The Devil's Paintbox (22 page)

“What are those?” Aiden asked.

“Camas,” Tupic said. “It is our bread.” He dug holes in the hot coals and popped the camas in to roast.

“Where do you grow it?”

“We do not grow it. The earth gives it to us. But this summer is very bad. So many wagons and cattle pass through and tear up the fields. The creeks are bad from your cattle. The elk are shot, everything is shot. You spoil all the land,” Tupic said with a bitter tone that Aiden had not heard before.

Aiden stared into the glowing fire. In the distance, he could hear the noises of the hundreds of wagons camped nearby. It was true what Tupic was saying, he knew. He felt bad, but also angry. Where were they supposed to live? What were they supposed to eat? Who decided who got to live by the rivers full of fat fish and who had to scratch at the harsh Kansas prairie for barely enough food to survive?

“My people—white people—” Aiden said tentatively. “Where do you think we came from?”

Tupic nudged some of the coals up around the roasting camas. “We believe all peoples came from a great beast that lived in the Kamiah Valley long ago,” he said. His tone was softer now, as if he was embarrassed to have spoken that way to a friend, especially a friend who had no more power to change things than he did to realign the planets. “The people were trapped inside the belly of this beast. But Coyote tricked the beast and went inside his belly. There he took five stone knives and cut out the heart,” he went on. “Then Coyote cut the beast up, and from the pieces made the tribes. The Flatheads were made from the head of the beast; the Blackfeet came from the feet, and so on. As we tell the story now”—Tupic smiled—”white people were made from the asshole.”

“Well, that may be true.” Aiden couldn't help laughing. “But did you know that my people—white people—all once lived just like Indians do now? They probably don't teach you
that in missionary school—hell, I think most white people would never admit it, but it's true. We weren't just born into cities and farms. In ancient times, we lived just like you do now, hunting animals and finding food. But the land can't support many that way.”

“It has always taken care of our people.”

“Have you never had bad years when there wasn't enough food?”

“Of course. But then we pray and fix our hearts to be right again with the spirits.”

“How many children do your families have? Ones that live, I mean.”

“Three, four, some more.”

“All right, say that you have ten women in your village and each one has two girls that live.” Aiden picked up a stick and scratched out the figures in the dirt.

“Each of these girls has two girls. Now there are forty new girls. Then each of them grows up and has two girls and so on. After eighty years, you have three hundred twenty girls. After a hundred years—ten women become six hundred and forty.” He scratched out the numbers three times because he couldn't really believe them himself. But it was simple multiplication, even for him. “And that's not counting boys and men, or adding in the people who are still alive through all those years. I don't even know how to figure all that in. Still …” He tapped the stick on the calculations. “In five generations, it is more than a thousand people from just two.”

Tupic looked at the numbers in the dirt.

Aiden picked up one of the little roots. “Will the earth give you a thousand camas every day of the year? How many salmon do you need to feed a thousand people? How many buffalo each
day—twenty? Can your best hunters kill twenty buffalo every day?” He was annoyed with himself, for he felt as if he was scolding. But he knew starvation too well. And he knew the stories from Ireland, how a million or more people had died in the Great Famine only 20 years before. “And what about the Flatheads and the Paiute?” he went on. He felt oddly angry now, angry that he had to feel guilty. It was only numbers. Only the limited earth. “The Crow, the Cayuse, the Shoshone? All of the tribes you already fight with for land? Their numbers will grow the same way.” Aiden spread his hand toward the mountains. “Even if we never came you would become too many.”

“Indians have always taken land from other tribes,” Tupic said. “But we take it as warriors. You don't come as warriors and kill us in battle. You sign papers, you make promises, then you shoot us all in our camps with our hands raised. You bring your Bible and your Constitution, then say, here— eat the pages when you are hungry. Here, melt the ink from the words and feed that to your babies.”

“But we don't want to kill you for your land,” Aiden said. “Most of us don't, anyway.”

“Still you will take it.”

“Yes,” Aiden sighed. “We are more than you. So many more. You could kill us forever and there will still be more coming behind those, because we have nowhere else to go. More people, more guns, and trains coming soon. Until we can plow the sky and eat the stars, we will take your land.” The sun fell behind a mountain peak and cast them into sudden gloom. “I don't know how to make it right,” he said. “I don't know how to make it fair. But I don't want to meet you as a warrior in battle and kill you either. I would rather be your friend. I would rather fish.”

Tupic stood up and rubbed out Aiden's multiplication with the toe of his moccasin. “I must go back now.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't want to have such a dismal conversation with you. Come back with me to the camp; Carlos will be glad to see you. Stay the night. No more big talk—I promise.”

“I must travel while there is light,” Tupic said.

“I can get some peppermint.”

“No. Thank you.”

“I missed you,” Aiden said. “I missed the way we were— friends.”

“Yes.” Tupic stared back at the camp, where smoke from cooking fires was starting to drift up. “Please give my respect to your sister and take the fish to your people. I wish you a safe journey.”

n early September, they crossed out of the Blue Mountains, and the group that had come so far together now began to break apart. Near Fort Walla Walla about half would turn west and follow the Columbia River to the Willamette Valley Jackson and the rest of them would cross the river and continue on north along the Cascade Trail to Seattle.

Hans and Friedrich (now calling themselves Hank and Fred) left at the split, apparently without breaking the hearts of Annie and Polly Hollingford, who were going on to Seattle. Eleven out of fifteen of their prize herd had made it across alive, including the two valuable bulls; a stunningly successful number. News of the fabulous stock had traveled before them with other wagon trains, so miles before they reached the cutoff, farmers began to appear on the trail, eager to bargain for a chance at the bulls. Some actually brought their cows to be bred right there, and the brothers soon had two bags stuffed with coins.

“We will name the first bullock after you, Mr. Jefferson J. Jackson!” Hank said.

The ferry landing at the Columbia River was like a carnival. Most wagon trains camped at least one night as groups broke up or formed anew according to their final destinations. There were tents and shacks offering everything from fresh vegetables (at exorbitant prices) to barbering. There
was a tinker to mend pots and a cobbler for shoes. There were fortune-tellers, patent medicine salesmen and half a dozen land agents promising the best acreage in Oregon. But most of the commerce was small barter between emigrants. Children walked through the camp with outgrown shoes dangling from sticks, looking to trade for a bigger pair. Women met in little groups, their bonnets huddled together like ships in a harbor, trading baby clothes and books, tonics and salves.

It was a gorgeous September day, with a cloudless sky of brilliant blue. The world felt generous and easy. The only touch of gloom came from a blind fiddle player who sat by the ferry landing all day. He played poorly and only knew about a dozen tunes, but people tossed him pennies anyway, for it seemed bad luck not to.

“He is so dreary,” Marguerite said. “What would it cost to have him not play for a while?”

There was one major ferry operator at this part of the river, plus two men who ran small rafts that could carry one wagon at a time. The big ferry could carry up to four wagons, depending on the river conditions. There was a turnstile on each shore where oxen plodded around and around, winding the heavy ropes that pulled the boat across. Two men on each side helped load and unload, then worked the guide ropes and handled the oxen. They were brusque, short-tempered men who had no tolerance for delay. They wanted three crossings an hour, and that meant having everyone lined up and ready to go exactly where and when they were told. It cost ten dollars a wagon, but there were plenty of wagons in line even at that price. Livestock were swum across, guided
by Indians on horseback for ten cents a head. With so many wagons arriving at the same time, the wait this time of year could be two days, but Jackson had made arrangements to pay eleven dollars a wagon for priority crossing. The price, of course, had been collected with the general fee in the beginning. Those in other trains, unaware of the steep fare, either had to risk the cheaper small rafts or dig deep into emergency money. Some sold their jewelry. The Columbia, even at its mildest, was not a river to cross in bullboats or makeshift rafts.

Jackson had sixteen wagons to cross here. Aiden, the widower and the Kansas boys worked nonstop, helping to guide them onto the boats, while Jackson saw to the cattle. William Buck spent a lot of time directing and advising. The teams didn't like being harnessed but going nowhere and so had to be hitched up at the last possible minute. Most animals did not want to board. They balked at the first strange feel of being afloat and had to be dragged and whipped aboard. The deck was wet and slippery, and there was always danger from a shifting wagon or crazed animals. Aiden's arms were just about yanked out of their sockets and his legs were bruised from hoof kicks. When they were on the third trip, Aiden realized his sister was nowhere in sight.

“Where's Maddy?” he asked Reverend True.

“One of the ferrymen broke his arm last night,” he said. “They asked Carlos to fix it properly. Don't worry, I just sent Joby to fetch them.”

Aiden watched a flock of young Thompson children scamper past, with the older ones herding them diligently
out of trouble. The little ones were never good with idleness. The family was still mourning the death of Matthew, but young children could switch more easily from grief to play and a day this exciting could push away sadness for a while. Aiden saw the Kansas boys struggling to load the Holling-fords’ stubborn mule and ran to help them.

Once that load was under way he turned to the final four wagons to be sure they were ready to go. Finally it was an easy group, Aiden thought. Mr. Thompson had his two wagons all set, with Peter, John and Joe helping to hold the mules. Gabriel and Marguerite's oxen were calm animals by now, thanks to Joby's tending. The ferry captain had actually tried to hire the man away, after seeing how well he handled the animals, but Joby turned him down to stay with Carlos.

“I'm going to drive big teams in Seattle,” he explained. “And see the Pacific Ocean waves.” He wasn't actually sure what waves were, but was excited about seeing them.

Carlos and Maddy came running back just in time. They looked so happy and excited that for a few seconds Aiden felt cross. He was tired, bruised, wet and covered in crap. They looked as if they had come from a picnic.

“Oh, Aiden, you should have seen it!” Maddy's eyes were bright with excitement. “Doc nailed the man's elbow down to a board and twisted it right into place!”

“It wasn't the elbow itself I nailed,” Carlos laughed. Aiden was startled. It was the first time he had heard the man really laugh. “You wrap a cloth around the elbow and nail that down, then put another nail in the board—”

“Then you tie a loop of cloth around the wrist and over
the nail,” Maddy broke in. “Put a little stick through and twist it for traction. They gave him lots of whiskey first.”

“You have to loosen the muscles,” Carlos explained.

“He still screamed terribly,” Maddy added. “Worse than Ma ever screamed for the babies, and it didn't take but a minute! But we pulled the bone exactly back into place! It was perfectly smooth—you could feel it!”