One Thousand White Women (18 page)

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Authors: Jim Fergus

BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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“There, you see!” Helen said, delighted. “As we speak my collaborator is imbuing my kingfisher with a full complement of special powers.”
Hanging from Helen’s tent were dozens of bird skins of every species imaginable, many of which she had collected herself in the course of our journey here and others of which have been brought to her by the savages as specimens for the likenesses which she is being “commissioned” to paint on their bodies, and on those of their war ponies. On the ground around her lodge were piles of gifts which the savages have bestowed upon her for her services—articles of finely embroidered clothing, animal hides, an assortment of “medicine” pipes, jewelry, braided horse bridles, and saddles.
“I do encourage you ladies to carry away any of my goods which might be of interest to you,” Helen said now. “I hardly have room for them all. I now own a string of a half dozen horses which I have given to my husband, Mr. Hog. Suddenly I find myself a woman of means. I must say it strikes me as frightfully ironic that I’ve had to come to the middle of the wilderness to achieve economic success as an artist. Ah, and here comes my next commission,” Helen said, as another young man rode up on a horse laden with hides.
“Another crane, I’ll wager,” Helen said, “a perennial favorite among the savages. Which is of particular interest in view of the fact that many other cultures throughout history—both Eastern and Western, primitive and civilized alike—have been known to ascribe special qualities to the noble crane. In the case of our savages, the bird is highly prized for its courage. For even when wounded and unable to fly, it stands its ground and fights heroically. So you see, by wearing these images upon their breasts the warriors believe that they assume these same characteristics.”
“But doesn’t it concern you, Helen,” I asked, “that in spite of the good doctor’s assumption of responsibility for magical properties, you may still be held accountable when your art fails them—as it inevitably must?”
“Ah, but Art never fails anyone, May,” Helen said cheerfully. “Magic and ‘medicine’ may certainly fail, but never Art.
“Furthermore,” she said, taking a long, thoughtful puff on her pipe, “is it possible that if a warrior believes in his ‘medicine,’ he can make it come true? A fascinating concept, is it not? And one that lies at the very core of pagan religion.”
“And perhaps of our own,” I pointed out, “for now you speak of faith, Helen.”
“Quite!” said Helen, with customary good cheer. “That is to say, faith in the power of God, in the power of Art, in the power of medicine men and medicine animals—it’s all one, finally, don’t you agree, May?”
“Your paintings are magnificent, Helen,” I said, “but if I had to wager, I’d still put my money on the power of bullets.”
“Ah, ye of little faith!” said Helen, in a light tone.
“So the Reverend says of us both, Helen,” I answered.
“Quite,” she said. “The Episcopalian accuses me of encouraging the worship of false idols. I’ve explained to him that I’m only a poor artist trying to make my way in the world.”
“By encouraging a finer appreciation of art among the heathens,” I added.
“Just so, May!” Helen said. “Art being a cornerstone of civilization. And, in any case, what could be false about a kingfisher? There,” she said to the boy, sitting back on her stool to inspect her efforts. She made the sign for finished. “All done. Be a good chap, and run along now. He’ll do well in battle, that one,” she added with satisfaction.
“Ah, the artist begins to believe her own notices!” I teased.
Helen smiled around her pipe and looked down at the old medicine man, White Bull, who appeared to be dozing in the sun. “Wake up, you old charlatan. Here’s our next patient.”
 
With the presence of our visitors from the south the entire camp has been abuzz with activities for the past several days and has much the festive atmosphere of a large family reunion or a county fair.
I have passed my time calling at some of my friends’ lodges and watching the various contests of skill that are everywhere being held between the different bands and warrior societies. These include tests of horsemanship, accuracy with bow and arrow, rifle and spear, running events, etc. Nearly everyone in the camp turns out either to spectate or participate.
As Bourke had warned, the savages are relentless gamblers and brisk wagering takes place at every opportunity. Prior to their arrival at our camp the southerners had been to the trading post, and they have brought with them many items of civilization—blankets, utensils, knives, beads, and trinkets—and with these they wager on games of chance and contests of all kinds.
Right in the thick of things I was not surprised to find those scamps the Kelly twins. I can’t help but admire their spirit but truly they are a pair of scoundrels!
Hestahkha’e
the savages call them—Twin Woman as if they are one, for it is so difficult to tell them apart. (Martha tells me that a scandalous report is circulating about the camp that the two switched husbands on our wedding night.)
The girls seem to have set themselves up as something like professional bookmakers, and have themselves made a small fortune in trade goods, hides, and horses by organizing and betting upon various games. Yesterday, for instance they put our own Phemie up against several of the Southern Cheyenne men in a running race. Our statuesque Negress offered a great shock to all, Caucasians and savages alike, when she strode to the starting line wearing nothing more than a man’s breechclout.
“Good God, Phemie,” I said when I first saw her, “you’re practically naked!” Truly she was something to behold, her long gleaming black legs muscled like a colt’s, her breasts hard and small as a girl’s.
Phemie laughed richly. “Hello, May!” she said, greeting me warmly, for I had not seen her since my return. “Yes, when I was a little girl I always ran footraces naked against the other children. I was the fastest child on the plantation. My mother told me this was how our people raced and fought in Africa. Why carry the extra weight of clothing to slow you down?”
“Right
ya
are, too, Phemie,” said Meggie Kelly. “They say that the Irish lads of olden days always did battle naked themselves for that very same reason.”
“Aye, and for the fact that it struck terror into the hearts of their enemies!” added Susie. “And which of you brave laddies’ll run against this poor little
goorl
then?”
Several warriors had stepped up to the line by then. Among the Southern Cheyennes were a number who spoke passable English, this branch of the family having had more contact with the whites than ours. With their assistance as translators the Kellys haggled with the other bettors over the odds—a new concept to the savages.
“Aye
, but she’s only a poor
goorl,
you see,” Meggie explained through the translator. “It hardly seems fair does it now that she should compete with equal odds against the big strong men? On account of which disadvantage all who bet on Phemie need only put up half as much as those who bet on one of the lads. And those are excellent odds we’re givin’
ya
, too, if I may say so.”
“I’ll take a piece
a
that action
mahself, you rascals,”
said Daisy Lovelace.
“Ah
don’t give a damn if she’s a
guuurl
or not.
Mah
Daddy always did say that nobody can outrun a
niggah.
Daddy said they got those long legs from runnin’ through the jungle
bein’ puursued
by lions and other
waahld
creatures. Yessir,
Ah’m
taking all wagers on my dear friend Euphemia
Washin’ton.”
Then the signal was given, and they were off, Phemie’s stride worth two of those of any of the savages. She ran as swiftly and gracefully as a pronghorn, and handily won the race, which led to another challenge and another round of furious wagering. Phemie won a second time, all the other runners now utterly shamed in front of their friends and family, and roundly ridiculed by all.
Of interest to note is the fact that the Cheyenne women were as proud of Phemie’s victory as we, and made their funny little trilling noise when she ran across the line ahead of the others. Indeed, where certain obvious tensions and jealousies have existed between us since our arrival here, Phemie’s success seemed to bring us all closer together for a moment in a new community of women. This can only be a good thing.
 
The festivities to mark the southerners’ arrival and the beginning of the summer hunts continue … Yesterday afternoon an astonishing thing occurred which makes me—a “nonbeliever” if ever there was one—reassess the discussion we had with Helen Flight on the notion of magic.
The Kellys were taking bets on shooting contests with bow and arrow and rifle when a little girl entered the circle where the competition was being organized. The child led an old man by the hand. The old man had milky eyes that appeared to be entirely blind; he was stooped and wizened with age, his thin hair worn in wispy white braids. The girl whispered shyly to one of the southern Cheyennes who in turn translated to Meggie Kelly.
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” said Meggie to her sister. “The dear little thing says her granddad wants to challenge Black Coyote to a shooting contest.” Black Coyote is a brash young warrior married to Phemie’s new friend Buffalo Calf Road Woman, who is herself a Cheyenne warrior woman. He was widely considered to be the best shot in the camp and had so far handily beaten all comers.
“Oih
never
hooord
such a thing, Meggie,” said Susie with a laugh. “And who’ll bet on the old poor fellow? Why look at him—he’s blind as a bat.”
“The child says her granddad’s got big medicine, Susie,” Meggie said. “Isn’t that grand? Says.the family’ll wager two horses on the old fool.”
Susan came closer, and took the girl’s chin in her hand. “Oh, child, are
ya
quite sure of what you’re askin’ us?” she said. “Your old granddad cannot even see the target.”
“You’re not goin’ soft on me are
ye
, Susie Kelly?” said her sister. “If the child’s family wishes to wager, I’ll not stand in their way. And I’ll put some of my own winnings on Black Coyote. Haven’t we got a regular string of horses now among our winnings?”
“Aye, that
mooch
we do, Meggie,” said Susan. “But this is takin’ candy from a baby, is it not? I hate to steal from a little girl who believes in her dear old granddad.”
“Well, just to make
ye
feel better about it, Susie,” Meggie said, “we’ll give’em long odds. How about we put six horses up for their two? Would that salve your precious conscience, then?”
Now a round target was barked off a cottonwood tree, a black circle drawn with charcoal in the center and the distance paced off. Black Coyote, who is a cocksure young fellow, went first. He was shooting a brand-new cartridge rifle that he had won off a southern Cheyenne in an earlier contest. He aimed casually and fired with quick confidence, his bullet lodging just inside the circle. The spectators all
“houed”
approvingly.
Now the old man stepped up to the line. He held his hand closed in a fist and he opened it to reveal one of our seamstress, Jeanette Parker’s, sewing needles. Now there was much
houing
of an astonished nature.
“What’s the old fool doin’, Meggie?” asked Susie. “Where’s his damn rifle?”
The old man held his open hand up to his mouth, pointed it toward the target, puckered his lips, and blew a pitiful wheezing breath of air—hardly enough breath to rustle a leaf. But the needle was suddenly gone from his palm and the little girl pointed at the target. All went to examine it closely and there was the needle sticking in the exact center of the circle—a dead bull’s-eye!
“
T’isn’t
possible, Meggie,” said Susan. “How did the old faker
pool
it off?” Indeed, none of us had ever seen anything like it!
“’Tis a damn trick they’re playin’ on us, Susie,” said Margaret. “That
moooch
is
shoore.
Got to be rigged somehow.”
Now the twins sent a boy to collect their horses to pay off the wager, and while he was gone, they conferred in close confidence. Being no one’s fools, they issued a challenge for another contest between Black Coyote and the old man, whose name the translator gave as Stares at Sun. This time they marked a different target on another tree even further away, and all inspected it for any evidence of advance tampering. Many of the savages, who are nothing if not superstitious creatures, had been won over by the old man’s magic and this time the wagering was considerably brisker. The twins themselves doubled their bets, with even odds now, and took a number of side bets. They looked to make a killing, and just to further ensure that the old man couldn’t play the same trick a second time, right before the contest began they added the stipulation that Stares at Sun must this time use something other than a sewing needle. Clever girls, those Kellys.
Again Black Coyote had the first shot and this time he aimed more carefully before he fired, and his bullet hit the target less than an inch away from the exact center of the circle.
The old man bent down and whispered something to his granddaughter. The child plucked a porcupine quill—which the savages use as ornamentation—off her sweet little dress, and put it very carefully in the old man’s open palm. The twins watched closely and suspiciously for any possible sleight of hand.
Again the old man raised his palm to his mouth and, directed by his granddaughter, held it toward the target. He pursed his lips and blew weakly, making a little airless sound like
“pffftt.”
Again the little girl pointed at the target, and all went to inspect it, the Kelly girls in the lead so that no further shenanigans could be perpetrated upon them. Incredibly, the porcupine quill was embedded in the precise center of the circle.
“
Blooody Hell,
Susie!” said Meggie. “The old charlatan has tricked us again! We’ve been swindled!”
I could only think of Helen Flight’s words and wonder if the child’s faith in her old grandfather had somehow made his magic work …
In any case, we all had a good laugh at the expense of the Kelly twins, and no one minded that they had lost a wager for a change!

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