.
“Why is it that shortly after I leave, you disobey my wishes to protect and cooperate with the
white traders?”
“We did do that,” answered Yellow Belly, a round figure of a man. “We hunted buffalo for
them. We brought them water and wood. They wanted for nothing.”
“Yes,” Morning Star said. “But you intended to kill Tulleck—and the others, no doubt.”
“No doubt we did,” Yellow Belly said. “And if you had not returned before the cherries ripened,
we would have. If they had killed one of our chiefs, we would have had no choice.”
“I understand,” Morning Star said. “You would have had no choice.”
Morning Star was pleased that the Sparrowhawks saw fit to avenge his alleged murder. At the
time of his departure, he had thought that they were trying to distance themselves from him.
They must have truly believed that he was one of them and that he planned to return home. He
was melancholy no more. He was missed; he was wanted; he was needed.
The Sparrowhawk chief stayed several weeks with his people. Black Panther lost himself in the
rapture of play with his father, who had been away seven months. They ran races with each
other, played catch and went for walks. Morning Star was proud of his son’s intelligence. Black
Panther believed that his father was home to stay. Morning Star’s wives were not so easily
fooled. They sensed the same restlessness they had felt before Morning Star left the first time as
did Pine Leaf and Laughing Coyote.
Five weeks later, Morning Star said that he had to finish some business with the whites. He
promised to return in four seasons. At Fort Union, he did not work out a satisfactory contract
with the American Fur Company. It solidified his decision not to return to live with the
Sparrowhawks.