Saturday August 17th, 1805
On setting out at seven o’clock, Captain Clarke with Charbonneau and his wife walked on shore, but they had not gone more than a mile before Clarke saw Sacajawea, who was with her husband 100 yards ahead, began to dance and show every mark of the most extravagant joy, turning around him and pointing to several Indians, whom he now saw advancing on horseback, sucking her fingers at the same time to indicate that they were of her native tribe [they had eaten together]. As they advanced, Captain Clarke discovered among them Drewyer [Drouillard] dressed like an Indian, from whom he learnt the situation of the party. While the boats were performing the circuit, he went towards the forks with the Indians, who as they went along, sang aloud with the greatest appearance of delight.
The party soon drew near to the camp, and just as they approached it a woman made her way through the crowd towards Sacajawea, and recognizing each other, they embraced with the most tender affection. The meeting of these two young women had in it something peculiarly touching, not only in the ardent manner in which their feelings were expressed, but from the real interest of their situation. They had been companions in childhood, in the war with the Minnetarees they had both been taken prisoners in the same battle, they had shared and softened the rigours of their captivity, till one of them had escaped from the Minnetarees, with scarce a hope of ever seeing her friend relieved from the hands of her enemies. While Sacajawea was renewing among the women the friendships of former days, Captain Clarke went on, and was received by Captain Lewis and the chief, who after the first embraces and salutations were over, conducted him to a sort of circular tent or shade of willows. Here he was seated on a white robe; and the chief immediately tied in his hair six small shells resembling pearls, an ornament highly valued by these people, who procure them in the course of trade from the sea-coast. The moccasins of the whole party were then taken off, and after much ceremony the smoking began. After this the conference was to be opened, and glad of an opportunity of being able to converse more intelligibly, Sacajawea was sent for; she came into the tent, sat down, and was beginning to interpret, when in the person of Cameâhwait, the chief, she recognized her brother. She instantly jumped up, and ran and embraced him, throwing over him her blanket and weeping profusely. The chief was himself moved, though not in the same degree. After some conversation between them she resumed her seat, and attempted to interpret for us, but her new situation seemed to overpower her, and she was frequently interrupted by tears. After the council was finished the unfortunate woman learnt that all her family were dead except two brothers, one of who was absent, and a son of her eldest sister, a small boy, who was immediately adopted by her.
NICHOLAS BIDDLE, ed., History of the Expedition Under the Command of Captains Lewis and Clarke, Vol. I. Philadelphia: Bradford and Inskeep, 1814, pp. 381–83.
On August 16, Captain Clark rose early. He hoped to find Lewis soon. His ankle was nearly healed, and he walked easily. He spotted Sacajawea coming from a backwash in the river where she had bathed and washed her hair. The neat braids were still wet and shining.
“I’m hungry this new day,” she said, smiling. “I will get the fire going, and surely the other men will be up soon.”
“First,” said Clark, holding her with his eyes, “I have something for you.” He reached into his trouser pocket and slowly pulled out the blue-beaded belt he had been working on as he recuperated from his carbuncle. The design was lines and crosses made of dark-and light-blue beads; in the center back of the belt were dark-blue flowers with a row of green leaves on either side. Leather thongs at the ends were made for tying the belt around the waist. “See if it fits.”
“It is for me?” she said, unbelieving. “Chief beads?”
“Well, sure, who else would wear a belt as fancy as all that? Now put it on. I want to see how it looks after all that sewing I did on it.”
“Ai, it is the most beautiful color.” For a moment Sacajawea wanted to touch him, but she could not. She must not show her pleasure where people could see. She must have pride. She flushed with happiness.
Slowly she put the belt on and turned so that Chief Red Hair could see how well it fit around her tunic. She could not believe that he had made this beautiful gift for her. Her heart jumped up and down like a frightened rabbit. She dropped her eyes. “I, the woman called Janey by the Chief Red Hair, is full of thanks,” she said, confused.
Clark gently put his hand under her chin and smiled into her large brown eyes. Then he let go and looked down. “It is my gift to you because—because a pretty woman ought to have pretty things.”
Sacajawea looked at him, puzzled. It was incomprehensible to her that a man such as Captain Clark, Chief Red Hair, might think her attractive. Often enough Charbonneau had lamented her lack of flesh, and the want of keeping her mouth closed.
And then a sudden premonition came to her. This would be the day. This day they would find her people, the Agaidüka Shoshoni.
While the men loaded the canoes, she bathed Pomp and put on the new shirt she had made for him. In the canoe, she placed the blanket she now used to replace the lost cradleboard at her feet. The morning air was warm.
All morning she watched the horizon for signs, and when she finally saw movement along the shore, she could not move, could not speak. She could only point westward. Two horsemen were galloping toward them. Captain Clark pulled the canoe to the rocky bank. Then he, along with Francis Labiche, another man good with hand signs, Charbonneau, and Sacajawea, with Pomp swung in the blanket on her back, walked toward the riders.
“People I have eaten with. They are! They are!” Sacajawea sucked on the fingers of her right hand.
“Janey, I hope so!” Clark exclaimed. “I sure as hell hope so!”
“See, Shoshoni dress, Shoshoni horses! Ai, ai, ah-hi-ee!”
Then, suddenly, one of the riders pulled in his horse and galloped right back toward the west. Sacajawea’s heart dropped to her moccasins.
Captain Clark waved wildly to the approaching lone horseman and was saluted with a non-Shoshoni, “Hul-loo, strangers!”
“Drouillard!” cried Clark, his face dark. “You’re dressed like a Shoshoni? If so, that’s a poor joke to play on us!”
“No joke, Captain,” said Drouillard, adjusting the white ermine-skin cape of the Shoshonis and pointing to the vermilion on his face and down his hair part. About his neck was a necklace of bear’s claws. “We have found ‘em!”
“You camp with the People?” asked Sacajawea.
“Oh, you bet, and they dance for us and sing, and invite us to dinner.”
Questions poured from Sacajawea and then from Captain Clark, so that Drouillard could not answer coherently.
Charbonneau contemptuously fingered the blue belt at her waist. “Like a white woman,” he said scornfully. “I’ve never heard a woman speak up so much as you. Even the white woman keeps her mouth shut once in a while.”
Sacajawea trembled. “I am coming to my land,” she said.
“Captain Lewis is coming with more than sixty Shoshoni men,” said Drouillard, his horse’s hooves clicking on the rocks. “They will help us.”
“Ride back and give the others the news,” Captain Clark ordered Drouillard. “Tell them Labiche, Charbonneau, Janey and I are on our way to meet Lewis. We’re walking.”
With a wild Shoshoni whoop, the half-Shawnee, half-French Drouillard galloped toward the canoes.
This cannot be a dream, thought Sacajawea. I am with these white men, and they are not in the spirit world. What if these people are not the Agaidüka Shoshoni, but some other tribe? The Agaiüdkas may be farther back in the mountains. I cannot get my hope too high. My heart beats as though it would fly out.
It was then that memory rose up before her to merge with the familiar landscape: far below, near the river, a great circular enclosure at the foot of a bluff, and above, a fan of gray stones spreading back from the bluff’s edge like wings over the green, undulating hills. The picture spread vividly before her, overlaying the short pines ahead, and she became a girl on a painted horse, looking down from a high hill. White clouds bloomed and grew towering against the sky edge of the world, casting shadows below, islands in the green sea. A band of sheep, a moving cloud shadow, circled, flashing as white as foam on each turn, a promise to the People of warmth and contentment.
From the white circle of lodges in a green valley, a thread of people on horses moved toward the enclosure, buckskin bright with quillwork, and paint bright on the horses. They stayed silent at the base of the bluff, then went on, upward, separating into lines that moved out along the wings. Beyond the last stones a herd of bighorn sheep grazed, gray-white on the green grass; among them birds rose and circled and dropped. She saw the caller of the sheep in his brown skin robe dancing near the animals to catch their attention; the herd moved toward her, gathering to a white stream, flowing between the converging wings toward the bluff. The leader plunged wildly over, and the stream was solid, flesh of the earth sliding, a fall of meat and robes—life for the People. Dust rose in the stone enclosure, and the vision was gone, fading to the silver forks in the river ahead, the grass changing to dust made by galloping horsemen coming toward them. The dust rose shadowy against the sky. The riders had bright-painted faces; their horses were strong and beautiful, spotted and decorated with handprints of red, yellow, and white. Bird feathers were tied to their manes and tails.
The riders were singing as they approached. The song rang in Sacajawea’s ears, feral as the cry of a hunted animal. She caught her breath and recognized the Greeting Song of the Shoshonis.
Sacajawea scanned each face eagerly, her heart thumping with excitement. One after another passed, but there was not one whom she recognized. She stood still a moment, her head bowed, uncertain, her baby heavy on her back, her heart as heavy as stone. These Shoshonis were all strangers, not her tribe, not the Agaidüka.
The horsemen wheeled and pranced around her, Captain Clark, Labiche, and Charbonneau. Labiche smiled and kiyi-ed with them. Charbonneau sputtered, “Jésus, them Snakes think we have lots of meat to give them.”
Sacajawea had a shadowy, unclear feeling of a dream begun, not ended; she was at the edge of awakening. She began to wish she had not put the red circles on her cheeks nor the vermilion down her center hair part.
The horsemen were leading them to a larger group of Shoshonis. There was a sudden movement among the mass of people, and Sacajawea recognized Captain Lewis through the crowd, with red paint smeared on his face and on the straw-colored wisps of hair that poked wildly from his queue.
A squaw stared, watching Sacajawea curiously. Her hair was in strings at the sides of her face, and her tunic was unwashed. A tear at the bottom had been mended with thick buckskin. Her straight hair hung as if to hide her sunken cheeks. This unkempt woman began making the sucking motion with her fingers and crying words that came from long ago, a scrap of a familiar song.
Sacajawea caught the smell of these people, the living earth smell—leather, woodsmoke, mulch odor. The squaw was pressing her way through the crowd, coming toward her. Sacajawea instinctively stepped back, but the squaw was at her side, moving her hands firmly and lightly over her arms, then over the face of Pomp, then over Sacajawea’s face. The woman gave a quick little cry, and then her arms were about Sacajawea; tears were warm on Sacajawea’s cheeks, then cool.
“Boinaiv, Grass Child, you have come home to the People.”
Sacajawea’s arms closed convulsively about the woman, and she could not keep her tears back. “Willow Bud, it is you!” Between tears she laughed and no longer noticed the others around her. “So—these are the People, my people?”
“Ai. The scouts have been watching the white men. None said you were with them. It is hard to believe. And a baby, too. Where is his father?”
Sacajawea pointed to Charbonneau, who had a wide grin on his face as he watched the Shoshonis dance for these newcomers.
“A white man! Hai-hai-ee! And your papoose, he is beautiful.”
Questions tumbled out, but there was no pause for them to be answered. Sacajawea put her finger on her lips for the sign of silence, and both women laughed and clung to each other again; then Willow Bud took Pomp and walked to a spot that was shaded by tall pines and sat cross-legged, holding the baby close to her heart. Pomp tried to free himself as she smelled him and ran her hands over his face and plump body. She rocked him gently back and forth as a tear slipped down her chin.
“The papoose that was mine did not live through the Month of Howling Wind. She was so tiny. Her mouth opened like a baby bird’s, and I had no milk for her. There was no other nursing woman who could spare extra milk. Food was scarce. Stomach cramps were everywhere. She lived eight moons. We laid her tiny body behind the white rocks by the gurgling stream. My man sat there with no food, only the icy water, for one moon. He said the morning sun makes the white rocks glisten like water going over a high falls, so we shall always know where our papoose sleeps—in the glistening stones. He put many stones over her body before he came back to the tepee. It will always be hidden from wolves or buzzards.”
Inpulsively Sacajawea slipped her blue-beaded moccasins from her feet and pressed them toward Willow Bud, thinking of them not as a possession, or gift, but as a word, a phrase of sympathy spoken by the gesture. The meaning was clear and understood. For the moment there were only the two of them with the child between, an awareness of each other, a communication felt as palpably as a touch of the hand.
Sacajawea slipped her feet into the worn moccasins cast aside by Willow Bud. She looked back over the years and saw Willow Bud, a beautiful, self-reliant child with fat, brown cheeks and a straight, sturdy body. Now she was hollow-eyed, slightly bent, thin and haggard, her toes turned in even more than most squaws’. She was probably about fifteen or sixteen summers old, but her thin face looked much older. Winters of near-starvation had done that.
Willow Bud hunched herself to her feet. “Come along. We will go to my tepee and do nothing but talk. Yellow Neck, the one who is my man, is with his brother. They have gone to see the white men you have brought to our village.”
Inside the summer lodge a smell of leather and sage enveloped them. Sacajawea’s sight cleared to the darkness, and she stepped closer to the small center fire. It was hot inside, and the air was thick with the smell of musty roots simmering in a tightly woven grass container. The walls were hung with bows, arrows, quilled bags, painted rawhide parfleches, herbs, dried roots. The floor was hard-packed, clean-swept clay.
For a moment Sacajawea could not speak. Her mind took her back to a day when dawn came in a mirroring of light, a springing wash of color. The cottonwoods, aspens, and willows flared from the mist and darkness along the creek, leaves bright green against pale trunks. The whole camp was astir as children swirled among the tepees, shouting, waving their arms, dogs barked, women worked by the fires or brought wood and water to their tepees. Near the camp she imagined she saw the horse herd, red, yellow, black, white—pinto, piebald, spotted—bright flares against the green short grass. The camp was preparing to move to a summer home in the cool shade of the mountains. She could see her grandmother and her mother packing the household goods. Her father sat before the lodge, dignified, smoking in the sun. The day brightened and she was brought from her reverie when the tent flap was pushed aside by women.
Sacajawea searched their faces as they crowded inside the hot tepee. They had come out of curiosity and respect to see and make welcome this member of their tribe who, by some magic, had led many friendly white men to the Agaidüka camp. One old squaw remarked it was like seeing a person come back from the dead to see this grown woman who had left them as a child. They were curious about the baby, made by a white man. They passed Pomp back and forth, examining him more thoroughly than a white man’s doctor. Pomp did not cry out; he seemed to enjoy the attention and squealed with laughter when they looked at his fat feet and counted his toes. Sacajawea smiled at them as they fingered his clothes and nodded approval at the way she had made them soft and white from thin doeskin.
The old squaw fingered the mosquito netting that was folded in his blanket. Sacajawea explained that the white men used this to keep the biting insects off.
“Is it better than bear’s oil?”
“Ai, better,” she answered, and they crowded closer, eager to hear stories of the white men. Some left and returned with food so that they could stay longer and listen to Sacajawea tell about the round mud lodges food that was planted in spring and harvested in fall metal horns, men who did women’s work, a scratch that would keep away the smallpox.
“Unlikely. Her tongue is crooked,” laughed an old woman feeling the blue-headed belt at Sacajawea’s waist. Then she looked at Willow Bud’s new moccasins with the beads on top. These women had never before seen glass beads. Their bone needles could never pierce the tiny holes; nor could their cordage—even the finest made from the fibers of the false nettle—go through the tiny beads.
Sacajawea showed them the pewter mirror that Chief Red Hair had given her.
“Like carrying a part of a water pool in your pocket,” said an old squaw who made delightful faces in the mirror and smiled a wide, toothless grin and grabbed Sacajawea by the arm.
“My daughter,” she said. “I clearly remember your family. You are the true shadow of your mother. We are pleased to have her image back among us.” Again she smiled, and then she was gone. In a moment she returned with a small quilled fawnskin robe, which she held out silently. Sacajawea accepted it and waited until the old woman was ready to explain.
“The mother of this woman,” she whispered almost inaudibly, choked with emotion, “made the robe for my firstborn son. I thought it too beautiful to use. Later I thought it was a mistake not to have used it, but now I know why it had to be kept. For the son of the woman we call Boinaiv.”
There were many wet eyes in the tepee. Sacajawea moved back, making room where she could spread out the blanket for all to see. The designs around the edge were beautifully intricate, intimate circles, suns, and triangular birds. Again she felt it hard to catch a breath as the past enveloped her. This thing of beauty had been made by the hands of her own mother. Suddenly she thought of her sister and brothers. She opened her mouth to ask about them just as Charbonneau poked his shaggy head inside the tepee and yelled, “Little Bird, you must come. Les capitaines say you be in their council.”
“What did he say?” asked the old squaw with the mirror close to her face.
Sacajawea made the sign for a meeting. “There is a powwow between the white men and the chiefs. They asked me to come.”
“Awww,” the old squaw said. “You are asked to the council where there are only men?”
A tittering rose among the women. Shoshonis would never permit a woman in their councils. Willow Bud’s eyes were wide with curiosity.
“Are you something special to these white men that they cannot powwow without a woman sitting among them?” asked Willow Bud. Again the squaws tittered.
Sacajawea folded the precious robe over her arm and tried to explain. “It is not because I am a squaw and they are braves. It is because I can speak the Shoshoni tongue and the white men cannot. I can speak for you to them.”
The women slowly nodded. “Ai, ai, we understand that.” And with a clucking noise made with their teeth and tongue they showed that they approved of this and she should go at once.
Willow Bud followed at a little distance, then, getting up courage, asked, “May I care for him?” She held her arms out for Pomp.
Sacajawea handed the sleeping baby to her girlhood friend, kissing him first.
“What is that?” asked Willow Bud, making a smacking noise with her lips.
“It is a sign for love.” Sacajawea crossed her arms over her breast in the manner of a woman greeting her man when he returns from a hunt or war. “See?” And then Sacajawea kissed the startled Willow Bud on her cheek.
Captain Clark was formally seated on a white robe in the Council Lodge improvised with willow boughs, his face still smudged with vermilion paint, an ermine collar clasped closely about his neck. Captain Lewis sat beside the chief, who was tall and sat with his back straight and proud, his black eyes looking intently into the faces of the strange white men, reading what he could of their intentions here among his people.
Besides putting an ermine collar around Captain Clark’s neck, the chief had tied six small white sea-shells in his hair. These ornaments from the Pacific Coast were highly valued among the Shoshonis. The men had removed their moccasins.
Sacajawea was to translate from Shoshoni to Minnetaree; Charbonneau was to translate from Minnetaree into French if he could not find the English equivalent; then Labiche, nearly as dark as any Shoshoni, would translate into English. It was a very slow way to manage translation, but it was the only way there was so that everyone could understand what was being said.
Sacajawea left her moccasins by the entrance and sat quietly between Charbonneau and Labiche.
The chief wore a headband made from eagle feathers and dyed vermilion and yellow; the small white breath feathers came over his cheeks. His shirt was doeskin, as were his leggings, and embroidered with red-and-black porcupine quills. His face was painted with radiating yellow lines, proclaiming the beginning of a new day. A large yellow dot was drawn in the middle of his forehead and encircled in red, indicating friendship and peace. In his hand he held his pipe. He moved into the circle and lighted the pipe by placing a coal from the fire in the green stone bowl. The pipe was longer than the chief was tall, its stem decorated with tufts of horsehair. He held it toward the sun, which stood over a range of hills in the west, and then he gave it to the four directions, finally turning and placing it in the hands of Captain Clark. Clark closed his eyes and blew the smoke from his lips. He held out the pipe to Captain Lewis.
As Lewis drew on it, he was aware of a murmur among the men seated around him. It was as if a rustle had swept through the watching Shoshonis like a slight breeze through a grove on a hot, still afternoon. The murmur died, and the oppressive silence came again. Friendship, he thought; this means friendship. This is a miraculous thing. We come in here and smoke with them, in their country, and now we’re going to talk some more, and if they wanted, they could wipe us off the earth this day. We are a great people, a fearless people; we go in where angels fear to tread. They cannot want to kill us; or if they do want to, they’re not going to do it without their rituals. They’re going to smoke and talk Lord knows how long, and then maybe they will let us have it. No, the chief is a wise man. We’re worth more to them alive than dead.
The pipe was gone, and the chief was talking. His voice came from deep within him, from down under the tooth necklace and the yellow slashes on his ribs. He patted and smoothed the white doeskin of his open shirt and made a sign to the earth and to the distance and to the natives around him; and he began to talk, directing his remarks to Sacajawea, waiting as she began to translate his expressions of honor and approval of the white men in the Shoshoni camp.
The depth of the chiefs voice, the way he held the pipe, the way his black eyes probed into her soul, brought more memories to Sacajawea. The reality before her was mixed with the memories, as in dreams. Suddenly, instead of the gaunt, hollow-eyed chief, she heard her father speaking. She heard him speaking to the People. Her eyes narrowed to see better. A small hoop wound with rawhide suspended one red feather over his left ear. A wave of pulsating excitement flashed over her body.
“Cameahwait! Never Walks! My own brother!” she cried, jumping up to embrace him. She threw the robe their mother had sewn over this tall, silent chief. She wept profusely. “We are of the same family, my brother!”
The chief was visibly moved. “Boinaiv, my baby sister! No—I thought it could not be you. We mourned you as dead. But you are here. The Great Spirit has looked upon us today with gladness.”
Sacajawea tried to control her weeping. Between sobs she asked, “Our sister and brother?”
The chief, greatly agitated, shifted and blew his nose between his fingers. Finally, more composed, he said, “Gone into the land of the spirits with those who were our father and mother.”
“Yiiiee, gone!” Again she burst into sobs.
“My sister, hush. There are strangers present. It is impolite to display emotion with such abandon. Control yourself. There are two that live.”
“Two? But you said—”
“Ai, our brother, Spotted Bear, and our sister’s papoose, who is called Shoogan.”
Chief Cameahwait gently placed a hand on his sister’s arm. “Boinaiv, we shall talk of these things after the council.”
Sacajawea tried to control her emotion, but the situation was overpowering. She had no strength to stop. She felt helpless, powerless, exposed, and naked in her deep emotion before all the People, yet she did not see anyone but her own flesh brother. She was seized by dizziness and a shivering weakness. A thunderous wind seemed to surge within her; the earth itself rocked and swayed under its power. She clung to Charbonneau for support until the dizziness passed. She heard Chief Red Hair saying, “It’s all right, Janey. You need not feel guilty about your tears. Your homecoming has moved many to the edge of tears. I saw Captain Lewis rub his eyes, and Labiche has blown his nose more often than any of us.”
Charbonneau surprised everyone by standing up and extending his right hand toward the chief. “How do, my brother-in-law,” he said, with a swagger of his shoulders. When he sat again, he adjusted the kerchief about his neck and eyed the ermine collar worn by Captain Clark. He thought he would get his ermine collar out and wear it around camp. The chief would then know that he was somebody, all right.
Captain Lewis rose. “Tell Chief Cameahwait that we come in peace, and that we go across the mountains to the salt sea to open the way for white traders. We must go swiftly ahead of the snow, and we have brought tobacco and bags of corn as presents. Others will follow, to trade kettles, awls, hatchets, axes, guns and powder, for the Shoshonis’ beaver, otter, and ermine.”
Chief Cameahwait looked pleased. Guns and powder, this was what his people needed to keep them better supplied with game. He rose, dignified and in full control of himself. “I understand, and I am pleased. But why would our enemies, the Sioux and Blackfeet, not capture the white traders and their goods before reaching here? I think they would.”
Captain Lewis rose and told the chief about the Great White Father in Washington who wanted all the Indian nations to live in peace. “You are now children of the Great White Father, and it is he who sent us here. And it will be he who sends traders to you.”’
Chief Cameahwait was astonished. “Can this Great White Father send my sister to lead so many men to our nation? Can he keep peace among nations who have warred for years?”
Captain Clark rose. “He sent us to tell the Indian nations to lay down their weapons and be peaceful and trade with each other so that each may live better. We brought Janey—Sacajawea—with us so that she could speak to you, so that you might understand what we had to say. She is a wise young woman.”
Sacajawea tried desperately to control her tears.
“Stop sniffling, you squaw,” ordered Charbonneau. “You delay the powwow.”
Sacajawea bit her bottom lip and clenched her hands into fists. She was bewildered. The sudden joyous shock of it all still shook her, and the responsibility of the translating now included having to pass on a compliment about herself.
“My brother, these white chiefs—Chief Red Hair and Chief Captain Lewis—are strong leaders. They keep their word. They—” Once more, sobs shook her.
Charbonneau was impatient and fuming. “I ordered you to stop that bawling.”
Captain Clark touched Charbonneau on the shoulder and shook his head, saying, “Don’t. She can’t help it. Can’t you see she is greatly moved to find some of her family still living? Family ties are strong with these Shoshonis.” He motioned to Captain Lewis.
“We think it proper that this council continue tomorrow after one of our interpreters has had time to talk with her brother and meet more with her own people. We’ll begin tomorrow when our men arrive with the canoes and supplies.”
The Council Lodge was immediately cleared; however, Captain Clark had to drag Charbonneau out by his shirt. The métis was protesting, “He is my brother-in-law. My family. I want to stay and talk with him.”
Alone with her brother, Sacajawea suddenly found herself tongue-tied. She watched him remove his headband of feathers. He motioned for her to sit on the white robe, watching her. She seemed more beautiful than the memory of his mother, yet she was so similar. All her movements were rhythmical. Her eyes were red and swollen, but by tomorrow they would shine again. He noticed the fine stitching on her tunic, her wide belt of blue beads. He saw that her hair was neat and she was clean, and that her beauty came from health; she was not half-starved as were many of the women in the tribe. She was also a stranger to him, a woman with a white man, a swaggering, wind-blowing kind of man. She could speak several tongues, and she was treated as an equal by the two white chiefs.
Sacajawea felt a great pride rise within her. This brother had followed in the footsteps of their father. He had earned the office of chief, the respect of the Agaidükas. He was someone to be pleased with.
“Spotted Bear is at our camp in the mountains,” he said. “We will go there soon, and you will see him. You will notice he still has long white marks on his face from the fight with the great yellow-and-black-spotted bear.”
“And the papoose?”
“Oh, Shoogan. He is yet a child and cared for by Spotted Bear and his woman.”
“What is she called—the woman of our brother, Spotted Bear?”
“She is called Cries Alone.”
“And your woman — what is she called?”
“Dancer.”
“Our sister?”
“She left to be with the spirits two winters back. She had mountain fever, cough, and pain in her chest during the Season of Snow Melting. Her man, the son of Red Buck, was struck with an arrow from our enemy, the Blackfeet, during a battle for horses. From that time, all the color began to fade out of her cheeks. She would scarcely eat or speak.”
“Shoogan — how many summers?” she asked, her hands dabbing at her eyes.
He held up three fingers. “He is going to be as fast a runner as his grandfather if he ever learns to pick up his feet more carefully.” He grinned.
“I must see him. I will care for him as my own. Pomp would like a brother.”
“Pomp?”
“Ai, Willow Bud holds him. He is seven moons and kicks as if he would be walking if we let him stay on the ground instead of carrying him in a blanket.” She demonstrated by throwing the small handmade robe over her back and pulling two corners around her neck. “You must see him.”
“You care for Shoogan. With you he will have a full belly.”
Then he turned to show the side of his head where the long hair was partially cut in mourning. “The Blackfeet took many of our horses and killed eight of our best warriors and made off with three women and one small boy. The loss was large.”
She wondered how the Great White Father so far away could possibly hold any peace between lifelong enemies.
Cameahwait wondered at her silence. “Were you treated well?”
“The white chiefs treat me well. They are straight-tongued. Chief Red Hair is gentle and kind. The other is quiet and thinks to himself, but he is also fair in all dealings.”
“Ai, I saw all that at the council.” He looked directly at his sister.
Sacajawea felt the blood rising to her cheeks. “My man means well,” she said, then looked at her feet and went on. “You will help these white men over the mountains. Help them, and they will help you and the People. They have promised to send traders with food and guns.”
“The People then can take their rightful place among the other nations and defend their lodges and women and horses. We will have strong warriors.”
“The day will come,” she said. She looked up to see Chief Red Hair coming into the willow lodge. “My brother,” she said in the soft tongue of the Shoshonis, “I would give my life for this man. He has saved mine as the river came rising up a cliff to wash us away. And he chose me to come here where I found my people. His power is strong. He is like a rock. He made my belt of blue beads.” She showed it off proudly.
“There is a special feeling between you?” Chief Cameahwait looked down at his sister.
“He hunts the buffalo and keeps us well fed,” she said. “He would share his hunt with you and all the Agaidükas.”
“Hou! My people’s hunger will be satisfied, and we can sit comfortably as we talk with the white chiefs,” said Cameahwait.
Captain Clark put his hand on Sacajawea’s shoulder, with the other making signs. “Ask your brother to join us at the riverbank. The canoes are just beaching, and we will make presents.”
Sacajawea interpreted, “We will go with Chief Red Hair to the river and see more white men and their goods, and the big dog—as big as a colt—and the black man, who will be your friend.”
Chief Cameahwait blinked unbelievingly at his sister.