The Owl Hunt (31 page)

Dirk grinned.

Van Horne glared at him and paced. He was plainly growing more and more alarmed. He shot glances at the tranquil crowd, which was now watching intently. He glanced at the bronze men in their worn blankets, where weapons might be concealed and death might await for the agent.

“This is rebellion. And I'm going to stop it,” he said. “These savages are about to start a slaughter. I will not be their sheep.”

“Owl's prophesy was that the hearts of the white men would grow heavy, and they would leave because their spirits were heavy, Major.”

“That's savage nonsense. This is trouble, Skye. And you're not helping me.”

“I just did help you, sir. You have killed their Christ; they're waiting for their salvation. What more is there to say?”

“Killed their Christ? That rotten little rebel? Killed their savior?” He cackled at the sheer novelty of the idea.

The Wind River agent whirled into his quarters and slammed his door. Moments later he emerged wearing a topcoat over his nightclothes and brandishing a revolver. Then he strode purposefully toward Fort Washakie, under the thoughtful gaze of the Indian families.

The sun was peeking over the rim of the east, bathing the agency in a pallid light. Some of the Shoshones greeted Father Sun with uplifted arms, and sang a morning song of praise and joy for the new day. The natural world was quiet, and the breezes had not yet built. Now, with dawn, the slumbering fort came into view.

The quickening day promised joy to the people, and they gathered to gossip, watch the world, make jokes, and enjoy all the good things to come. Children drifted from group to group, while their mothers told jokes and smiled. Grandparents, wrapped tightly in tan and black blankets against the relentless wind, watched keenly, awaiting the moment when the whole world would be changed. For if Owl had said this would be, then surely it would be.

Dirk eyed the shadowed post, wondering about all this, and supposing that nothing much would happen. But he was wrong. About an hour passed, and then a blue column emerged from the military compound, soldiers on foot, marching by twos, heavily armed. The agent hiked alongside, with several officers. Captain Cinnabar was at the forefront, a shining sword slashing at the breezes.

Now the Shoshones watched with fascination. Was this the great moment when the white men would depart? So they sat on their old blankets, watched, and waited as the blue column marched straight toward the agency and the festive Indians there. When the column neared the crowd, the captain shouted, and the bluecoats trotted into a battle line, over a hundred armed soldiers evenly spaced, their carbines at the ready but not aimed at anyone or anything.

Now, at last, the Shoshones gazed silently. This didn't look to be a departure of the white men. Far from it. Dirk felt a certain dread creeping through him. How could this be? What madness was this?

Chief Washakie appeared at his front door, wearing a collarless white shirt and a red headband and dark pants. He stared at the advancing troops, and then strode purposefully toward Captain Cinnabar, and engaged in some sort of confrontation with the post commander, all out of earshot. For once, Washakie seemed agitated, while the commander stubbornly stood stock-still.

The wide blue line stood at the ready, soldier after soldier poised for battle.

Then the line advanced, a slow, measured pace that brought it close to the idle throng, which watched curiously. It had not yet occurred to the people that the white men regarded them as a threat, and now they watched with cheerful curiosity. Who could say what white men would do or believe or say?

Dirk raced suddenly toward Cinnabar.

“What is this? What are you doing?”

“Out of the way, Skye. You're in the line of fire.”

“Line of fire!”

“We deal death to rebellion, Skye, now get out while you can.”

The line stood at the ready.

“These people are here to enjoy the day! What rebellion?”

“Under every blanket there's a gun, and you know it, Skye.”

“Women and children? Old men? This is crazy!”

“I'm warning you, Skye.”

Major Van Horne rushed up, waving his big revolver.

“Your last chance. Get out or face the music!”

The bore of that revolver looked large to Dirk.

“This is no rebellion. This is a holiday. As soon as they see that Owl's prophesy was false they'll leave. They'll drift away. They'll go back to their villages. They mean you no harm. Don't do this.”

Van Horne simply chuckled, something anticipatory lighting his face.

Washakie raced forward and stood between the soldiers and the people, his gray hair whipping in the stiff wind.

“You will kill me first,” he said, standing his ground, arms crossed.

The Stars and Stripes cracked and snapped in the wind.

Behind him, the people were stirring now. The festive morning had suddenly turned dark, and some of the Indians were fleeing as fast as they could, dragging children with them. Dirk saw mothers dragging children. Fathers pointing away. He saw old men and women clambering to their feet.

“Yes!” Dirk cried, taking his stand beside the chief.

Now the whole tribe was up and running, abandoning blankets, and lunches and shawls. Fleeing in terror, fleeing toward the distant meadows, where bright tan grasses awaited the snows and the world was clean and sweet, and no bullets would fly.

Cinnabar finally paused and stared at Washakie. Kill the chief for whom his post was named? Kill Skye, until yesterday the Indian Bureau's teacher?

“They're leaving,” he said. “No need to use force.”

“But you already did,” Dirk shouted. “This was their home.”

“Well, you'll be off the reservation soon enough,” Van Horne said.

“Not soon enough for me,” Dirk said.

He watched as the grandfathers and grandmothers, the most lame and slow, trailed along behind the fleeing crowds, even as the bluecoats grinned.

thirty-six

Dirk stood in the ill wind, wondering what he had done. The American flag chattered in the breeze. The soldiers dispersed, except for a squad Captain Cinnabar left behind to guard the agency against further insurrection and treason.

Chief Washakie stood beside him, his face granite, watching his beloved people vanish from view, fleeing the dark bores of carbines just as fast as they could. They had left their debris on the frost-browned grass, a desolate tangle of old blankets and robes. There was no weapon in sight. The post slid into silence. The agent, Major Van Horne, meandered back to the agency office. He was whistling “Yankee Doodle.” Dirk had never heard him whistle. A few people stood and stared.

The quiet clank of armed men walking away disturbed the deepening quiet. The agency was safe; there would be no challenges here to the world of white men, their faith, their civil order, and their possession of every inch of soil.

“They will not stop at their camps,” Washakie said.

“But they are safe now, Grandfather.”

“Safe, North Star? Many will slip over the mountains before the storms stop them. In a few suns, many will join the People at Fort Hall.”

He was speaking of the Northern Shoshones, settled there on a similar reservation.

“They will leave you, Grandfather?”

“I am old,” Washakie said.

“The army will only force them back here,” Dirk said.

“Death there, death here, death somewhere else,” the chief said.

The old chief stared into Dirk's face. “You stood with me, North Star.”

“I had to.”

“Then you are a chief. After I begin the Long Walk, you will be chief.”

“I am leaving here, Grandfather.”

“I know. I have heard. And you will return.”

Dirk knew that he would return. His mother and his father were buried only a few yards away. Their graves would tug him back to this patch of earth for as long as he lived. And so would this valley, which he called home. He remembered the first time he saw this valley after years of school, and knew that this was his ancestral home, this place of his people, this land and water and ridge and meadow where his Shoshone people had found their peace.

“Yes, Grandfather,” he said. “I'll return.”

“When I first saw the white men, I wished to know what they know and be what they are. They are clever and make things from metal. We did not have a wheel or an iron arrowhead or a gun until they brought these things to us. We did not have blankets or cloth. We did not know of the one great God who made all the world. And they were kind. Your grandmother, Sacajawea brought the captains who came here, and we have been friends of the white men ever since. I have been a friend of them all. It became plain to me that they could give us a better life. We needed their iron, and wheels, and the marks they put on paper. We could grow grain, herd cattle, plant gardens and orchards, as they do. These things are better than starving in winters. So I became their friend, and begged them to teach the People.”

He stared at the post. “Come with me, North Star.”

The chief strode purposefully toward the distant army compound, whitewashed frame structures around a parade ground. The flapping flags chattered like Gatling guns. Dirk fell in beside Washakie, sensing something important in the very stride that took them swiftly over naked ground. Ahead, soldiers were returning carbines to the armory, heading for latrines, collecting in the mess. Sergeants prowled everywhere; officers had vanished.

“We will find the captain,” Washakie said.

He steered Dirk straight toward the headquarters, easily distinguished by the chattering American flag and regimental colors.

“You will do two things,” Washakie said. “You will witness. And you will put the marks on paper, just as I want them.”

“I will do that, Grandfather.”

A sentry at the porch halted them. “State your business,” he said.

“I am Washakie.”

“Do you have business here?”

“I am Washakie.”

The force of the chief's gaze won the day. “Proceed, Chief. The captain's in.”

They passed an adjutant, Lieutenant Lawrie, and found Captain Cinnabar lounging at his desk, staring placidly out the window.

“Ah, it's you!” he said, waving the chief into his lair.

Cinnabar seemed uncommonly cheerful. “Now, what may I do for you, my friend?”

“Fort Washakie is named in my honor. I decline the honor.”

“What? What? We've honored you as a great friend of the United States.”

“You will not use my name. Give the post another name.”

“But what's done is done, Chief. We're proud to honor you. This is the only post in the whole country named for a chief.”

“I will not give you my name.”

The lanky captain rose, stared at the granitic chief, and shook his head. “Not in my power to do that, my friend.”

“I will take back my name now.”

At last, Cinnabar seemed perplexed. He didn't need or ask for reasons. “Well, my friend, I think if you just let this ride a few days, you'll come around to know that we've tendered our highest esteem in this. Just give it, oh, a couple of months. That will give us all some perspective, eh?”

It seemed for a moment that Cinnabar had triumphed, even as the old chief stood quietly. Then, “I will ask Mr. Skye to record my request with your marks on paper. Then I will submit the paper to you.”

Uneasily, Dirk glanced around, looking for a nib pen and a sheet of paper, and saw only an empty blotter, ink bottle, and pen on the captain's desk.

“The adjutant will have the paper and pen, Grandfather,” Dirk said.

He stepped into the outer office.

“A paper, ink, and pen, sir,” he said.

The adjutant glanced sharply at Dirk, and then produced the necessary items.

Dirk returned. Cinnabar, preferring to stay civil, simply watched as Dirk laid his paper on the captain's utilitarian desk, along with the writing tools.

Dirk dipped the nib into ink, and tapped it carefully because he lacked a blotter, and sat, poised.

“I think, Chief Washakie, that you may prefer to go through channels,” Cinnabar said. “I'd suggest you take this matter to the agent, Major Van Horne, and he will accommodate you.”

“You are the army,” Washakie said, standing unbudged.

He turned to Dirk. “Make the marks. I do not give my name to this post. I do not permit this. It must not be Fort Washakie. My name is a good name, and I will keep it for myself. It is not for others.”

“I'll request the change,” Dirk said.

“It is not a request. I take back my name. It is a good name, and it is given to an unworthy place.”

Dirk wrote slowly, formulating the chief's thoughts, and finally read his letter to the chief, while Cinnabar stood, bemused. “To the United States Army. Dear sirs. Fort Washakie was named for me. It is my wish to take back my name and not give it to this post. Herewith, I do not agree to giving my name to any military post. It is a good name, and doesn't belong on a military post governing the Shoshone people. Washakie is not a name for the army.”

“If that is a good way to say it, let it be said. I will make my mark.”

Washakie took the pen and drew an X at the bottom of the letter.

Dirk added, “His witnessed mark,” and signed his own name.

“Now make another like it, for me to keep,” Washakie said.

Dirk copied the first letter, and Washakie marked it, and kept the copy.

“Now, Captain. It is done. I take my name back. Call this post whatever you will.”

“I'm afraid, Chief, it's not that simple, but I will forward it up the command.”

“I will do this. If you do not take away my name, I will choose a new name, and the old name will lie in the dust, gone from me.”

Cinnabar eyed the paper as if it were a lit firecracker. “I'm going to give this some time, Chief. I think you might come to reconsider.”