A woman emerges through the gate behind him, wearing a deep-blue dress striped in white and adorned with a little white collar. Her hair is perfectly coiled, her back is perfectly straight, and when Vasquez barks for her to go back inside, she ignores him completely. She reminds me of Naomi.
Vasquez and Bowles push through the Mormon militia to stand in front of the mounted braves, and the woman observes it all, only ten feet away from me and Wyatt.
“You are out of line, Captain Kelly,” Vasquez shouts, pushing his way toward the front. He speaks English with a slight French accent, and I’m confused by his name. Vasquez.
Suddenly, I know who he is.
“Louis Vasquez. Well, I’ll be damned,” I breathe.
A Missouri boy, born and raised, and the son of a Spanish father and a French-Canadian mother, Louis Vasquez is a fur trader who’s been back and forth across the plains and traipsed through the mountains enough to make a name for himself back home, where tales of the West have been on every tongue and part of the American consciousness for the last two decades. My father, who never talks about anything, sold him a mule once and was impressed enough to bring the story home. “Louis Vasquez purchased a Lowry mule today. Imagine that.” You’d have thought he’d seen George Washington—a renowned mule breeder himself.
“The Indians who shot and scalped two of our men were Shoshoni. I don’t want trouble. But I don’t want it to happen again, and Jim Bridger selling powder and spirits is only making things worse. Until I get some answers, I’m not budging,” the Mormon captain shouts.
“Isn’t your friend Hanabi a Shoshoni?” Wyatt asks. “You could probably talk to him, couldn’t you, John?”
Wyatt doesn’t wait for me to answer but calls to the woman, drawing attention to us both. “Mr. Lowry speaks Shoshoni, ma’am. Maybe he could help.”
The woman rewards us with a blinding smile. “I believe he could. Louis,” the woman calls, projecting her voice above the tense assembly. “We have someone here who can speak to Chief Washakie for Captain Kelly.”
Washakie. I have no doubt this is Hanabi’s chief.
When all heads swivel toward us, the woman smiles and inclines her head like she’s a queen greeting her subjects. She looks at me and extends her hand toward the conflict, indicating that I proceed.
“Mr. Lowry?” she prods.
“Stay here, Wyatt,” I say under my breath. “And next time, let me speak for myself.”
The Mormons part judiciously, clearing a path to their captain and Vasquez. The Shoshoni leader sits straight in the saddle, and he does not seem unnerved by the reception he is receiving, but he doesn’t like it either. He meets my gaze as I approach, and without thinking, I remove my hat. To leave it on my head would feel like an insult, though no one else has removed theirs. His buffalo robe is bunched at his waist, and a few feathers stream from his long hair. He is broad chested and fine looking, but I cannot tell how old he is. No gray streaks his hair, and his face is unlined, but he is old enough to be chief, which is not a young man’s position.
Teddy Bowles claps me on the back like we are old friends, but Captain Kelly eyes me suspiciously.
“You speak Shoshoni?” Vasquez asks.
“I do. Well enough.”
“We want to ask him what he knows about the attack. It is believed that the Indians were Shoshoni. Can you ask him about that?” Captain Kelly asks.
I try, stumbling a bit over my words.
The chief looks me over, his eyes lingering on my face before he dismisses me. He is angry, his shoulders tight, his gaze flat. He is insulted by the confrontation.
“I want to trade. Now,” he says.
“You’ve traded with this man before?” I ask Vasquez, uncomfortable in the corner I’ve been shoved into.
“Many times. Bridger considers him a friend,” Vasquez says.
“Every year,” Captain Kelly agrees. “He is highly regarded.”
“Then what’s the problem?” I protest.
“The problem is two men are dead and Bridger’s been breaking laws. Ask him again,” Kelly insists.
“Do you know who killed the patrol and took the horses?” I ask Washakie, careful not to accuse.
“I know they probably deserved to die,” Washakie says. I don’t tell Captain Kelly what he’s said but wait for him to continue. He changes the subject instead.
“Are you a white man?” Washakie asks.
“My father is a white man.”
“Where is your tribe?”
“I have no tribe.”
“You are not Pawnee?”
He has caught me off guard. I wonder if he can hear the Pawnee in my speech.
“My mother was Pawnee,” I say.
“Not you?”
I am silent for a minute, considering. I don’t know how to answer. In the end, I just introduce myself. “I’m John Lowry.”
“John Lowry,” he repeats. “I know that name.”
“Hanabi lived with my family.” I say her name with trepidation. I don’t know if it is ever wise to claim familiarity with another man’s wife.
He shows no expression when I mention Hanabi, but after a weighty pause he answers my question, and his voice has lost all hostility.
“It wasn’t my people who killed the soldiers. We don’t kill white men. We kill the Crow. Sometimes we kill each other. But we don’t kill white men,” the chief says.
“Why?” I am genuinely curious.
“They keep coming. It won’t do any good.” He shrugs.
I tell Captain Kelly and Vasquez what he has said, and the chief waits until I look at him again.
“It was probably Pocatello,” he concedes.
“Shoshoni?” I ask.
He nods once. “He doesn’t like white men. He likes scalps. He has white scalps of every color and size.”
“Are you his chief?”
“No. He leads his own people. He would like my scalp most of all. I am not his chief, but he worries his people will follow me.” Washakie shrugs again as if it makes no difference to him.
I repeat what Washakie has told me, filtering out the details that might ignite tensions.
“Ask him if Bridger’s been selling him any firewater,” Captain Kelly demands.
Washakie understands the word, and he sneers at the captain. He turns and barks an order to his men, who have been guarding their wares. A flurry of motion ensues, an indication that they are leaving.
Vasquez protests, obviously wanting what Washakie has brought to trade.
“Stay, Washakie. Please,” Vasquez begs, his hands upraised in supplication. “Tell him I will give him whatever he wants,” he says, turning to me. “No more questions.”
Captain Kelly sighs, but he doesn’t object, and I tell Washakie that Vasquez wants to trade now.
Washakie folds his arms and rattles off a list of demands—sugar, paint, guns, beads. He wants more because he has been made to wait and treated poorly. Vasquez is quick to fill the order, sending Teddy Bowles scrambling, and Vasquez and a handful of other traders, who have emerged from the fort now that the trouble seems to have passed, commence with trading. I marvel at Washakie’s carriage and demeanor. He is not intimidated or even accommodating, but he is also not overtly aggressive, which reassures the people around him. His warriors reflect his confidence. They are a handsome people, arrayed in a manner that demands respect.