The
Trading Room at Fort Union
The
Northwest Indian Country
May
1835
"Where
can I find A'sitápi?" Gray Falcon asked in the language of
gestures, though he spoke the last word in Blackfeet. "Have
you seen her? I have come for my buffalo lodge and other
possessions; they were left with her before I departed from here
several months ago."
"Pardón,
Monsieur, only
de Americanine or de French do I speaks."
Gray
Falcon shook his head, one of the few physical responses understood
by all the tribes, as well as by the traders. In response, the
trader, Larpenteur, shrugged his shoulders. And, since Gray
Falcon had brought no furs to trade, Larpenteur dismissed him by
turning his back on him. Then, without a word, Larpenteur
stepped to the door of the trading room and was soon gone.
Gray
Falcon sighed in response, clearly frustrated. Why had none of
these traders learned the language so common to the people who lived
on the prairie?
His
asking this question brought to mind one of the reasons he had made
the long journey to this fort: A'sitápi.
Were
she here, he would be able to make himself understood.
But,
where was she? Had she taken her pony for a ride outside the
fort? Perhaps. In truth, were she anywhere within the
fort, she would have sought him out by now. The thought made
him grimace.
She
was more of a pest than a friend. And yet, friend she was.
Indeed, she was probably his greatest ally within this fort, although
he would have never sought her out deliberately.
Saa,
no, she had come to him last winter, invading his home in her quest
to find her sister who had been lost in the midst of a blizzard.
But, even when she'd learned he couldn't help her, she had refused to
leave.
He
hadn't known what to do with her. Factually, he shouldn't have
been alone with her; she was too young to be anywhere near him.
She was also one of the daughters of the fort's Trader and the
younger sister of Ikamóso-niistówas-siitámssin,
wife of his friend, Eagle Heart.
Hannia,
the young girl could have caused trouble for him and for herself,
also. Luckily for him, his uncle and auntie had stepped in to
act as chaperones.
Yet,
over time he had become accustomed to her presence in his life, for
she had made herself a frequent guest in his lodge—all too
frequent. Perhaps he had become too used to her, causing him to
forget she was also the favored daughter of the fort's Trader.
What
to do now? He certainly couldn't ask his question of any of the
Indians standing here within the trading room. All of them,
with only a few exceptions, were enemies of the Blackfeet.
Pushing
himself away from the trading table, Gray Falcon turned and stepped
to the back wall and, settling in, glanced around the room. The
trading room was only moderately busy this day, which was unusual for
the season of "when the geese come," since this was the
best time of year to trade.
Deliberately
he struck a leisurely pose, although he was ever alert and awake.
And, as any scout must do, he glanced about the room quickly,
reacquainting himself with this place, memorizing the differences
between how it was now and how it had been several moons ago.
As
he leaned back against the wall, he glanced casually at the long
counter used for trading, or trading table, as it was known to the
Indians. At present, there was a large buffalo hide spread upon
it. Off to the side of the table were several beaver belts,
mink, and even raccoon and skunk furs.
Many
wooden shelves stood against the back wall, and at present, there
were stacks of many furs, as well as neatly folded woolen blankets,
on those shelves. Gray Falcon had become used to the sight of
the mounted moose horns which were placed on both sides of the
counter. Today these were displaying many different items of
clothing, from belts and hats, to moccasins and a few fur-lined
jackets.
Presently,
four Blackfoot men—all of them friends and known to Gray
Falcon—stepped into the room and trod toward the counter.
Laying their stacks of furs on the counter, they waited patiently for
Larpenteur to return.
With
the addition of his four friends, there were now five Blackfoot men
in this room, including himself. Glancing around, he counted
eight men from the Crow tribe, four men from the Assiniboine tribe
and two from the Gros Ventre. He reckoned these were fairly
good odds if there were to be a fight, for a Blackfoot man counted as
three men for every one man from another tribe.
Realizing
there would be nothing more to be learned here, Gray Falcon pushed
himself away from the wall and trod silently out of the room.
The solidly built entrance gate was open and was only a few steps
away. But, before leaving, he took possession of his own
weapons, pulling on his quiver full of arrows, picking up his bow and
lance, tying on his knife sheath and grabbing hold of his
muzzle-loading rifle, shoving it across his shoulders and back.
He
was about to step out of the fort when suddenly, from behind, someone
jerked him around and punched him in the stomach. The blow
knocked him backward, and, after rocking on his feet, he slumped to
the ground. Immediately, before he had recovered from the first
assault, strong arms jerked him upward and another strike followed,
an upper cut to his jaw. The solid punch landed square in his
face, and, as he spun around, his nose began to bleed.
Gray
Falcon could barely stand, but was still aware enough and quick
enough to jerk an arrow from his quiver, setting it against his bow,
pulling back the string and pointing it directly at his attacker—his
intent clear. He accomplished this so speedily, his attacker
stepped back, his face red with fury.
Alarm
rocked Gray Falcon's world: this was A'sitápi's
father. Still, his aim did not falter.
But,
why was her father so angry with him? Was it because of the
recent fight in the Beartooth Mountains? Surely not.
Hadn't they settled their differences honorably?
Gray
Falcon was not left long to find out.
"Ya
dirty Injun," began McIntosh. "Yer the one's been
sniffin' 'round my youngest daughter's skirts, ain't cha? Well,
no more. She's gone back ta her home far away, do ya hear?
Now, get out of here. Don't ever come back. Next time I
see yer face, I'll kill ya. Ya got it? Ya understand?"
McIntosh waited barely a second before again spitting out, "Ya
filthy Injun. The likes of ya ain't welcome here. I'll
kill ya next time I see ya. And, this ain't a simple threat.
I promise ya. I'll kill ya. Now, get!"
No
translation was needed; Gray Falcon understood. This concerned this
man's daughter, A'sitápi. The long-anticipated trouble had, at
last, arrived.
Gray
Falcon could feel his lips swelling, was aware blood was gushing from
his nose, and, though he could taste his own blood, he forced himself
to stand up straight and scan in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree
circle around him without taking his eyes off his opponent.
Good. No one stood behind him.
Gradually,
with bow and arrow still trained on the Trader, Gray Falcon backed
out of the gate, stepping onto the grassy terrain of the plains.
He didn't say a word.
Several
of his Blackfoot friends immediately surrounded him, their own bows
and arrows drawn. Likewise, five of the fort's engagées formed
a line against them, their pistols trained on the Indians.
McIntosh spit forcefully at Gray Falcon, although the moisture fell
short of its target.
"Don't
ever come back here!" shouted the Trader. "None of
ya." And, this said, he pushed the gate closed.
That's
when it happened.
"Gray
Falcon!?"
At
once, Gray Falcon recognized the "talk" so common to his
tribe's medicine men—the silent spirit-to-spirit speak. Had
he not been in a life-and-death situation, he might have rejoiced;
such was its importance.
For
most of his life, he had thought he might never acquire the ancient
skill of communication commonly used by many scouts and by all
medicine men. But, try though he might, he had not yet
accomplished it—even though he came from a bloodline of medicine
men.
Yet,
he had "heard" the thought clearly.
It
came again. "What is wrong?" He now recognized
the speaker. It was A'sitápi reaching out to him.
A'sitápi?
The
pesky white girl? The same girl and favored daughter of the
Trader who had this very moment beaten him up?
Though
it was puzzling how a white girl was able to speak to him in the mind
talk, he answered her in the same manner, saying in thought, "I
have been looking for you at the fort. Where are you?"
"St.
Louis. My father sent my mother and me away."
"Your
father hates me."
"I
know," she responded in the thought speech. "He has
forbidden me to see you again."
"Did
you tell him about our friendship?"
"No.
I promise I didn't, although it has been out there in the open for
anyone to see. Still, someone else must have whispered it to
him. After Father came back from his trip out west, he was like
a man possessed. He might not have been able to keep my sister
from marrying Eagle Heart, but he was determined I would never marry
an Indian."
"We
are not involved in that way!"
"But,
I'd like to be and he knows it."
"Did
you tell your father this?"
"No.
He was too angry at me…and at you."
"You
are too young for me, and, even if I were inclined to like you in the
way you suggest—which I am not—you would have to grow up first.
You are only fourteen winters old."
"I
am soon to be fifteen. I know some girls who have married at
this age."
"Do
not say this to me. You know you are too young for marriage, as
I am, too. And, even if we were both older, you are too bold.
It is a man's task to ask the woman for marriage, not the
opposite. And, it is doubtful I would seek you to be my wife
since you are white and I am not. We have become united in a
cause: your sister and my friend. That is all."
"Yes,
I know. But, I can't help what's in my heart."
He
didn't answer for a long while. At last, however, he said,
using thought alone, "I am now forbidden from ever entering your
father's trading post, and your father has threatened to kill me if
he ever sees me again."
"I'm
sorry," she said in the mind-to-mind talk. "Before I
left, he told me he would kill you if he could, and I didn't know
what to do to prevent you from coming back to Fort Union. But,
I've had no way to contact you except through the means of the
thought-to-thought speak. I've been trying to do it, really I
have. But, I have not accomplished it until now. I'm
sorry my father has treated you this way."
"He
will never let us continue to be allied with each other, regardless
of the cause. Never again."
"I
know."
"But,"
Gray Falcon added, "take heart; it is not so bad. We are
even now 'talking' to each other. He cannot stop what remains
of our friendship if we continue to speak to one another as we are
now. In this way, we can resist him and never be too far
apart."
"Do
you really mean what you've said? Do you, then, like me a
little?"
"We
are friends. Of course I like you a little."
"Only
a little?"
He
didn't answer. At length, glancing around at his fellow
Blackfoot allies, he said in mind speak, "I must go."
"You
are injured, aren't you?"
"I
must go. Tonight, I will reach out to you again."
The
communication ended.
Gradually
he, as well as his friends, withdrew to a safe distance from the
fort, their weapons still drawn. He felt a gentle touch upon
his arm and, looking down, saw his auntie beside him.
She
said nothing. Instead, with a careful hand, she took him by the
arm and guided him to her lodge, and, looking back, Gray Falcon saw
the Blackfoot warriors covering his retreat.
Sun,
the Creator, had been with him today, ensuring he would come away
from this confrontation with his scalp and his life still intact.
This was without doubt. And, he had taken a giant step into
becoming a medicine man. He had spoken the thought speech, and
with a girl who wasn't even Indian.
Perhaps
the day wasn't so bad, after all.
