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  • @ CYNTHIA ADINA KIRKWOOD

JOURNEY TO HONOR (XIII)


Each home consists of two rooms in this adobe dwelling of Taos Pueblo, New Mexico, built bewteen 1000 and 1450 by the Native American tribe of Puebloans

CHAPTER 23

Sometimes Jim felt like a shadow, fuzzy; he felt like smoke, amorphous. But what to do to

become sharper? He did not know and it frustrated him that he did not. Like a bulwark, he

guarded his treasure chest of courage handed down to him by his mother, Winifred. It calmed

him.

Oh, to live past his shadow in the flesh and heart and soul of him, in the bright light of day with

Truth shining through! Jim wanted more of the feeling of omnipotence that comes from

knowing that he could fight for survival and win even while inhaling the stench of death all

around him. He returned to journeying because of the feeling. He knew now that it did not

secure freedom, but it fostered the illusion. And sometimes that was enough.

Jim had flirted briefly with a stay in Florida where he carried dispatches for the United States

Army in the Seminole War. He had felt oppressed by the soldiers who mistook him for a

Seminole black, by the ethereal, swampy and unfamiliar terrain which hosted violent rains and

by the ignorance of a government which equated his knowledge of the Sparrowhawks with a

knowledge of the Seminoles. What did the leaders in Washington City know?

The war in Florida opened Jim’s eyes to the imminent end of an era in America. The rules were

falling away. The Seminole leader, Osceola, had been tricked into coming out of the everglades

under a United States flag of truce. Three months after his protested imprisonment, the

Seminoles had attacked Jim’s camp at Okeechobee on Christmas Day, 1837. They had hidden in

trees and bushes in contrast to the army’s exposed position. A thunderstorm on Christmas Eve

had softened the earth and rendered it difficult to negotiate. Although Jim counted ten dead

Seminoles and one hundred dead soldiers, ‘Old Rough and Ready’ Colonel Zachary Taylor

declared a victory after the four-hour battle. The Seminoles agreed to relocate east.

Jim’s memories of leaving Florida after ten months were of the sunstroke symptoms that he

suffered—the dizziness and exhilaration about his journey away from a wicked, torrid climate

that had tormented him like a bad dream.

The mountains and prairies of the open West had beckoned him back. He had become a trader, a

traveling barterer. He used his gifts for assessing strangers quickly and his talent for persuasion.

Also, the story of his kidnapping as a baby was a famous one. “He is the Sparrowhawk,”

potential customers would say about him.

The experienced mountain man focused on learning the Indian languages in which he did

business. He studied the land at the headwaters of the Arkansas and South Platte rivers around

the three forts he built for the Sioux, Arapahoes and Iatans. He studied the people. The Sioux

numbered more than the other tribes at eight thousand and five hundred souls. It was an

important tribe to the traders. Nomadic and strong warriors, these people struck handsome poses

with their oval facial structure, prominent cheekbones and long braided hair or, for the men,

shaven heads, except for a tuft on top of the head. The Arapahoes, at two thousand and five

hundred, lived as wanderers in tents. They often wore tattoos on their breasts over which long

hair, made even longer with false attachments, would tumble. The Iatans were a much smaller

lot about whom the traders knew little.

Jim was in the employ of Sublette and Vasquez when William Bent, one of the well-known

trading Bent brothers from St. Louis, visited one of Jim’s forts. Bent warned Jim that the

Cheyennes probably would resist trade. The serious man, who rarely smiled when he talked

business, explained that the Cheyennes had been a sedentary people in the northern lake country

a century ago. But the uprooted tribes of the eastern United States and Canada pushed them

southward away from their home. Eventually, they met the horse, became outstanding

equestrians and found their home in movement on the plains. The Cheyennes carried much

hostility toward the whites who were relocating them for their own convenience. Jim, however,

was able to befriend the Cheyennes. He established a fort for trading with them.

Much of Jim’s beaver fur and buffalo robe trading involved whiskey, thirty-gallon kegs of

whiskey. One pint of alcohol, selling for six cents, was made into five pints of whiskey and

traded for five dressed robes. Jim had prided himself on keeping the Sparrowhawks away from

liquor. As a trader, however, he sold it without compunction. He reasoned that these tribes

already had developed a craving for alcohol. If he refused to barter whiskey, someone else

would not.

One day, a village of outlaws issued an invitation to Jim. Chief Elk That Calls, a large, bulky

man with a thick, gruff voice, approached Jim. The chief had grown simple minded because of

his gross consumption of liquor. Even his walk was affected by his heavy drinking; he moved

slightly tilted to the left side.

Outcasts of neighboring tribes had created their own principality of doom. The chief led these

criminals who lived in three hundred lodges. He could summon more than one thousand, maybe

as many as fifteen hundred warriors, onto the battlefield. His men had been banished from their

people because they had committed heinous crimes or because they showed no remorse for

wrongdoing by either flaunting it or repeating the offense. Here lived the ruffians who murdered

their own senselessly, the unclean who perpetuated incest, the bullies who broke the law of the

tribe and balked at its tradition. Jim’s fellow traders warned him against entering what they

called the City of Refuge. Atrocities prevailed in this village; cruelties abounded. People

tortured for sport; death wrought no mourning. They lived for themselves, not the tribe. They

thirsted for the titillation of spilt blood as long as it was not theirs. The more they murdered, the

more they craved murder. Yet, Jim insisted on accepting the invitation to trade with these tribal

pariahs. Why not trade with them? No one else was. They would make eager customers at the

makeshift store tepee made of Mackinaw blankets and situated at the edge of the village.

As a safety precaution, Jim made some demands of his new customers. The women must trade

first, then the men. As it turned out, the bulk of goods came with the men. No woman traded

more than two buffalo robes. The men bartered the balance for whiskey and ammunition. They

tipped their cups as soon as they were filled. Jim and the two traders who had reticently

accompanied him kept exchanging frightened glances about the volatile situation. They kept

doling out the liquor; their customers kept drinking. The women and children had sought

protection from their drunken husbands, fathers and sons inside their lodges.

Outside, the men stirred up a wild and frenetic scene. They began shouting to each other in

conversation. Some started moving to ritual music they had learned when they were young boys.

They danced to their own internal music and cried because no one else could hear it. And even

if others could, they would not have known its significance or derived profound pleasure from

memories it would not have conjured up. Their whiskey saddened them. It seeped into their

souls and burned them.

“There is no human dignity here,” Jim said.

“Sure isn’t,” said Miles, one of the two traders whose greed had gotten the better of his common

sense.

“These people don’t seem to follow anyone’s rules or formality,” Jim said. “Even mountain men

have a code, an unwritten one, but a code nonetheless. Now I can see what a difference it makes.

I don’t know which way to turn my head in this village.”

“Jim, you were the one who wanted to come here,” said Miles, a stout man who never refused a

meal.

“Yes, Jim,” said Jake, the other trader, a lanky man who found it hard to say no to people. “We

tried to tell you that the City of Refuge isn’t like any place you’ve ever been.”

“I know. I know,” Jim said. “But I still think this is a good opportunity to make some quick

money.”

“It’ll have to be quick,” Jake said, “Or else, we won’t live to spend it.”

As Jake spoke, the sky overhead blackened with vultures. The only sound was the furious

flapping of wings and the hungry whimpers of dogs. If any place ever portended evil, it was this

one.

“The Cheyennes are the best warriors. We are the fiercest,” shouted Chief Elk That Calls’s voice

from inside the village.

“No! It’s the Arapahoes, my people, who fight the bravest,” yelled another coarse voice.

“I can name battles where we have stood up to enemies in number and won. We won! You—

you are a dog, a filthy dog! You and your people!”

“My people are not dogs! Your people are dogs! We are a proud people!”

The words of the shouting match between the men began to slur beyond recognition although the

volume kept escalating. Jim, Jake and Miles doubted that the argument could end without

something terrible happening. The three traders and two customers with robes to trade all froze

and waited for it to happen. Then, the shouting stopped. The five men rested their weight on

one leg and then the other, uncomfortable with not knowing what was going on. They stared

down at the dirt ground as if not looking up would shield them. Then the thud of heavy, running

steps reached their ears. The quick appearance of Chief Elk That Calls outside the shop did not

give them time to guess at the outcome of the quarrel.

“I just killed an Indian,” he babbled to the five men. “I killed an Indian, Thunderclap. I know

Thunderclap. He was my friend. We fought side by side many times. I don’t know why I killed

him.”

“We argued about our tribes. We cursed each other’s people.

“I dropped to my knees, and grabbed my battle ax,” Chief Elk That Calls said, as he re-enacted

the murder. “Then I swung it at Thunderclap’s neck and nearly chopped it off clean. For a

moment, he tottered on his legs, his head dangling to one side against his chest.”

Then Chief Elk That Calls threw himself on the ground and beat it with his fists until his hands

bled.

“Why, why, why,” he screamed, with each punch to the earth.

Miles forsook his greediness and Jake his habit of pleasing others. As soon as the word “killed”

rolled off the chief’s tongue, they dashed back to the fort with the speed of panthers.

Jim and the customers stayed. For the two men, there was no place left to go after the City of

Refuge. And Jim felt that he could handle whatever trouble was brewing. He trusted his

instincts. A crowd had chased the chief and formed a circle around him as he acted out the

drama.

After an initial hubbub over the shock of Thunderclap’s death, his body was dragged to one side,

carelessly covered with tree branches and forgotten by the outcasts. Chief Elk That Calls picked

himself up from the ground and turned his back on the murder and his few minutes of remorse.

No one wanted to drown in a river of sorrow. They wanted to forget death. They lived as

though they would never die. Only the vultures and the dogs remembered. They ripped apart

Thunderclap’s remains with an expediency brought on by hunger gnawing at their insides.

The carousing continued. Jim’s whiskey keg was emptied. The chief, drunker than before,

ordered more libations. Jim sent a messenger to the fort with news that he was fine and needed

two more kegs.

Jim spent the night near the City of Refuge. He stayed awake most of the night at his camping

place. The revelry kept him alert. The hour did not matter. It could have been day or night.

The next morning when the whiskey arrived, the outcasts drank more. They were trapped in a

drunken state that cost them a wardrobe full of buffalo robes and eighteen horses. When the last

drop left the second keg, Jim bid his customers farewell with an unsettled feeling inside. He kept

remembering Mephisto disappearing into the night, free to roam the world, evil ever present in it.

Shortly after the disconcerting City of Refuge trade, Messrs. Sublet and Vasquez dissolved their

three-year partnership. Jim accepted an offer to work for Bent, St. Vrain & Company. He built

subposts and traded at Fort Bent situated five hundred and thirty miles west of Independence,

Missouri on the Santa Fe Trail. Traders constantly stopped at the fort, which was a busy

crossroads for traveling in any direction. Jim enjoyed the contact with visitors who brought

news of settled places. He thrived on the security of the fort where he felt protected from evil

and misfortune during the months he stayed there.

Jim had not changed. Always leaving, always searching. The thrill of new and mysterious

destinations tickled his insides as he said goodbye to William Bent and the others. This time,

Jim headed southwest.

The desert sand of northern New Mexico, the color of an old man’s eyes, astounded Jim. The

earth contrasted with the low hanging, azure sky and the squat purple, shadowy mountains.

Nature wrought a self-contained look. Jim felt encased as in a womb; he felt hallowed as in a

sanctuary. The haunting landscape cast its spell on Jim who decided to live here awhile.

Finding a place to unpack, however temporary it might be, gave him a comfortable feeling. It

had been years since he had called any one place home.

As Jim approached Taos, the colors blended with those of the desert. Adobe houses abounded,

molded in round, square and rectangular shapes with door frames painted bright blue, red and

yellow. Ladders propped up against the house led to a flat-topped patio where lovers sat at

twilight and looked out at the joining of purple land and sky.

Jim followed the well-worn trail and reached a large plaza edged with lighted bars and hotels.

He stopped at a tavern from which he heard laughter and loud talking. Inside, he was greeted

with the sight of a blonde woman dancing on stage to the song of a lone guitar. She wore a black

lace veil over her face—and nothing else. Her plump breasts jiggled as she cavorted in place to a

fandango, first languorously, then lively, then slowly again to the changing rhythm. Never had

Jim seen such a public exhibition. He clamped his eyes to her breasts.

He did not see the disinterest in her look. He did not see that the musician sat alone at a corner

table and looked at his guitar. He did not see that the others in the packed bar ordered whiskeys

from barmaids dressed in unbuttoned blouses and partly transparent skirts in bold reds and

purples. Most customers also ordered some time with them upstairs. The downstairs warm-up

act offstage of long, deep kisses, slapping of behinds, tweaking of breasts and belly rubbing

heated up the tavern. The solo dancer had only one other spectator besides Jim. He sat on a

chair pulled up to the stage where he rested his chin. Every few seconds, he pulled out a large

coin and laid it in front of his face. The dancer would lean over to pick it up, giving him a

private show.

Jim’s entrance, however, had not gone unnoticed. The women who worked there had never seen

him before. They deduced from his dusty clothes that he had been traveling and had been

without a woman for some time. They let him take in Carlota’s performance undisturbed before

pouncing on him. When the music stopped and Carlota exited backstage, Jim started to breathe

again.

“Good evening,” said a woman, whose breasts seemed about to pop over her low-cut dress.

“Good evening,” Jim said, removing his hat which he had forgotten all about.

“You look tired and worn,” she said, and then gave him a warm, earthy smile.

“I am,” said Jim, who became aware of his condition as she mentioned it.

“Let me help you relax,” she offered, in her French accent. “I’ll get you a plate of food, a drink

to wash it down and a bed for your rest.”

“Thank you,” Jim said, getting her meaning. “That would be very nice.”

“Good,” she said. “My name is Michelle.”

Jim introduced himself and followed her to an out-of-the-way table for two where she served

him rice and pinto beans and stewed chicken. He drank only one whiskey as Michelle rubbed

her bare leg against his under the table, out of the other patrons’ sight. She drank several

whiskeys, which Jim bought, but they were watered down and had little effect on her. She

seemed to have the evening well planned.

“How long have you lived here,” Jim asked.

“Only a few months,” Michelle said.

“Where did you come from,” Jim asked.

“Everywhere. I move around,” she said, leaning forward so that she could knead Jim’s thighs

with her strong hands. Her breasts rested on the small table, dominating it.

Jim had eaten his food ravenously; he still had some of his drink when the music started again.

This time, there were several guitars and several women dressed in high, leather boots and

beribboned corsets. They began toying with their undergarments and with each other’s. Then

they began undoing them. This performance received more attention than the first, perhaps

because most of the women had left the sides of men in the audience. There were catcalls that

encouraged the dancers to bare it all. Slowly, they did.

This second show paralyzed Jim. Michelle got up and stood behind him. She placed her hands

on his shoulders and let them drop lower on his chest where she circled his nipples and then

lower to fondle him below his navel. Then she nuzzled the hair at the back of his neck, her lush

dark hair caressing his.

Their mouths met; soon, his tongue touched and tantalized hers. She sucked on it greedily.

After what seemed like an eternity, she broke away, took his hand and led him upstairs to an

empty room and bed where they laid for hours.

Jim became a faithful patron of Michelle’s delights. They grew to be friends who never talked

about the past or the future, only the present.

Jim stayed in a hotel not far from the plaza. Many of his friends spent all their time and money

drinking. He did not imbibe frequently. Jim gambled casually at cards for excitement instead of

traipsing the Rockies. For work, he traded as a freelancer, buying goods in one town and selling

them in another. He learned the terrain around the western end of the Santa Fe Trail.

The man surrendered himself to the magic of New Mexico. While in Taos, he indulged in the

pleasures of the body. While in the desert, he feasted on the joy of the outdoors. In both places,

the oldness awed him. Churches two hundred years old, mountains thousands of years old. He

felt another presence, another life, everywhere.

The first time that he visited Santa Fe, sixty miles south of Taos, thunderbolts illuminated the sky

just before he reached it like an omen and majestic welcome. The town was sleepy and spacious.

It closed down at dinner time when everyone went home. Santa Fe was as calm as Taos was

wild. Jim found himself spending more and more time in the sedate town. After several

months, Michelle left Taos and Jim realized that he, too, had grown bored with it.

Jim opened a store in Santa Fe where he had befriended many families. The Sandovals were a

wealthy, prominent Mexican family with whom Jim spent many evenings. Jim talked business

with Luis Sandoval while his host’s wife, Consuela, attended to their drinking and eating needs.

They had one child, a daughter named Luisa.

“Senorita Luisa,” Jim would say, at the dinner table. “The color of your dress brings out the

enchanting green in your eyes,” or “Senorita Luisa, the luster of your dark hair is especially

becoming tonight.”

These daring compliments made it clear that Jim had noticed Luisa as a potential wife. She

always thanked him, blushing. Then her father and Jim would resume their conversation. The

women would eat quietly at the same table. Not long after, Luisa ate quietly with Jim alone at

their dinner table.

Jim wanted to recapture the rootedness of his family, the Beckwourth family, in his marriage.

He was forty-four years old and he had lost his fear of legal matrimony after Eliza had rebuffed

him. Just as he lived his life in his own way, he thought he could be married in his own way.

One month after the wedding in the autumn of 1842, Jim told his wife that they were moving

north to Indian country where he could run a trading post around less competition. Luisa was

shocked. She had not expected to leave her family. She began packing like an obedient wife but

she cried secretly. When she and Jim visited her parents, she whispered her pain and loneliness

to her mother a room away from the men.

“He is your husband, hija,” Consuela said. The two of them looked like an older and younger

version of the same person. They sat like queens on thrones, backs straight, knees and feet

together. They both had tiny, doll-like bodies and delicate facial features. “You must do what

he says. Look at me, here in New Mexico far from my mother and sisters whom I miss so much.

You must go with your husband. Jim is a good man.”

“Yes, he is good,” Luisa said, with a sigh.

“What’s wrong? Do you regret marrying him?”

“We never talk,” Luisa said. “I don’t feel as though I know him any better now than I did on our

wedding day. He acts as though he still lives alone.”

“Be patient, hija. It will come.”

Luisa left with Jim for El Pueblo where they both erected and ran a trading post. Luisa never had

worked before. She liked it. It kept her busy and gave her character. Jim and Luisa lived

separate emotional lives with their business in common. In time, twenty-five trappers and their

families joined them in the town on the Arkansas River.

One year after the move, Jim grew antsy. His business was established; his home was alien.

One day, he told Luisa that he was leaving for California.

“I can handle things here,” she said. And then, almost as an afterthought, she asked, “What’s in

California?”

“I’ve never been there, and I’d like to see it,” Jim said. “I can get some exotic goods for the

store while I’m there.”

Jim and a man named Jack Hatten set out on the Spanish Trail heading West with a caravan of

forty horses and mules. The spring journey reminded Jim of his younger days in the wilderness

with other mountain men. He so enjoyed reliving the memory that he took his time reaching the

brown sands of the southern California desert dotted with yellow and purple flowers.

Finally, they arrived at Pueblo de los Angeles, which gave Jim the feeling of a way station. It

was a town without definition but a good strategic place for business. Jim and Hatten bought,

sold and rounded up three times the number of horses they had brought out.

Their hearts open to adventure, the two men started back. Hatten vanished like a sprite with

more than his share of their horses and money. Jim was not surprised. The man’s eyes gave him

away. They were beady and set too close together. Jim was glad to be rid of him. Before he left

California, he got caught up in the Americans’ war for independence from Mexican control.

Time stood still for Jim when he fought; he felt omnipotent.

His wife, Luisa, worked long hours grateful for something to do. But work could not absorb the

emptiness of her marriage that she carried inside. Two months passed after Jim’s departure.

Then three, four. Twelve, thirteen. Nineteen, twenty. Luisa heard that Jim was fighting in

California. Then there was no word. She felt relief mixed with sadness. The young woman

closed the store in El Pueblo and moved back to her family in Santa Fe.

Three years after he left, Jim returned to El Pueblo, where he found no home or store. When

friends told him where Luisa had gone, he followed her to Santa Fe and found that he had no

marriage.

Luisa had remarried happily. And Jim was glad to be released from a sham.

Albert Bierstadt's "Estes Park, Long Peak", in the Rocky Mountains near Denver (1877)

From the Denver Public Library

CHAPTER 24

The wind sang shrill notes as it rushed through the tree branches overhead. There were no birds

and no sounds of animals. There was only the song of a September wind clearing a path for

itself in the tangled growth of the forest.

Jim traveled here to Absaroka once every year or two. The Sparrowhawks still loved and

admired their chief. Each of his wives, however, acted differently toward him. Red Cherry

separated herself from him and married someone else. Lots of Trees held onto memories of the

young, handsome stranger; her interest in men had waned. Swift Fish related to Morning Star as

the father of their son. The boy, now fifteen, plunged into deep, frightening moods after

Morning Star’s jolting appearances. He spoke sparingly and wore a scowl. After his father’s

departure, Black Panther returned to his bright, inquisitive self. But Morning Star saw only his

son’s sullen side and convinced himself that it was normal. Many times, Swift Fish said it would

be better for Black Panther if Morning Star stopped visiting altogether. Once again, Swift Fish

suggested that he not come back.

“What a cruel thing to say,” Morning Star shouted. “I thought we were finished with that. My

son loves me. He wants to see me.”

“How do you know? He rarely talks to you when you’re here. I’m telling you, Morning Star,

Black Panther doesn’t talk about you when you’re gone. He acts strangely when you’re here.

Something awful is going on in his heart about you.”

“You’re jealous, Swift Fish. I’m surprised. You should be happy. Even though my work takes

me away from my son, he wants to see me.”

“You’ve been around white people too long. No, I am not jealous and no, your work does not

take you away from him. You take yourself away from him. What are you running away from,

Morning Star? It must be terrible. Maybe it’s what Black Panther sees and hates in you!”

“Woman, I am tired of your accusations. My life is my own. I don’t need you to question how I

live it.”

They heard footsteps that skulked away. For an instant, Morning Star thought he saw Black

Panther, who looked so much like himself, his face contorted with hate as he looked into his

father’s eyes. Morning Star’s mind flashed on the same look from Nathaniel, the slave playmate

he had had in his father’s house. Morning Star dismissed the vision of his son as a figment of his

imagination. His son loved him, he reassured himself, and when Black Panther got older, he

would understand his father better than Swift Fish and the other women in his life.

“They were young people looking for a place to be alone,” Swift Fish said, softly, as if she were

in another time. She had not seen her son. “It’s too bad our lives aren’t simpler. Sometimes I

think that if you had stayed, nothing would have changed within our family or outside of it. If

only we could have found a place to be alone.

“Morning Star, what will happen to us in this trouble with the whites?”

There was no answer to that question without many words about the spilling of blood. Absaroka,

trapped in the maw of the encroachment of another civilization, would not always be Absaroka,

home of the Sparrowhawks.

The white world intruded into Morning Star’s life here. Living in the Far West was no longer a

panacea for peace of mind. It was a maelstrom, an arena for embroiled emotions, a ground for

hate to be planted, grown and harvested like so many corpses of men, women and children.

Funerals in Indian country had become the most common ceremony. Bulging Mackinaw

blankets tied between two trees high up in the air dotted the forests. In this way, the dead

traveled to the other side on their journey to honor. The mourners hacked off their fingers in

sorrow and their sorrow hardened into a craze for vengeance. Treaties proposed and signed were

broken by the whites; treaties proposed and signed were broken by the Indians. There was no

trust and no compassion. The lust for quick profits and expansion won over the power of staid

ethics and reflection. There was no time for morality in this century of dishonour.

These historical moments tortured the mountain men who had overcome the hardships and

dangers of their profession to live until this year, 1848. Their families often were tied up with

the conflict because their wives were Indians as were their children. The United States

government policy toward native Americans jerked their very lives. Sometimes it tore their love

apart.

The older people remembered the days when they invited the whites for feasts, the days when

there was no history. They hoped for the restoration of that peace; they believed that their way

of life could be spared; they yearned for reconciliation. However, their children knew nothing

but the present. They demanded their land and offered no compromise.

Morning Star thought of his friend, William Bent, and his four grown children. The trader had

sent the four to relatives in St. Louis when they were young so that they could know both ways

of life. Mary and Robert had thrived on both, but Charles and George rejected their father’s

people. Charles, especially, hated the whites. Back at Bent’s Fort, the alienated sons ran away

and joined the Cheyennes in their fight for honor against the whites. Both were branded as

outlaws with large sums of money offered for their heads. Late one night, Charles, named for his

father’s brother, stealthily returned to his father’s house to find only his sister.

When William returned from several days away, his daughter told him that he had missed a visit

from his son who had toted a gun with the intention of shooting him dead through the head.

William doubled over and cried like a baby. Mary went over to him and hugged him, their tears

falling on each other’s shoulders, their tears for Charlie and their loss. Their tears for the way

things were between Indians and whites. Then William straightened up and he forbade Charlie

to show his face at the house ever again. He swore that he never wanted to see his son alive.

All these thoughts flooded into Morning Star’s head after Swift Fish asked about the

Sparrowhawks’ future and “this trouble with the whites”. And what about his son? Black

Panther was an intelligent, spirited, angry young man. He hungered for an all-out war against

the whites who wanted his homeland and already had taken his father. Black Panther never

spoke rude words to Morning Star but he said as little as he could to him. Often, he looked away

from him. When he was a small boy, Morning Star reasoned that it was his shyness; now that

Black Panther was older, he thought that the boy was trying to become a man. The father never

asked the son why he was so distant. And the son never told him.

“Violence lies ahead,” Morning Star answered Swift Fish.

“But we don’t want war with the whites,” she said. “We never wanted war. We never attacked

them.”

“I know. But greed changes people. In this case, it’s dictating policy. I wish to God it wasn’t.”

Morning Star placed his left arm around Swift Fish’s shoulder. They had reconciled years ago as

friends. Now they walked silently to the song of the wind.

Swift Fish was a confidante, close enough to Morning Star to delve into areas that others would

skirt. When his parents, Noisy Owl and Big Bowl, died, Swift Fish comforted him. He had

respected his Sparrowhawk parents and when they died, he was reminded of his death. He was

fifty years old; many men died younger. Morning Star shuddered at the thought of it. He was

stepping into Big Bowl’s place as the old man. He and Swift Fish looked much as they had

when they were younger. They revealed their age in their inurement to life’s tumbles and falls.

But Morning Star still yearned for a mystical woman in his life, different from a friend, to ease

the pain of continual loss.

Before the celebrated man left Absaroka, the Sparrowhawks threw a traditional farewell feast,

organized by Laughing Coyote and Pine Leaf. The day after the banquet, Morning Star headed

out West where gold had been discovered in northern California. He had abandoned New

Mexico as his home although he often traveled through it on United States scouting and

dispatching assignments.

After a month of riding alone, the mountain man ran into a train of ten wagons that had lost its

guide in a surprise meeting with a grizzly bear. Jim took on the dead man’s job of leading the

caravan of immigrants with all their worldly possessions on the Oregon Trail to a new world.

Gregarious as Jim was, he kept to himself on the westward journey. He found the settlers’

conversation to be oppressive. When they passed crude stone markers of those who had not

reached their destination, they talked about their concern with dying along the way. The rest of

the time, they talked about the hardship of traveling.

“Sweet dreams,” Jim would wish the families before arranging his bedroll by the campfire under

the starry sky. They would huddle in their covered wagons like scared jack rabbits. They

worried about Indian attacks which they had read about in newspapers. Jim would take his own

advice and dream the elation of crossing the majestic Rocky Mountains on sparkling, spring

days. The next morning, the settlers’ eyes would be red from little sleep or puffy from tears.

They would walk with more of a stoop while their guide would walk straighter and freer.

At the end of the journey, Jim congratulated himself for not losing anyone. Heartily, he wished

them well, sorry for their defeated spirits. He was relieved to leave them and go south to San

Francisco where he hoped to be around happy, carefree people.

On his way there, Jim met hundreds of gold prospectors beside whom he also panned. The glint

of desperation shined in their eyes, the same wild look that Jim had seen in the settlers. But Jim

never stayed longer than a day in each place. He had not been stricken with gold fever. He did

not believe in striking it rich with luck; he did not believe in luck. Jim was a self-made man and

proud of it. He had earned his money and his reputation by taking risks and working hard. Luck

had no place in it. More and more, the West seemed to be full of people with whom Jim shared

no bond.

When Jim arrived in San Francisco, his rheumatism also paid a visit. Both his legs and arms

swelled, making it difficult for him to move. He hated to be laid up but he realized that he had to

be. His pain was so excruciating that he did not see the growth of Yerba Buena, a town whose

population of eight hundred had exploded to twenty-five thousand because of the gold boom.

Ship after ship pulled into its harbor, packed with dream seekers.

Jim sought out a posh hotel which he knew. The fireplace in his room locked out the moisture in

the summer air. Jim stayed inside, mostly in bed, for seven days. He memorized a hasty paint

stroke in the ceiling directly over his head. Jim felt imprisoned and bored.

On the eighth day, his rheumatism had abated to where he could stroll about the city by the bay.

People pushed pass his ambling in their eagerness to get to places first and fast. Jim was

astounded by the dramatic rise in pace and numbers. San Francisco was incomparable to

anywhere he had been.

The mountain man stopped at the New West Saloon for a whiskey and conversation. He

recognized a woman who worked at the hotel, sitting at a table with an ancient woman whose

long hair was dulled and whitened. Jim greeted his acquaintance, Mary Ann, a plain woman

with a coarse voice, and he introduced himself to Sweet Water who piqued his interest. The

three drank together. They swapped stories about their past but Sweet Water’s life seemed so

intriguing that even Jim, the famed storyteller, eventually deferred to her.

“I have had several lives,” she began, timidly. She paused for a reaction and when Jim and Mary

Ann leaned forward with anticipation, she resumed in her tired voice.

“I was kidnapped by the Foxes from my people in the Illinois when I was a young woman. My

husband was away trapping. I was picking berries to make dye when two strangers appeared. I

froze. The two men uttered words to each other that I did not understand. One of them

approached me. He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder. I did not kick. I did not

scream. What could I do against them?

They took me to their village. I missed my husband as I reared another man’s children. I had

been alone in the world except for my husband. I had no other family but him. I was barely

accepted as a member of the tribe. But among the Foxes, I had become the enemy’s mother and

daughter. The Illinois woman, they called me, with scorn. Years went by in this wretched way

until one day when white traders from the East stopped in the village. They said they needed a

cook to go with them to the west coast. The man to whom I had been given as a wife

volunteered me. I did not resist. I wanted to go. Why not? I was leaving nothing behind.

“I took my Creole husband’s stories about New Orleans and St. Louis with me. I treasured them.

He had described cities full of strange noises and people dressed in exotic clothes speaking many

languages. I couldn’t even imagine these places until I came here.

“My work for the traders ended in San Francisco. I drifted from job to job, cooking and

cleaning, until I found steady work and comfort here. I drink too much, some people say. They

don’t know what I’m living with. The life I lost. The memories of a few years of happiness with

my husband, Pierre Charbonneau.”

Jim squirted out his drink.

“What is it? What’s wrong,” Mary Ann asked.

“Nothing,” Jim said, despondently, because it was so much.

He felt hurt, then shock, then anger about his friend, Pierre, who had kept a whole part of his life

from him. Quickly, Jim passed through these emotions, and then he felt all three together, and

they collided into each other. As Sweet Water recalled the light in her life, Jim broke into the

conversation.

“I knew your husband. He was a good friend of mine when we worked in the lead mines in Sac

country.”

“What,” Sweet Water said.

“Yes. He was a good man,” Jim agreed. “He was kind. I was very young then and had never

left home or school. I didn’t know anything about the Sacs but I was very curious. Pierre took

me under his wing. He taught me their language and he taught me their ways. He gave me a

respect for the sacred that I’ve always held dear.”

Tears slid down Sweet Water’s puffy face into her half-empty glass.

“I wondered how he had become so wise when he was still so young,” Jim said.

“I did well then,” she said, her voice cracking.

“You did well,” Jim affirmed. “He missed you, too. His brown eyes were sad with you hidden

inside them. Sometimes, he cried at night but he never told me why.”

“Where is he now,” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jim, who thought he probably was dead. “I haven’t heard anything about

his whereabouts in years. Last I heard, he was up in Coeur d’Alene at the silver mines. But that

was ten years ago.”

“Did he get married again? Did he have children,” she asked.

“Not that I know of,” Jim answered, honestly.

Perhaps Red Moon’s relatives had sensed something unspoken in Pierre’s life. Perhaps it was

their distrust of his silences that had persuaded them not to consent to the marriage. Whatever it

was, Pierre’s courtship of Red Moon had ended when he left Galena thirty-one years ago in

1818, his eyes sad again and without hope. At that time, Sweet Water was as melancholy and

out of his reach. And now, she was a melancholy drunk.