English?”
“Yes. I work once for white man. I the white man’s word for good Indian woman. I whore. I whore at Laramie for many suns!”
“Oh,” Maria said, feeling pity for the old woman.
“I no like sweet look,” the old woman said angrily.
“I am sorry,” Maria whispered. “You worked for whites. You know my tongue—won’t you help me?”
“Why need help?”
Maria felt her lips tremble. “I am a prisoner. I am here against my will!”
“Ha!” the old woman leered.
Maria felt growing discomfort. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
The old woman moved closer to her, her stench making Maria sick. “You virgin—before Nakoa?” she asked.
Maria recoiled. “I am still a virgin,” she said without thinking.
The old woman got up and stood over Maria enraged. “You lie!” she shouted.
“I do not!” Maria replied heatedly.
“You lie and insult Pikuni and whole by-damn Blackfoot nation!”
Maria looked up into the little hate-filled eyes. “Blackfoot?” she repeated. “You are Blackfoot?”
“Pikuni of the Blackfoot nation. And you tell by-damn lie about Nakoa!”
Maria was stunned. She was a prisoner of the Blackfoot who were known never to trade with the white man and never take whites as prisoners. She had heard that no white man ever had been allowed in a Blackfoot village. “Oh, no,” she moaned, pressing her arms against her stomach.
“Go toilet again if sick,” the old woman growled.
“Where am I?”
“Sitting on tipi couch, fool!”
“I mean, where is this village?”
“In Blackfoot land. Where else, by damn?”
Maria sighed. “Who is Nakoa?”
The old woman rolled her eyes and batted her eyelashes. “Who is Nakoa?” she mimicked, mincing her words.
“Is he my captor?”
“What this by-damn captor?”
“The man—I will be forced—to marry.”
“Oh, oh.” The old woman smiled and sucked at her gums. “That a ‘captor’. Make poor white virgin marry bad Indian. How old is sweet white virgin?”
“I am nineteen,” Maria said stiffly.
“Why men stay away from nice virgin? Not all pale and sick like most white woman. And have nice big breasts. No understand.”
Maria’s face reddened. “Don’t worry yourself about it,” she said angrily.
“What little virgin’s name?”
“Maria. I would like to be your friend. How did you happen to work at Fort Laramie when you are Blackfoot?”
“Husband not Blackfoot. He Dahcotah. Dead now, thank God. I come back to my village but no man want me because I sleep with whites. Big sticks here leave me alone, so I no bathe any more. It make village unhappy, but I Pikuni and I stay here until I die.”
“When do I have to marry Nakoa?” Maria asked.
“You no want marriage with Nakoa?”
“Certainly not. I want my freedom. I want to live with my own people. How could I live the rest of my life in an Indian village?” Maria’s voice shook. She thought of this woman at Fort Laramie and she pictured the lonely Laramie hills and heard the birds calling again from the ruins outside its gate. The thought of Ana and her father made tears spring to her eyes and she rocked back and forth in pain. “Help me! Help me!” she whispered.
“Not bad for you now,” the old woman said happily. “Get bad when Nakoa give you away!”
“What do you mean?”
“You think Nakoa save you to have as pretty wife?”
“Yes. Don’t I have to marry him?”
The old woman threw back her head and laughed. All mirth was gone from her face and her expression was one of mockery. “Little white virgin no use brain! Do you know Nakoa the most important man in this village? Nakoa son of head chief. Nakoa head of the Mutsik, greatest society of Pikuni braves. Now you think Indian man like this would marry a white woman?”
Maria bowed her head.
“He screw pale woman for a while and then sell you for a horse! How you be such a fool! Screw one thing marry another! To marry you—insult to his father, to the Mutsik—to
“Yes. I work once for white man. I the white man’s word for good Indian woman. I whore. I whore at Laramie for many suns!”
“Oh,” Maria said, feeling pity for the old woman.
“I no like sweet look,” the old woman said angrily.
“I am sorry,” Maria whispered. “You worked for whites. You know my tongue—won’t you help me?”
“Why need help?”
Maria felt her lips tremble. “I am a prisoner. I am here against my will!”
“Ha!” the old woman leered.
Maria felt growing discomfort. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
The old woman moved closer to her, her stench making Maria sick. “You virgin—before Nakoa?” she asked.
Maria recoiled. “I am still a virgin,” she said without thinking.
The old woman got up and stood over Maria enraged. “You lie!” she shouted.
“I do not!” Maria replied heatedly.
“You lie and insult Pikuni and whole by-damn Blackfoot nation!”
Maria looked up into the little hate-filled eyes. “Blackfoot?” she repeated. “You are Blackfoot?”
“Pikuni of the Blackfoot nation. And you tell by-damn lie about Nakoa!”
Maria was stunned. She was a prisoner of the Blackfoot who were known never to trade with the white man and never take whites as prisoners. She had heard that no white man ever had been allowed in a Blackfoot village. “Oh, no,” she moaned, pressing her arms against her stomach.
“Go toilet again if sick,” the old woman growled.
“Where am I?”
“Sitting on tipi couch, fool!”
“I mean, where is this village?”
“In Blackfoot land. Where else, by damn?”
Maria sighed. “Who is Nakoa?”
The old woman rolled her eyes and batted her eyelashes. “Who is Nakoa?” she mimicked, mincing her words.
“Is he my captor?”
“What this by-damn captor?”
“The man—I will be forced—to marry.”
“Oh, oh.” The old woman smiled and sucked at her gums. “That a ‘captor’. Make poor white virgin marry bad Indian. How old is sweet white virgin?”
“I am nineteen,” Maria said stiffly.
“Why men stay away from nice virgin? Not all pale and sick like most white woman. And have nice big breasts. No understand.”
Maria’s face reddened. “Don’t worry yourself about it,” she said angrily.
“What little virgin’s name?”
“Maria. I would like to be your friend. How did you happen to work at Fort Laramie when you are Blackfoot?”
“Husband not Blackfoot. He Dahcotah. Dead now, thank God. I come back to my village but no man want me because I sleep with whites. Big sticks here leave me alone, so I no bathe any more. It make village unhappy, but I Pikuni and I stay here until I die.”
“When do I have to marry Nakoa?” Maria asked.
“You no want marriage with Nakoa?”
“Certainly not. I want my freedom. I want to live with my own people. How could I live the rest of my life in an Indian village?” Maria’s voice shook. She thought of this woman at Fort Laramie and she pictured the lonely Laramie hills and heard the birds calling again from the ruins outside its gate. The thought of Ana and her father made tears spring to her eyes and she rocked back and forth in pain. “Help me! Help me!” she whispered.
“Not bad for you now,” the old woman said happily. “Get bad when Nakoa give you away!”
“What do you mean?”
“You think Nakoa save you to have as pretty wife?”
“Yes. Don’t I have to marry him?”
The old woman threw back her head and laughed. All mirth was gone from her face and her expression was one of mockery. “Little white virgin no use brain! Do you know Nakoa the most important man in this village? Nakoa son of head chief. Nakoa head of the Mutsik, greatest society of Pikuni braves. Now you think Indian man like this would marry a white woman?”
Maria bowed her head.
“He screw pale woman for a while and then sell you for a horse! How you be such a fool! Screw one thing marry another! To marry you—insult to his father, to the Mutsik—to
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