I’ve never seen so many fine horses. A sand-colored dun catches my eye, a black dorsal line descending from the top of his head to the tip of his tail, his forelegs wrapped in the same black, like dark-colored stockings that make every step look like he’s prancing. He reminds me of Dame in his carriage and coloring, though Dame didn’t boast the dun markings.
Webb points to him too, calling out to me from the box seat beside his mother.
“Look at that pretty one, John!” he crows. “Almost as pretty as Dame.”
Despite what Abbott says, the Dakotah are not afraid of us at all. We break for the night a half mile from their temporary encampment, a low ridge between us, but a handful of braves and a few war chiefs approach the circle of our wagons an hour later, horses and skins in tow. The Indians are handsome, well nourished, and well appointed, but they demand to be fed. They seem to enjoy the nervous scurrying of the women and the intimidated gazes of the men.
A big Indian, gold bangles streaming from his long hair and wampum layered around his neck, takes an interest in Kettle. I tell him no trade, but he grows more and more adamant, bringing forth one wild pony after another, parading them past, displaying his wealth. I understand little of what he says, though Abbott has appointed me spokesman. The Pawnee and Sioux are not friendly, and my Pawnee tongue is greeted with derision. Otaktay, my knife-wielding half-breed teacher, spoke a mix of Sioux and English that was all his own, and I’m not sure my association with him will help me understand the Dakotah any better.
One of the braves steps forward, claiming he is a Dakotah war chief, an enemy of the Pawnee, but he speaks the language like he once lived among them, maybe as a child, and I wonder if he is a “two-feet” like me. He seems desperate to prove he is not. He says he is the son of the chief, and he will make war on all Pawnee.
He has blackened his face in celebration of taking the scalp off “a Pawnee dog just like me.” When I do not react or cower when he dangles the scalp in front of my face, he lunges at me and tries to take my hat. I sidestep his attempt but hand the hat to him. I can get a new one at the fort. Wyatt needs one too; he’s been wearing an old straw-brimmed hat that’s missing its top. His blond hair has turned white from the sun right at the crown, making him appear to have a bald spot where the hair is bleached. The black-painted brave touches the white spot with the tip of his spear.
“This one is already scalped,” he says to me. Wyatt flinches, but he keeps his arms folded, standing at my side like a self-appointed guardian, though I outweigh him by fifty pounds.
Several of the women of the train try to distract the Sioux with food, but though they have demanded to eat, they are not hungry for what we are able to provide. Naomi has brought biscuits and passes them to the Dakotah braves like she is presenting them with a great honor.
They are not impressed, and Black Paint has decided he too wants my Mammoth Jack, though I think he only wants it because I so adamantly refuse. The bangled warrior grows impatient, gathering his ponies as if to leave, but Black Paint stalks back and forth, looking at the cattle and the mules of the cowering emigrants. I don’t think he really wants to trade. He is putting on a show of dominance.
Naomi touches her face and then points to his. “Ask him if he has more of his paint, John. Maybe I can give him something he will want more.”
I ask, telling him that she wants to honor him with a picture.
Black Paint is made curious by my request; I can see it in the lift of his chin and the dart of his eyes. He turns to his horse and pulls a small pot from his beaded saddlebag. He sets it on the ground and backs away, his arms folded.
“Ask him if I can use his shield.”
He hands it over with a deep frown, setting it down beside the paint. The pale skin is strung taut across the willow-branch hoop, and feathers and beads hang from the circlet, but the center is unadorned.
He hisses in protest, and I fear he is going to jerk it back when he sees Naomi’s intent; his eyes widen as she sinks down beside the shield, dipping her fingers into the little pot, but his curiosity wins out. Unlike with the pencil, she uses both hands, glancing up at him once or twice, her fingers shading and shaping. Within several seconds his likeness appears, and he grunts in amazement, watching her fingers fly until she straightens, finished. She scoots back from her handiwork and rubs her hands in the stubby buffalo grass to remove the excess paint from her fingers. I pick up the hoop and hand it to Black Paint. He stares at the drawing, flabbergasted, and I know exactly how he feels.
The bangled brave presents his shield next, pointing to the side covered completely in feathers. When Naomi shakes her head, I finger a feather, explaining she can’t paint on the feathers. Black Paint tells the bangled brave what I have said, and he turns it over to the other side, which is beaded with a simple X. He wants her to paint around it, and she obliges, but when she finishes and he brings her a stack of skins, wanting paintings on all of them, she refuses.
“I want a horse,” Naomi says to the bangled one. “I will paint on all these skins for a horse.”
“Naomi,” I say, shaking my head. I suddenly know what she is trying to do. She has seen the dun—though it is not among the ponies the bangled one has paraded in front of me—and, just like Webb, has noticed the similarities to Dame.
“Tell them,” she says.
“No.” I am adamant.
Naomi stands up and moves beside me. She points at the bangled brave’s horses and then points at herself.
“Naomi,” I warn. “You’re asking for trouble. Please go back to your wagon.”
Black Paint laughs and says something I can’t understand to the other Sioux warriors. The bangled brave points at his skins, insistent, but Naomi folds her arms and will not yield.
I tell them we are going to Fort Laramie in the morning, and the painted shields and the food are gifts. I hand him my best blade as well. Then I make the sign for good, signifying an end to negotiations, and tell them we don’t want to trade, and we do not want a horse. I ask them to take their shields and skins and ponies and leave us.
Amazingly enough, they talk among themselves, and without making any further demands, they mount their horses and withdraw, racing up the ridge and leaving the circle of wagons for their own encampment.
I don’t sleep at all, worried that Naomi has made herself a target. Stealing squaws is common among tribes. Recompense is easily made by offering a father something of equal value. Women and horses are the currency. William and Winifred obviously fear the same thing, because William and Warren sit with their backs to their wagon wheels all night, facing the ridge where the Dakotah disappeared.
They are back at dawn, their animals dragging poles bound at either end to support the skins they’ve piled upon them. But this time it is not a few warriors; it is the whole tribe—their old and their young, their dogs and their ponies, all prepared to follow us to Fort John. Abbott and I walk out to greet them, but Black Paint requests “the woman” and makes the sign for many and then faces, running his hand over his own features, as he speaks. There is no question that Many Faces is Naomi.
When I tell Abbott, he summons her forward, anxious to keep the peace, but William walks forward with her. His rifle is in his right hand, but he holds it loosely, watching as Black Paint presents Naomi with little pots of paint in red, black, yellow, white, and blue.