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.
1 June 1875
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!
4 June 1875
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 Cheye
nne, 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.”
5 June 1875
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?”