The day had started as most any other.
Situated on a grassy belt adjacent to the Green River, the Shoshone encampment was arranged in traditional fashion. The hundred-plus lodges, many decorated with symbols, were arranged in large circles, their openings to the east. Nearby were hundreds of horses, grazing under the watchful eyes of young boys. Young girls were accompanying their mothers to the river for water.
Touch the Clouds gazed across the camp and smiled in serene satisfaction. He had just pushed the flap to his lodge aside and unfurled to his full height to greet the new dawn, as was his custom. A sparkling blue sheen marked the winding course of the river. Beyond it grew dense forest, the tops of the trees framed by a rosy glow. Stretching out his long arms, he sang a chant of praise to Dam Apua.
Mornings were Touch the Clouds’s favorite time of day. The world and all in it were so fresh, so new. He thanked the Father for his being alive, for his three wives and seven children, and asked for continued guidance in leading his people. As war chief he had a huge responsibility. Every decision he made must be a wise one.
Soon a golden crown wreathed the horizon. Warmth splashed across Touch the Clouds’s face like heat from a fire. He smiled, pleased all was well with the world. His people were happy, their bellies full. Their enemies had not molested them in over a moon. Life did not get any better.
Touch the Clouds was about to go back into his lodge when moccasins pattered and around it hustled Little Grasshopper, young and lovely wife of Runs Across the River. Her eyes betrayed her state of mind, but she dutifully stopped and politely bowed her chin.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Great One. I have come to you for help.”
Touch the Clouds was keenly conscious of the high esteem in which his people held him. While he was flattered, he was not fond of receiving special treatment. In truth, he was just another man. Larger than any living Shoshones, yes. Stronger than any other warrior, undeniably. But still just another man. “My heart is happy to see the wife of my friend,” he said out of politeness. “How may I be of help?”
“Runs Across the River did not come back last night,” Little Grasshopper divulged, and bit her lower lip.
Touch the Clouds understood her anxiety. Shoshones did not like being abroad after dark. Nighttime was when evil beings like the NunumBi were abroad. Except when on hunting trips or on raids, warriors made it a point to return to their villages by sunset. “Did your man go off hunting or to visit another village?”
“He went to visit the white men.”
Touch the Clouds did not miss the bitterness in Little Grasshopper’s tone. “You think he spent all night at the trading post?”
“I do not know what to think anymore. Runs Across the River has gone there every day for ten sleeps. Each evening he came home later and later. He would laugh and giggle a lot, which is not like him. And he smelled of horse urine.”
Touch the Clouds was disturbed to note tears at the corner of Little Grasshopper’s eyes. It indicated how upset she was. Crying in public was frowned on except when a loved one died. But the references to giggling and horse urine disturbed him even more. Winters past, back when whites were beaver hungry, he attended several of their annual rendezvous, as the whites called them, and beheld firsthand the effects of another substance they craved almost as much. “Firewater,” he said, one of the few English words he knew, more to himself than to his visitor.
“I am sorry?” Little Grasshopper said in their own tongue.
“A drink the whites are fond of,” Touch the Clouds explained. “They call it ‘whiskey.’ Or ‘firewater.’ Or ‘rotgut.’”
“The Crows drink it too, do they not?” Little Grasshopper said. “Why do so many use something that reeks so awful and makes them behave like children?”
Touch the Clouds had once asked his good friend Nate King a similar question. Nate had sighed and responded, “People drink for different reasons. Some do it to forget their troubles and woes. Some do it because others do. Some because once they have a taste, they can’t stop.”
After witnessing how belligerent whites became after drowning themselves in it, after beholding dozens of fist-fights, knifings, and shootings, Touch the Clouds reached the conclusion that firewater was yet another aspect of white culture his people were better off without. In tribal councils he advised against its use, warning that if the Shoshones weren’t careful, they would end up like the Crows.
Among that tribe there was a saying to the effect that a Crow who drank the white man’s liquor was no longer a Crow. Far too many of their young warriors had developed a fondness for it, and as a result the Crows had become the laughing stock of tribes far and wide. Where once they had been proud warriors, now many spent their days haunting forts and trading posts for handouts so they could buy more firewater.
“I will go look for your husband,” Touch the Clouds announced.
Little Grasshopper brightened and impulsively grasped his forearm. “Would you, please? Tell him his wife and children are worried for his safety and eager for him to come home. He respects you highly and will listen to you.”
“I will be back with him when the sun is there,” Touch the Clouds predicted, pointing overhead. “Assure your children all will be well.”
“Thank you, Great One,” Little Grasshopper gushed. Beaming happily, she dipped her chin and virtually flew toward her lodge.
Touch the Clouds’s features darkened. Pivoting, he hurried toward his personal horse herd, grazing an arrow’s flight up the valley under the care of two of his sons. They rushed to greet him, no doubt in the mistaken belief he was going on a ride and might take one or the other along.
“Bring the sorrel,” Touch the Clouds directed, and promptly wheeled. Next to his favorite warhorse—an outstanding animal he had obtained in trade with the Nez Perce—the sorrel was the fastest he possessed, and had great stamina. It could go all day and half a night without flagging.
Only one of his wives, the newest, Chickadee, was in their lodge, busy rolling up the hides they had slept on the night before. She glanced up as he marched to the peg on which his bow and quiver hung and slung them across his back.
“You are leaving us to hunt, husband?”
“I go to the white trading post,” Touch the Clouds informed her. Offering no more information, he strode back out before she could badger him with questions. Unlike his other wives, she had not yet learned to tell when he did not care to discuss matters, and to hold her tongue accordingly.
Touch the Clouds did not want Runs Across the River’s absence to become common knowledge. If what he suspected was true, he hoped to avoid bringing shame down on the young fool’s head.
Crossing the circle, Touch the Clouds squatted in front of another lodge. “Drags the Rope? Are you in there?”
The hide parted. Tall of frame and uncommonly muscular of build, Drags the Rope straightened. A welcoming smile faded. “What is wrong, my friend?”
In hushed tones, Touch the Clouds related the little he knew, concluding with, “I would like for you to translate for me.”
“As always, your wish is my wish,” Drags the Rope said. “I will join you at the trees. Should I ask Shoulder Blade and some of the others to go along?”
“No,” Touch the Clouds answered. The more that were asked, the more likely it was word would reach Hungry Wolf and some of the more troublesome warriors. “The two of us are sufficient.”
His boys had the sorrel waiting. Distinguished by white stockings and a white blaze on its forehead, the horse stamped and snorted, raring to be off. Touch the Clouds accepted the rope reins and went to climb on.
“May we go with you, Father?” the oldest boy requested.
“Not this day.”
Morning meals were under way, and few Shoshones were abroad. Those who were saw nothing unusual in his departure. A few smiled and waved.
Drags the Rope was true to his word and caught up at the tree line. The trail to the trading post on Dead Elk Creek was well-defined. Too much so, given how short a span the post had been there. They took it at a trot.
“I heard a rumor that some of our young men were spending too much time at the post,” Drags the Rope commented. “Now we have proof.”
“I did not hear this rumor.,,
“My wife told me. Among the women it is common knowledge.”
“Ah. The women,” Touch the Clouds said. When it pertained to village matters, the women always knew what was going on. Their fondness for gossip had a lot do with it.
They had gone only a short distance when off in the pines to their left a horse nickered. Shifting, Touch the Clouds spied a riderless bay off among the trees.
“Runs Across the River owns a horse like that,” Drags the Rope said.
Touch the Clouds left the trail and cautiously drew near. It might be that his anger was unfounded. The missing warrior could have fallen prey to their many enemies, who loved to lie in wait and pick off the unwary. The last hapless victim had been a woman who went off to fill a basket with berries and was found horribly mutilated. Tracks implicated the Bloods.
A groan brought Touch the Clouds to a halt. Quickly sliding an arrow from his quiver, he notched it to his bowstring. Drags the Rope raised a lance.
The bay wearily stood staring at them, its legs and sides flecked with dust. The animal had been ridden hard, to the point of exhaustion.
A new groan sounded. This time Touch the Clouds pinpointed the source: a prone figure partially hidden in high weeds. It had to be the missing warrior. Touch the Clouds scoured the ground for sign left by a hostile war party, but there was none.
Drags the Rope was scanning the woods. “I see no one else.”
“Runs Across the River, is that you?” Touch the Clouds called out.
The young warrior abruptly sat up and looked around in confusion. His hair was disheveled, his clothes splotched with dirt. “Touch the Clouds?” he said thickly. “Drags the Rope?” Pressing a hand to his temple, he winced. “I hurt. It feels as if a bull buffalo is in my head, kicking to get out.”
“You were not attacked?” Touch the Clouds inquired, slowly lowering his bow.
“Attacked?” Runs Across the River touched his face, his head. “No, I do not think so. Where am I? How did I get here?”
“You do not remember?” From Drags the Rope.
Runs Across the River pondered a moment. “The last I recall is being at the trading post. I played dice with the whites and won a cloth for Little Grasshopper.” Twisting, he groped in the weeds. “Ah. Here it is.” He smiled and held up a strip of red material about as long as a man’s arm and twice as wide. “Isn’t this pretty? She will love it.”
“That she will,” Touch the Clouds agreed. The women of their tribe couldn’t get enough of such foofaraw, as the whites called it. Many constantly nagged their husbands for it, causing quite a few arguments and promising to cause more.
“Why can I not remember what happened after that?” Runs Across the River asked. He went to stand and involuntarily groaned. Doubling over, he gasped for air like a fish out of water and said through clenched teeth, “The pain is worse! I must be sick.”
Touch the Clouds unnotched his arrow and placed it in his quiver. “Did you drink firewater while you were there?”
Runs Across the River froze. “I had a little,” he reluctantly admitted.
“Do you drink it often?”
The young warrior slowly rose and took a faltering step toward his mount. “You ask a lot—” he began, and got no further. Halting, he shut his eyes and swayed like a reed in a strong wind. “The pounding!”
Touch the Clouds felt little sympathy; Runs Across the River had brought the torment on himself. “You did not answer.”
“I have had a little, yes,” was the defensive reply. “What of it? So do Mono and Oapiche and Meteetse and many others.”
All younger men. All married, with families. Touch the Clouds intended to visit each one later, but first he had to have a talk with the whites. “Your wife is worried about you. She was afraid something had happened.” He thought Runs Across the River would be touched by her devotion, but he was mistaken.
“So she went to you? That is what you are doing here?” Clenching his fists, Runs Across the River stepped to the bay. “I am a grown man. I do not need you or Drags the Rope or anyone else to look after me.”
“Grown men do not leave their families alone all night,” Touch the Clouds said. “What if the Piegans or the Bloods raided us while you were gone?”
The query gave Runs Across the River pause. “I see your point, and I am sorry for my hard words. Blame my headache.” Grunting, he swung up. “I will go straight to my lodge and apologize to her.”
“A man is truly mature when he is wise enough to admit he makes mistakes.”
Runs Across the River jabbed his heels into the bay and headed for their village, still gritting his teeth.
Touch the Clouds and Drags the Rope looked at each other, then trotted in the other direction. Out of habit they traveled in silence, alert for danger. Chipmunks chattered as they passed by. Deer bounded off at their approach. To the northwest a pair of white-crowned eagles soared high in the sky.
Touch the Clouds hadn’t been to the trading post since that day Artemis Borke gave him a Hawken. So he was quite taken aback when, at midday, he reached the bank of Dead Elk Creek and discovered that a log stockade now surrounded the buildings. At the southwest corner stood a tall tower in which a sentry was posted. A wide gate hung partway open.
The sentry caught sight of them right away. Leaning from the tower, he said something to someone below.
“He spoke too quietly for me to hear,’ Drags the Rope said.
Seconds later, to Touch the Clouds’s bafflement, the gate was swung shut. A commotion broke out, a babble of voices and the thud of hooves. Drawing rein out of rifle range, he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “I wish to speak to Borke.” As usual, his friend translated.
Within moments the leader of the whites appeared in the tower. Laughing as if it were a great joke, he patted his ample belly and hollered, “Touch the Clouds! I didn’t know it was you out there! My man mistook you for a hostile!”
Drags the Rope relayed the statement, adding suspiciously, “How can that be? Is their sentry blind?”
Touch the Clouds supposed it was possible, although unlikely. In all the mountains there wasn’t another warrior anywhere, in any tribe, who came close to him in size. “We must talk, Artemis Borke!”
“Whatever you want, Chief. Just give us a minute to get things ready!”
What things? Touch the Clouds wondered. Patiently, he sat his horse while commotion issued from the post.
“They are stalling,” Drags the Rope said.
But it wasn’t long before the gate was flung wide and out walked Borke, as greasy and grimy as ever. Smiling, he opened his arms wide. “Come on in, my friends! You do us great honor by payin’ us a visit.”
The buildings were as Touch the Clouds remembered them. More than two dozen horses were now in the corral, some bearing painted symbols on their backs and flanks. Shoshone horses, several of which Touch the Clouds recognized. He stopped inside the gate and dismounted. The other whites were lounging about. To a man they were armed with rifles and a brace of pistols. “You have made some changes, Artemis Borke,” he had Drags the Rope say.
Borke glanced at the stockade and the tower, and chortled. “Can you blame us? We don’t want hostiles lifting our hair in the middle of the night.” He clapped Touch the Clouds on the elbow. “Great to see you again, hoss. A lot of your bucks have been payin’ us regular visits, but not you. How come?”
“Is that where you obtained those horses?” Touch the Clouds quizzed with a nod at the corral.
Borke showed his yellow teeth. “Sure enough. Some of your boys have animals to spare, and they’ve traded ’em for stuff they want. Blankets and steel knives and what have you.”
“And firewater?”
Artemis Borke’s smile faltered. “So that’s why you’re here? I reckon you and me need to palaver a bit.” He pointed at the building with the crudely scrawled sign. “Why not come inside and make yourself comfortable?”
Touch the Clouds had to duck his head and shoulders to enter. The place had a musty, unclean smell. To the left a long plank rested on four large barrels. Behind it was a shelf lined with bottles of various sizes and shapes. More shelves, laden with blankets and tools and scores of trade items, filled the remaining three walls. In the center of the dirt floor were three tables ringed by chairs. On one of the tables sat a pitcher of water and several tall glasses.
“Have a seat, why don’t you?” Borke invited them. “If you’d like a bite to eat, one of my men dropped a doe this mornin’. I can have a slab of roast venison and some greens whipped up quicker than you can blink.”
“The water is enough.” Touch the Clouds awkwardly sat down. He had used chairs only twice before and he never could fathom why whites liked them. They were stiff and uncomfortable and made his back ache if he sat in them too long. He wasn’t particularly thirsty, but out of politeness he let his host fill his glass. Two other whites had followed them inside and were leaning against the plank counter.
Drags the Rope eased into his chair as gingerly as if he were sitting down on eggs.
Borke plunked down across from them. “Now, then. Something is botherin’ you, Chief. I can tell. So why don’t we get right to it?”
“A young man from our village did not come back last night,” Touch the Clouds related. “I found him passed out in the woods.” He paused. “Passed out from too much whiskey.”
“I’m sorry. I truly am,” Borke said with evident sincerity. “The last thing I want is to cause trouble with your people. We depend on them for the hides we need.”
“Nate King told me whites no longer wear beaver fur,” Touch the Clouds brought up.
Borke nodded. “And he’s right, for the most part. The beaver trade ain’t what it once was. But there’s still a market for prime plews. Bear, wolverine, fox, buffalo, you name it, we’ll trade for ’em.”
Touch the Clouds scanned the shelf behind the counter. “You accept them in trade for whiskey?”
“Not on your life. We give money, just like we would to whites. Your boys have to earn their drinks like everyone else.”
“I do not like firewater,” Touch the Clouds declared. “It muddies a man’s thoughts and makes him do things he would never do if he did not drink it.”
Borke nodded in agreement. “I don’t blame you. Rotgut has been the ruin of many a poor soul. Which is why I limit how much your boys can have.” Rising, he went around the plank, selected a bottle and a small glass, and came back. Uncapping the bottle, he filled the small glass halfway. “That’s a shot, we call it. Two of these is all your bucks can get at any one time. Then we send ’em on their merry way.”
It certainly did not seem like much. Touch the Clouds raised the small glass and examined the corn-colored liquid. The odor reminded him of the south end of northbound buffalo.
“I don’t water my liquor down like some traders do. Take a swallow and see for yourself,” Borke suggested.
Against his better judgment, Touch the Clouds took a sip. The firewater burned a molten path down his gullet to the pit of his stomach, and for a moment he thought he would gag. Grabbing the glass of water, he gulped enough to soothe his throat.
“Potent red-eye, ain’t it?” Borke said, and snapped his fingers as if at an inspiration. “Say! Maybe that’s the problem! Maybe it’s too strong for ’em! With your permission, Chief, I’ll start watering the whiskey down so your braves can keep their wits about ’em. What do you say?”
A pleasing warmth was spreading through Touch the Clouds’s abdomen. He could see how some warriors might grow to like it. “It is a good idea. The less they drink, the less it will affect them.”
A burly white over at the counter snickered and received a stern glance from Borke, who then smiled and said, “Believe you me, Chief, I only have your tribe’s best interests at heart. I wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of peaceful tradin’ relations.”
Touch the Clouds was glad the man was so accommodating. “Then we are agreed.” He pushed back his chair and went to rise, but Borke thrust out a hand.
“Not so fast, if you don’t mind. I’m having some trouble of my own, and I figure you’re the one who can set matters straight.” Borke leaned toward them. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine, eh?”
Touch the Clouds turned to Drags the Rope. “What does he mean? Why would we want to take off our shirts and scratch one another?”
“I do not know,” Drags the Rope confessed. “Perhaps it is one of those white sayings that make no sense to anyone but whites.”
Borke had gone on, and Drags the Rope resumed translating. “A couple of your bucks showed up the other day. They didn’t speak our language, but they made it plain they don’t think much of me and my kind. One kept fingering a knife with an elk-bone handle and eyein’ me like he wished he could skin me alive.”
“Hungry Wolf,” Touch the Clouds guessed aloud. No one else in their village owned a knife answering that description.
“He is out to turn the whites against us,” Drags the Rope said. “That one was born with hatred in his blood.”
“What are you two chatterin’ about?” Artemis Borke asked. “Here I reckoned all your people would be right happy to have a tradin’ post in their territory. Was I mistaken? Maybe me and my men should pack up and head home.”
Touch the Clouds thought of how disappointed his people would be. “Do not let the act of a few influence your attitude toward the many,” he had Drags the Rope say. “We are glad you are here and hope you will stay for many winters to come.”
“How long that will be depends on your people,” Borke said. “So long as they treat us decent and bring us items for trade, we’ll be tickled to oblige. But keep that buck with the bone-handled knife away from the post, or he’s liable to spoil it for everyone.”
“I will have words with him,” Touch the Clouds promised. Although it might do little good. He was a leader, yes, but his word was not law, as whites phrased it. Every Shoshone was free to do as he saw fit, provided his actions did not cause harm to the tribe.
“I can’t ask for more, Chief.” Borke reached across and shook Touch the Clouds’s hand. “You’d do to ride the river with.”
Again Touch the Clouds was perplexed. “Ride on the river or beside it?” he said to Drags the Rope. “Horses cannot walk on water.”
At a gesture from Borke, one of the other whites brought over a pair of Mackinaw blankets and deposited them on the table. “One for each of you,” Borke said, beaming, “as a token of our thanks.”
Touch the Clouds would refuse were it not for his wives and their fondness for new things. Draping the blanket over his left arm, he held his head high as the whites escorted them to their horses.
“Pay us a visit anytime,” Borke said in parting. “Bring the family and we’ll treat ’em all to gifts.”
“That went well,” Drags the Rope commented as they cantered toward the creek.
Touch the Clouds tended to agree. But it bothered him slightly that lusty mirth pealed from the post moments after they passed through the gate.