One Thousand White Women (19 page)

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Authors: Jim Fergus

BOOK: One Thousand White Women
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A disturbing encounter today … The Kellys have found a veritable gold mine in Gretchen Fathauer, who has been challenging all comers to arm wrestling contests. The girl is strong as a horse and no man had beaten her yet!
This morning Martha and I were standing on the edge of the circle watching as Gretchen handily defeated yet another poor fellow. It was then that I heard a chillingly familiar voice close behind me,
“Je t’ai dit, salope,”
whispered Jules Seminole in my ear with hot stinking breath.
“Je vais t’enculer a sec!”
The wretch so startled me, his filth so filled me with loathing, that I turned on him furiously. “I am not alone here now,” I said, “and if you ever touch me, my husband Little Wolf will kill you.”
“Good Lord, May,” said Martha, frightened as much by my reaction to him as she was by the man himself. “Who is this?”
Seminole laughed, displaying his rotten black teeth. He was dressed in a filthy U.S. Army shirt and a cavalry hat which he removed now to reveal matted hair that spilled in greasy curls down his back and over his chest. “Jules Seminole,
madame
,” he said bowing to Martha.
“Enchantée!”
“Go find my husband, Martha,” I said. “Right now.” And to Seminole, I said, “If I tell Little Wolf what filth you speak to me, he will kill you.”
“Non, non,
ma chère,
” he said, shaking his head in mock sadness. “You do not understand. A Cheyenne is forbidden to kill a member of his own tribe. It is the greatest sin of which a man is capable. Even if he wished to do so, Little Wolf could never kill me, for my mother was Cheyenne, and I am married to the Chief’s own niece. He could not kill me no matter what I choose to do with you. It is the law of the People.”
“Then he will certainly take his quirt to you,” I said, flushing angrily. “Keep away from me. I will tell him what filth you speak.”
“You have much to learn about your new people, my sweet
salope,
” Seminole said. “A more fearless warrior than your husband does not live among the People, but Little Wolf is the Sweet Medicine Chief. He must always put the interests of the People ahead of his own personal affairs. He is forbidden by tribal law from raising a hand against me, because to do so would be an act of selfishness. Why do you think he did not strike me with his quirt at the hot-water hole? Do you think he did not know my intentions toward you? Do you think he did not see my
vetoo-tse
—
that
one day soon will split you open like an axe splits the crotch of a sapling tree?”
Now Seminole called out to the Kelly girls.
“Oui,
I Jules Seminole will wrestle the German cow! And I’ll wager a barrel of whiskey on it.”
“Whiskey, you say?” said Meggie Kelly. “And what would you have us put up in return, fine sir?”
“I’ll take the cow back to my lodge with me when I beat her,” he said. Then Seminole spoke in rapid Cheyenne to Gretchen’s husband, who watched on the sidelines and who is himself a rather buffoonish fellow, known by the name
Vonestseahe
—No Brains. The half-breed pulled out a small bottle from his shirt pocket, uncorked it, and handed it to No Brains, who took a long swallow and made a grimace. But he smiled and nodded and spoke again to Seminole.
“Les jeux sont fait, mesdames,”
Seminole said.
“Vonestseahe
bets Jules Seminole his white wife against a keg of whiskey in an arm wrestling contest.”
“You can’t do that,” I said. “You don’t have to do this, Gretchen. He can’t bet his wife. Susie, Meggie, don’t let this happen. One of you run now and get the Reverend.”
“What kind of
hustband
are you, anyhow?” Gretchen demanded, approaching No Brains with her hands on her broad hips. The man already appeared to be a little drunk from the sip of whiskey. “You bet your wife in a
gottdamnt
arm wrestle contest? What kind of man does such a
ting
as
dat?”
Now Gretchen took hold of her husband’s nose between the knuckles of her forefinger and middle finger and twisted until tears ran down the man’s face and he fell to his knees in agony. Everyone began to laugh.
“
Yah,
OK,” Gretchen said, releasing his nose,
“dat
all you
tink
of me, is it, mister? OK,
den
I do it. Come on Frenchy.” She pushed up the sleeve of her dress. “Come on,
den,
I take you on.”
“Don’t do it, Gretchen,” I begged. “I know this one. He’s evil. He’ll hurt you.”
“He
haf
to beat me first, May,” Gretchen said. “Don’t you worry. You seen me lose yet? When I was a girl my
brudders wuld haf
to come get
deer
sister to pull
de gottdamnt
oxens out a
de
mud on
de
farm, because I
yam de
strongest one in
de famly.
I beat
dem
all at
de
arm wrestling. I never lose. Don’t worry. Come on
den
, Frenchy. We get down here on
de
ground. I show you how
ve Sviss
do it. Susie and Meggie
vill
be judges,
yah?
OK? I beat you, you give me keg of whiskey. You beat me, I go lie on
de
buffalo robes
wid
you.” Gretchen raised her stout index finger in the air. “One time,
dat
is. You don’t own me, and I don’t stay
wid
you, I
yam
not your wife. Understood? One time.”
“Oui,”
said Seminole. And he gave her an evil leer.
“Une fois.
One time is all I could stand with a fat German cow like you.”
“Sviss,
mister,” Gretchen said. “I
yam Sviss.
And you not exactly the kind of fellow a girl dreams about
eider.
You stink like a
gottdamnt
hog.”
I begged Gretchen again not to go through with it, but she would not listen to me. Now she and Seminole got situated on the ground, positioning themselves and locking hands. The side-betting was furious. “You know,” said Gretchen,
“dis
not really a fair contest, because I liable to pass out from
de
smell
a
Frenchy’s breath before we even get started.”
Then Susie Kelly gave the signal and the struggle began. Gretchen was all business now, and holding her own, her arm seemingly as stout and immovable as a fence post. We all cheered her on, the Cheyenne women as much as we—making their trilling—for everyone likes Gretchen and clearly all are terrified of the lout Seminole and would not wish such a fate on any woman.
But Jules Seminole is a powerful man, his short swarthy arm thick as a bear’s. He began to wear Gretchen down, little by little, gaining slowly, steadily, inexorably. Gretchen’s face turned red with blood as she strained against him and the veins in her arm and neck stood out like cording. Now the back of her hand was only inches from the ground. Good God, she was going to lose …
“You think my breath
est dégoulas,
eh, my ugly cow?” Seminole said.
“Alors,
wait until you put your fat German tongue up my arse.”
And from Gretchen’s breast there rose a bellow like the sound of a great dying buffalo, a sound filled with equal measures of anguish and wrath, and, as if infused with an inhuman strength, her arm began to regain the lost ground inch by inch. Now the sweat poured from Seminole’s apish brow as his advantage slipped away and soon their arms were locked again at the fulcrum where the contest had begun. Clearly neither had much strength left and it was here at this moment where the match would be decided. And now Gretchen spoke, her face swollen like a blood sausage, her voice barely a whisper as if she had no breath left for words.
“Sviss,
” she hissed, “I told you French pig, I am
Sviss!”
And then with a final roar, this one triumphant, she slammed the wretch’s arm to the ground, their locked hands making a thud and a puff of dust like a dropped stone. All cheered heartily as Gretchen stood and wiped the dirt from her dress. She pushed past her well-wishers to her husband. “
Yah,
you go on now,” she said to him. “You go on and collect your whiskey, my
hustband.
But don’t you come back to my lodge.” And then poor brave Gretchen, her great heart broken, looked around at the crowd of people and added, “Someone tell
dis
man what I say to him. You tell him not to come back home to my house.”
 
Tonight marks the last night of the past days of games, feasts, and dances commemorating the arrival of the southern Cheyenne. It is true that the savages love nothing so much as an excuse to hold festivities. All of our efforts against it notwithstanding, tomorrow the war party goes out against the Crows, and other parties are off on the hunt.
This afternoon Martha and I arranged a conference in Reverend Hare’s lodge with our husbands Little Wolf and Tangle Hair, who is himself the Chief of the Crazy Dog soldier society. The intent of our meeting was to enlist the Reverend’s aid as translator and moral arbiter in a final effort to dissuade the men from making war against their neighbors.
The
he’emnane’e,
Dog Woman, organized the seating inside the lodge—he’s a prissy old thing, and not before everything was just so did he light the pipe which was passed among the men. The women, as usual, were required to sit outside the circle of men, a heathen custom which I find objectionable—particularly given that this “powwow” was our idea in the first place. I suppose that this is not so different from the way women are treated in our own world. Of course, neither were we offered the pipe.
First I expressed through the Reverend our concern about our husbands going off to war. After he had translated, both Little Wolf and Mr. Tangle Hair seemed amused; indeed, they had rather a fine chuckle over it.
“Horse-stealing raids upon enemies, my wife,” said Little Wolf, speaking through the Reverend, “are the business of young men, not ‘old men’ chiefs such as ourselves.”
“Well then you must advise the young men not to go,” I said.
“I cannot do so,” answered the Chief.
“But you are the Chief,” I said. “You can advise them as you wish.”
“The raid upon the Crows is being organized by the Kit Fox society,” Little Wolf explained. “I am the leader of the Elks Society and Tangle Hair is the leader of the Crazy Dogs. We are unable to interfere in the affairs of the Kit Fox society. This is tribal law.”
“Kit Foxes, Elks, Crazy Dogs!” I said, exasperated. “These are like the clubs of children.”
“That I cannot translate,” said Reverend Hare.
“And why not?” I demanded.
“Because it’s insulting to our hosts,” he said.
“As His Reverence has himself pointed out,” I said, “our purpose here is to encourage the savages to settle on the reservation. Surely making war against their neighbors does not work toward that end.”
“Your government’s official position on the matter, madam,” explained the Reverend, “is that the heathens are to be distracted from making war upon white people. However any intratribal discord only encourages those who are friendly to us to enlist as scouts against those who oppose us.”
“I see,” I said, “divide and conquer.” I began, then, to understand that not only do we face the obstacle of the heathens’ innately warlike nature but also the hypocrisy of our own representatives. “And do you speak for the government or your church, Father?” I asked.
“In this case the two have a common purpose,” answered the Reverend.
“Allow me then, please,” I said, “to speak to my husband simply as his wife and not as a representative of either your church or our government.”
“And what would you like to say to your husband, madam?” asked the Big White Rabbit with a patronizing nod.
“I would like to say: ‘Kit Foxes, Elks, Crazy Dogs! These are like the clubs of children.’”
The Reverend smiled benignly, “You are an impetuous young woman, Miss Dodd,” he said. “And frequently an irritating one.”
“Shouldn’t you address me now as Mrs. Little Wolf, Father?” I reminded him. “And isn’t your function here to serve as a translator and not a censor?”
“At my discretion, Mrs. Little Wolf,” he said. “You must understand that we have interests to protect in this delicate undertaking. That there is a protocol to be observed in all dealings with these people. Believe me, I have a great deal of experience in such matters. One must be diplomatic; one does not order, one must only suggest; one does not insult, one must flatter and cajole.”
“Good God, Reverend, you sound more and more like a politician than a man of the cloth,” I said.
“I caution you against blasphemy, young lady,” he said sharply.
“Then let me rephrase my prior statement in a more politic manner,” I said. “Perhaps you will translate the following to my husband: ‘We have been sent here by the Great White Father’—No, no let me start over, I loathe that ridiculous term … ‘We have been sent here by the United States government as a gift. You yourself requested that gift. You asked that we teach you how to live after the buffalo are gone. We are trying to learn from you about your way of life. And, in return, we are trying to teach you the white man’s way. Now it is time that you begin to learn these things. That is the reason I have come here to be your wife. As Chief it is your duty to explain to the young men that they must stop waging war against their neighbors.’”
The Reverend translated—or so, at least, I assume. The Chief sat impassively, listening thoughtfully. He took a long puff on the pipe as he seemed to consider my words. Finally he spoke.
Reverend Hare smiled in his irritatingly smug fashion. “The Chief would like to know if white people do not make war upon their enemies?” he asked.
“Why yes, of course they do,” I answered, frustrated, for I could see where the conversation was heading.
“He would like to know what difference there is between the Cheyennes making war against their enemies and white people making war against theirs?”
“How do I even know you’re translating accurately?” I demanded angrily of the fat Episcopalian.
“Mrs. Little Wolf, please,” said the Reverend, raising a pale chubby hand in stern admonishment of my outburst, “do not shoot the messenger.”
“Couldn’t you just tell my husband that God doesn’t want the Cheyennes to go to war against the Crows?” I asked. “Would not that be a fair interpretation of God’s position on the matter?”
The Reverend looked at me, the blood beginning to rise in his round pink hairless face, darkening his complexion. He spoke in a low voice. “Madam,” he said, “may I remind you that it is hardly within the realm of your responsibilities to determine what God does and does not wish for these people.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” I said, nodding. “That’s up to the church and the United States military, isn’t it?”
“I warn you, young lady,” said the Reverend pointing at me with a fat trembling finger, “I warn you once and for all not to incur the wrath of God, for the wrath of God is a terrible thing to behold.”
“Martha,” I said, turning to my friend for support, “please, don’t be so timid. Speak up. Tell your husband to discourage the young men from going to war.”
“You may repeat Mrs. Little Wolf’s sentiments to my husband,” Martha said to the Reverend. “Hers is my position exactly.”
The Reverend addressed Tangle Hair, who responded curtly. “Your husband says that we should take this matter up with the leaders of the Kit Foxes,” said the Reverend. “Which, I’m afraid, is his last word on the subject. And mine.”
And this is what we are up against … I’m afraid that John Bourke was right about many things … that this entire enterprise may have been ill-advised, doomed to failure … that we are all of us helpless pawns of higher powers … although clearly not high enough.
I scribble these last notes of the day prior to our attending yet another, and, I hope, final feast. I am happy to report that we are not cooking at “home” tonight. Rather we have received an invitation to dine at the lodge of a prominent Chief of the southern Cheyennes, a man named Alights on the Cloud, and then we shall proceed to the dance … All this partygoing is beginning to remind me of the Chicago social season, with dinner tonight at the Alights on the Clouds’ residence akin to Mother and Father being invited to the McCormicks’ estate. I shall give a full report of these festivities tomorrow …

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