sticks in here,” Skinhead said. “This child is proud to be a Cheyenne. And sorry to be heading for the settlements to pretend to be a white man.”
Looking at the scars from the sun dance ceremony, thinking of the pain and self-deprivation, Mac thought it was past time his friend did become a white man again.
4
Mac had never felt more empty-handed. He came when Strikes Foot was alone in the lodge, the women and other trappers outside. He had been coached in the courtship customs of the Cheyenne by Skinhead. He had made certain of the key words in Cheyenne. He understood the inadequacy of his proposal, but was determined to plunge forward.
“Welcome, Dancer,” said Strikes Foot.
Mac suggested they smoke. Strikes Foot nodded and sat down where the center fire would have been if the evening were cool. Mac handed over his clay pipe, a lucifer, and a plug of tobacco. Embarrassingly, it was tobacco he had borrowed from Strikes Foot.
Somberly, the warrior lit the pipe, held it up, blew smoke to the four directions, as was customary, and handed it to Mac. Mac repeated the ritual.
For a few minutes they smoked in silence. Mac was supposed to make small talk, but he could not. At last he blurted it out. “I want Annemarie for my woman.’
Strikes Foot just looked at him, probably surprised at his clumsiness. Neither of them knew how to proceed.
“If I were a Cheyenne,” Mac lurched on, doubling his Cheyenne words with signs, “I would do this differently. My relatives would come to you with many fine gifts. But I am a Frenchman. I have no relatives here. Besides, we do such things differently. Perhaps the Frenchman’s way is not bad—Annemarie’s father was a Frenchman, too.”
Strikes Foot closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, perhaps accepting Mac’s point. In taking the woman and her son by old Charbonneau into his lodge, he had invited strange behavior.
“Still,” Mac forced himself forward, “I do not ask for her now. I simply declare my intentions.”
He let it sit a moment and drew on the pipe. The next part was the worst, and Mac lacked the patience to approach it in a measured way.
“Today I am poor. I came to you starving. It is my plan now to go to St. Louis with my friends. I intend to return. They do not. I will return with many blankets, guns, powder, lead, tobacco, beads, and other goods for trade.” He didn’t mention whiskey. He’d have to have whiskey, but Strikes Foot was against it.
He took a deep breath. “My plan is to live at Fort Cass and trade these goods for hides. I hope Strikes Foot and the Cheyenne people will trade with me there. And I hope Strikes Foot’s daughter Annemarie will be my woman there.”
Strikes Foot nodded. To Mac it seemed a resounding chorus of assent.
“I have spoken of my plans to live at Fort Cass to no one but you. I hope my secret is safe with you.”
Strikes Foot nodded again.
“I do not wait for an answer now,” Mac said awkwardly. He was supposed to chat again and simply leave without mentioning an answer, but he couldn’t bring that off.
Before Mac could get up, Strikes Foot spoke. “I believe my daughter cares for you.”
Mac waited on tenterhooks.
“And she does have Long Knife blood.”
Mac waited again, unable to believe his luck.
Strikes Foot shrugged.
Mac rose and restrained himself from sprinting out.
Over at the rope corral, where Jim and Skinhead were green-breaking more horses, Skinhead assured Mac, “It’s as good as a promise, coon. You’ve got his word. Sure,” he gave a mock scowl, “you have to get down the river and back with your hair, and some horses, first.”
Mac didn’t know what to do. Jim and Skinhead were looking at him with stupid smiles. He decided to kick up his heels. He jumped up, whacked his heels together, and cried, “Whoopee!”
Chapter 8
September, 1843, Plum moon
The storeroom reeked with familiar smells, smells that took Mac Maclean back to his childhood—sweet, dark
Looking at the scars from the sun dance ceremony, thinking of the pain and self-deprivation, Mac thought it was past time his friend did become a white man again.
4
Mac had never felt more empty-handed. He came when Strikes Foot was alone in the lodge, the women and other trappers outside. He had been coached in the courtship customs of the Cheyenne by Skinhead. He had made certain of the key words in Cheyenne. He understood the inadequacy of his proposal, but was determined to plunge forward.
“Welcome, Dancer,” said Strikes Foot.
Mac suggested they smoke. Strikes Foot nodded and sat down where the center fire would have been if the evening were cool. Mac handed over his clay pipe, a lucifer, and a plug of tobacco. Embarrassingly, it was tobacco he had borrowed from Strikes Foot.
Somberly, the warrior lit the pipe, held it up, blew smoke to the four directions, as was customary, and handed it to Mac. Mac repeated the ritual.
For a few minutes they smoked in silence. Mac was supposed to make small talk, but he could not. At last he blurted it out. “I want Annemarie for my woman.’
Strikes Foot just looked at him, probably surprised at his clumsiness. Neither of them knew how to proceed.
“If I were a Cheyenne,” Mac lurched on, doubling his Cheyenne words with signs, “I would do this differently. My relatives would come to you with many fine gifts. But I am a Frenchman. I have no relatives here. Besides, we do such things differently. Perhaps the Frenchman’s way is not bad—Annemarie’s father was a Frenchman, too.”
Strikes Foot closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, perhaps accepting Mac’s point. In taking the woman and her son by old Charbonneau into his lodge, he had invited strange behavior.
“Still,” Mac forced himself forward, “I do not ask for her now. I simply declare my intentions.”
He let it sit a moment and drew on the pipe. The next part was the worst, and Mac lacked the patience to approach it in a measured way.
“Today I am poor. I came to you starving. It is my plan now to go to St. Louis with my friends. I intend to return. They do not. I will return with many blankets, guns, powder, lead, tobacco, beads, and other goods for trade.” He didn’t mention whiskey. He’d have to have whiskey, but Strikes Foot was against it.
He took a deep breath. “My plan is to live at Fort Cass and trade these goods for hides. I hope Strikes Foot and the Cheyenne people will trade with me there. And I hope Strikes Foot’s daughter Annemarie will be my woman there.”
Strikes Foot nodded. To Mac it seemed a resounding chorus of assent.
“I have spoken of my plans to live at Fort Cass to no one but you. I hope my secret is safe with you.”
Strikes Foot nodded again.
“I do not wait for an answer now,” Mac said awkwardly. He was supposed to chat again and simply leave without mentioning an answer, but he couldn’t bring that off.
Before Mac could get up, Strikes Foot spoke. “I believe my daughter cares for you.”
Mac waited on tenterhooks.
“And she does have Long Knife blood.”
Mac waited again, unable to believe his luck.
Strikes Foot shrugged.
Mac rose and restrained himself from sprinting out.
Over at the rope corral, where Jim and Skinhead were green-breaking more horses, Skinhead assured Mac, “It’s as good as a promise, coon. You’ve got his word. Sure,” he gave a mock scowl, “you have to get down the river and back with your hair, and some horses, first.”
Mac didn’t know what to do. Jim and Skinhead were looking at him with stupid smiles. He decided to kick up his heels. He jumped up, whacked his heels together, and cried, “Whoopee!”
Chapter 8
September, 1843, Plum moon
The storeroom reeked with familiar smells, smells that took Mac Maclean back to his childhood—sweet, dark
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