CHAPTER 5
The council took place in the middle of the next day, in Broken Pine’s lodge. Broken Pine was there, of course, along with Preacher and Hawk That Soars.
In addition, half a dozen other Crow warriors sat around the fire in the center of the lodge. Preacher knew all of them from previous visits to the village or had at least met them. A couple of the men glanced at him and frowned when he came in with Hawk, as if they weren’t sure about the wisdom of having a white man sit in on the council with them, but no one voiced any objection. Everyone knew that Hawk was Preacher’s son and that Preacher had fought side by side with Broken Pine in the past. The mountain man had always been a good friend to the Crow.
But he was white, and sometimes it was hard to put that fact aside.
Broken Pine began by talking about something they all knew already: the white settlers bound for the Pacific Northwest, along with their wagons pulled by teams of massive oxen or rawboned mules, had been spotted coming closer and closer to this river valley where the village was located. Most Indians never used one word when ten could be made to express the same idea, and Broken Pine was no different. His opening oration was lengthy and eloquent.
Then he launched into a recitation of how it was becoming more and more difficult to find game within reasonably close confines to the village. Preacher wanted to speak up in response to that, but he held his tongue. When dealing with Indians, everything had to run its natural course and proceed at its own pace.
Finally, Broken Pine brought his opening statement to a close by saying, “It has been suggested that the wisest course of action we might follow is to move our village and search for a new, more suitable location for it. I would hear what all of you think about this idea.”
That led to more lengthy speeches. As one who had come from somewhere other than this village, Hawk waited until all the other warriors had gone before him. Then he said, “I have fought many white men in my time. They cannot be trusted. You never know what to expect from them. As evil as the Blackfeet are, when you do battle with them, you know what they will do and what they will not do. There are things not even a Blackfoot will stoop to.” Hawk shook his head solemnly. “The same cannot be said of a white man. If he wants to win badly enough, he will do anything.” Hawk leaned back and crossed his arms. “For this reason, I say that we should fight the whites if we must in order to protect our hunting grounds . . . but if we can find better hunting grounds, we should go there instead of fighting.”
Several of the other men had expressed that same sentiment during the council. The rest were violently opposed to the idea, though, including a warrior named Many Pelts who was the most passionate about it. He leaned forward now as he sat cross-legged beside the fire and slammed a fist against his thigh.
“The Crow do not run away and hide like frightened children,” he said. “Those of you who have suggested such a thing should be ashamed!”
Hawk bristled at that, and he wasn’t the only one. Several men muttered angrily and looked like they were about to get to their feet.
“Hold,” Broken Pine said sharply. “All are free to say what they wish in this council. If you wish to take issue with Many Pelts, do it outside this lodge.” The chief looked at Preacher. “You have not spoken.”
“Bad enough we must listen to one who is half-white,” declared Many Pelts as he sneered toward Hawk. “Nothing a white man could say holds any interest for me!”
“Preacher is an elder among his people and has long been a friend to the Crow,” Broken Pine said. “And he is my friend, Many Pelts. You will speak of him with respect.”
Many Pelts scowled and didn’t say anything, as if he would rather keep quiet than show any deference toward Preacher.
Broken Pine nodded to the mountain man and went on, “I would hear your thoughts, Preacher.”
“And I’ll be happy to share ’em with you,” Preacher said, “but you may not like some of them.”
Broken Pine gestured for him to continue.
“First of all, I have a question. I don’t doubt that the wagon trains have been comin’ closer. I trust the eyes of your scouts. But what makes you believe they’re responsible for the problems you’ve been having with huntin’ in this area?”
One of the men asked, “What else could be the cause?”
“Nothing else has changed,” said another. “The land goes on as it always has, and that means the game should be as abundant as ever. But then the white men came, and a hunter can go all day without ever seeing a deer or an elk. It is because of the white men. It must be.”
Preacher wasn’t sure how to argue with that logic. What the warrior had said made perfect sense to him. Preacher knew he had to try to make the men understand, though.
“Did it rain in the spring?” he asked.
“Of course, it did,” Many Pelts said. “It always rains in the spring.”
“As much as it usually does?”
Broken Pine said, “There was an entire moon when no rain fell. The wildflowers did not bloom until much later than they usually do.”
“And the grass didn’t grow as tall or as thick, I’m guessin’,” Preacher said.
“The flowers bloomed and the grass grew,” Many Pelts burst out. “What difference does it make?”
“The grazin’ isn’t as good when it’s been dry like that. Animals know that. They wander on, lookin’ for someplace where there’s more to eat. And then that carries on over to you folks. You have to look for a better place, too.”
“Bah! The grass is there! The game left because of the white men, not because it did not rain for a time.”
Broken Pine said, “It seems to me that Preacher may be right. All of us”—his expansive gesture took in the other members of the council—“have either heard about such things, or seen them with our own eyes. A bad winter, a bad spring, these can cause much hardship among animals and people alike.”
“That is why all the tribes never stay in one place forever,” said Hawk. “It is in our nature to move.”
“And it is in our nature to fight when we are threatened!” Many Pelts insisted. “I will not be driven away before my enemies. I will stand, and if I have to, I will die where I stand!”
What it came down to, thought Preacher, was that Many Pelts wanted a fight and was bound and determined to get one, no matter what it took. But Broken Pine was a smart chief, and he would be aware of the same thing.
“We have talked much,” Broken Pine said. “Now we will think about what has been spoken.”
“There is no need,” Many Pelts insisted. “I say we decide now, and my decision is that we place scouts in the foothills and wait for the next wagon train to come near our land. When it does, we will ride out and attack it and drive the white men away!”
“Our land!” Broken Pine repeated sharply and scornfully. “The land is not ours, Many Pelts. It belongs to the Maker of All Things. We only live on it and make use of it.”
Many Pelts let out a disdainful snort that made Broken Pine stiffen with anger.
“Ask the white men if they believe that. You know they do not! They believe that everything in the world belongs to them.” Many Pelts jerked a hand toward Preacher. “Ask that white man if he believes that he and his kind should own all the land between the great waters on both sides that we have heard about.”
“Manifest Destiny,” Preacher muttered in English.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll tell you what I own, Many Pelts. The clothes I’m wearin’. The gear I carry. These two guns.” Preacher rested his hands on the butts of the Colt Dragoons. “A Sharps rifle, a knife that’s served me well for more than twenty years, a good tomahawk. The same sort of things you own. I’ve never set foot on ground that belonged to me and don’t care if I ever do. And I’m the only white man I speak for.”
“A good answer,” Broken Pine said with a nod. He looked hard at Many Pelts and went on, “We will make no decision today. Go to your lodges and think on what has been said. We will talk again.”
Many Pelts didn’t like that, as his glare made clear. But he didn’t argue anymore, as even those other warriors who leaned toward agreeing with him didn’t want unnecessary trouble with Broken Pine. A chief could be overruled or even removed from a position of power, but neither of those things was ever done lightly or hastily.
The men stood up to leave. As Broken Pine came to his feet, he said, “Preacher, Hawk That Soars, wait a moment.”
The two of them stood there while the others filed out. Many Pelts cast a sullen glance over his shoulder as he left the lodge. If the place had had a door, Many Pelts would have slammed it, thought Preacher . . . but it was hard to do that with a buffalo hide flap.
When the rest of the warriors were gone, Broken Pine said, “Many Pelts may try to cause trouble for you, Preacher. He is very proud . . . proud to the point of sometimes being rash.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” said Preacher. “He won’t sneak up on me.”
Broken Pine smiled faintly, an uncommon expression on his usually so solemn face, and said, “I was more worried that you might kill him. He is a good man, no matter how stubborn he can be at times, and I would not see him hurt if that can be avoided.”
Preacher nodded and said, “I’ll remember that. I’ll try to take it easy on him . . . if he’ll let me.”
“I cannot ask for more.” Broken Pine paused, then went on, “Do you really believe that the white men from the wagon trains have nothing to do with the lack of game being so bad around here now?”
“I’m sure they send out huntin’ parties to bring in fresh meat, but think about it. How many wagon trains have there actually been, and how many elk and antelope and deer would their hunters have had to kill in order to affect the huntin’ around here? Seems like it would have to be an awful lot.”
“So you think we have blamed this on the white men even though they are innocent?”
Preacher snorted and said, “I wouldn’t start throwin’ around words like innocent too freely. But I think it’s easier to blame somebody else than to blame pure bad luck. If it’s the white men’s fault, you can run them off and things’ll go back to bein’ like they were. That’s what Many Pelts and the others who feel like he do believe will happen. But if it’s bad luck that’s to blame, there’s really no way to fight that. And bein’ helpless frustrates the hell outta folks.”
“As usual, you are wise, Preacher,” Broken Pine said as he nodded slowly. “I do not want to go to war with the white men. But I do not want their wagon trains coming closer and closer to our hunting grounds, either.”
“I reckon that’s a reasonable way to feel.” Preacher rubbed his chin as he frowned in thought for a moment, then he said, “The next time a wagon train comes along, would you like me to ride out and have a talk with the fellas leadin’ it? Maybe find out what they intend on doin’ and why they’re this far north?”
“That was my hope. Do you mind staying here until such an opportunity comes along?”
“Do I mind?” Preacher grinned. “You’ve just given me a good excuse to hang around and spend more time with my son and daughter-in-law and grandkids. I’d be mighty happy to do that, and if I can help you folks out at the same time, I sure can’t argue with that.”