The Way. Story of Crazy Bear

Water spirit

The morning promised no good, for Old Beak had dreamed of a huge river monster, like a fish with horns, and smoke poured from its gills.

“It stood in our path and sneezed loudly,” the old man reported, wrinkling his brow thoughtfully. “Behind this creature, I saw a wooden house with light-eyed people sitting around it.”

“Pale-faces?”

“Yes, the Light-Eyed tribe. I do not like them, for I do not understand much of their behavior. Sometimes I even think that the Pale-faces are not people at all…”

Beak shook his head ruefully, and the four bone rings on long threads attached to his ear gave a soft clatter. The wrinkled face of the Indian turned to the sturdy young men standing around him, and they saw his right eye open. Usually, this eye was covered by a drooping eyelid, split long ago in a fight with the People-from-the-Earth-Houses, and it seemed dead. But now it had opened, the lower lid sagging, showing its pink inside, making the right eye appear one and a half times larger than the left.

Silence reigned for a while. The young warriors awaited the decision of their elder. Against the shining whiteness of the morning sky, their still figures looked like dark statues, only their long hair stirring in the wind.

“We will continue our journey,” the old man said after a moment’s thought, pointing a brown, sinewy hand towards the still-unseen river. “The monster did us no harm in my dream. But your eyes must be sharper, and your hearing and smell keener.”

The Indians jumped onto their ponies, and within a minute, they had all vanished from sight. Only a black spot of ashes from the fire remained to show that people had been there. Soon, from behind the bushes, stepping cautiously with soft paws and sniffing the human tracks, appeared a large wolf. Pacing for a moment, it suddenly turned nimbly and trotted back, obeying a voice only it could hear.

And the party of Indians from the Ptarmigan clan moved along the slopes of the gentle hills, habitually pausing before cresting a ridge to avoid silhouetting themselves against the skyline in case enemies were nearby.

Leading the way was Bear, crouched close to his horse’s neck, whispering something to it. Ten years had passed since Bear Bull had given him the knife and helped him kill a bear. Now he was a renowned warrior. His leather leggings, like the war shirt hidden in his bag, were adorned with long locks of hair cut from enemies. The shield hanging on his back alongside his quiver bore the picture of a black bear with long claws.

Ahead, the wide ribbon of the river sparkled in the sun, framed by dense forest, when Bear stopped his horse and waved his hand anxiously to those behind him. The riders froze, tilting their heads like animals. Beak looked intently at the round-faced Laughs-Silently, who had stopped near him. The old man could no longer match the young men’s sharp hearing and waited for the warrior’s explanation.

They were near the confluence of the Elk and the Turbulent Rivers, where, according to scouts, stood the dwellings of the white people, surrounded by a wooden wall. The Lakota rarely appeared here, as the territory belonged to the hostile Psaloka tribe – the Crow People – and was also roamed by the Hohe – the Stone Boilers – who considered these lands their own. For now, the Lakota were only exploring this wonderful land, sending out war and scouting parties like the one led by Old Beak.

“Hissing,” said Bear.

“Yes, something is hissing,” the others nodded, “but very far away, meaning it must be very loud.”

Then one of the Indians let out a cry of surprise and slapped his bare buttocks loudly, making the long fringe on his leggings sway. Everyone followed the movement of his hand in unison.

From beyond a distant bend in the river (hidden there by treetops), smoke was moving. Moving right over the river.

“Ho!” drawled Laughs-Silently, stretching his neck. “The smoke is floating on the water!”

“What kind of wonder is this?”

“Did someone set burning trees adrift?”

“No…”

Talking thus, the party slowly moved towards the river.

“That smoke is heading to where the Light-Eyed ones have built their houses behind the wooden wall.”

“The Pale-faces have worked magic.”

“Beak didn’t see that smoking monster for nothing today,” Bear remembered.

“Yes,” the others nodded, not taking their eyes off the billows rising from the green thicket…

Suddenly, they saw it and stopped, too amazed to utter a sound. Below them opened a clearing free of trees, beyond which a huge stretch of the river was visible. On it, chugging and churning the water, floated something enormous with two tall, straight black funnels, from which thick smoke poured.

“Unktehi!” exclaimed Beak, peeling open his damaged eyelid. “A Water Spirit!”

“I once saw,” Three Fingers said slowly, his eyes glued to the monster, “how an Unktehi pulled eight oxen underwater at once, but it never surfaced itself and didn’t blow smoke. White Otter was with me then. He saw it too.”

“Those who live by the Sacred Lake say the Water Spirit has the body of an ox but the tail of a fish.”

“No,” Beak shook his head negatively, “you can see for yourself it doesn’t look like a bison, but it does have horns.”

At that moment, the smoking wonder let out a long, drawn-out hoot several times. The Indians flinched in surprise and exchanged glances.

“When we return to the village,” Three Fingers began, “and tell of this, the people will make a song about us. We are the first of our clan to see the Unktehi.”

“That’s not a monster,” Bear said suddenly. “I can see people on it. I think it’s the big boat our southern brothers from the Bad River told us about. They often visit the Pale-faces there and trade with them. They said the white men bring many beautiful things on a big boat that moves by itself and blows smoke…”

At that very second, the horses jerked sharply, frightened by a rolling thunderous roar. Their owners grew nervous too. And for good reason – the floating wonder was enveloped in a white cloud.

“Hey! Hey!” came shouts from below, and up the wooded slope from the shore raced riders whom the Ptarmigan clan Indians, absorbed by the incredible sight, had not noticed until now. Suddenly, they found the Psaloka no more than ten meters away. The sworn enemies were approaching quickly, now diving into deep shadow, now reappearing in blinding patches of sunlight. The Lakotas’ confusion was so great that only three of them had the presence of mind to grab for their quivers. But the Psaloka, as was clear from their faces, had also not seen their enemies until this moment. Now, without stopping their horses, they made hand signs showing they did not intend to fight. They raced past on brightly painted horses, glancing over their shoulders again and again at the thundering water creature. The Ptarmigan people, bewildered, twisted their heads, now watching the warriors from the hostile tribe disappear among the trees, now looking back at the river shrouded in bluish smoke.

Arrival

Standing among the passengers aboard the wheeled steamer Assiniboine, Randall Scott watched the approaching shore with visible impatience. The palisade and bastions grew before his eyes, and the faces of the people crowding the dock became distinct. Once again, a cannon boomed a welcome, eliciting reverent awe from the numerous savages scurrying near the water’s edge. The excitement was incredible, both on the steamboat and on land.

Randall Scott squared his shoulders.

Here it was, the long-awaited destination – Fort Union, one of the main trading posts of the American Fur Company, where many came to sell or receive goods. Seventy-five days of travel from St. Louis aboard this floating vessel – no joke!

Randall walked down the creaking gangplank, listening with pleasure as it sagged under his weight. Finally! He was entering a world where no one knew him, where, true, everything was new, but this did not frighten Randall in the least. On the other hand, his bad reputation, enormous debts, and strained relations with the law were left far behind, beyond the countless bends of the swift river. Henceforth, nothing held power over him except for Mister Great Chance. And Randall Scott would not let it turn its back on him…

Scott dropped the heavy bag from his shoulder, brushed the dust from his coat, and automatically checked for the pistol behind his belt and the purse in his breast pocket. People bustled around: hunters, traders, clerks, mere onlookers. A motley array of clothing flashed by: blue woolen suits walked arm-in-arm with fringed buckskin jackets; behind soft fringe and leather laces shone polished brass buttons on black flannel; among beaded moccasins, one frequently encountered shoes that seemed lacquered, worn specially for this celebratory day of June 24, 1833—the long-awaited day of the wheeled steamer’s arrival at Fort Union. The crowd formed picturesque clusters everywhere, the most varied faces appearing before Randall. Here were all the types the human mind could conceive. The only thing missing was women.

Inside the fort were all sorts of offices, shops, and warehouses. Near the stable and the barn, people in shirts dark with sweat shouted loudly and cheerfully, a lone hammer rang out clearly. In the center of the fort stood a flagpole, next to it were three conical tents, whose owners had obviously gone to the shore to gawk at the steamer and share in the general excitement. Randall dragged his bag over to the cannon standing in front of the tents (its barrel aimed towards the main gate) and stretched sweetly.

“Hello, life!” he sang, and saw the enchanting azure expanse high above. “My heart now seems as generous and vast as the sky overhead…”

No, he was not one of the romantics; it was not the hypnotic beauty of mountains and lakes that had lured him to the Far West, but Randall Scott, this hardened thirty-five-year-old cynic, could not help but feel the charm of the world surrounding him.

The people he saw after disembarking and leaving behind the monotonous hiss of the engines immediately struck him as beings of a special sort. On one hand, they smiled broadly, and their smiles held frank cordiality. On the other hand, their faces remained severe, every feature expressing an unshakable determination to break the back of anyone who dared to stand in their way.

In the evening, the vast majority of the fort’s population headed for the shops and bars selling liquor. It must be said that the main drinking establishments there were simply canvas awnings with a couple of roughly knocked-together tables beneath them. But even there, kerosene lamps shone cozily, laughter was heard, and midges hummed. And from the doors of the only real saloon, where prices were slightly higher and gamblers usually gathered, came the squeaking of two fiddles accompanied by a harmonica.

Randall managed to buy a handsome black stallion from a long-haired half-breed and from the same métis bought himself lodging in an Indian tent piled with fragrant hides intended for sale. The Indian camp around Fort Union was incredibly vast. It started right from the bank of the Missouri and stretched far out onto the plains. In any case, the encampment numbered no less than a hundred and fifty dwellings. The cones of the tents glowed from within with a red-yellow fire and, stretching into the distance, resembled stars scattered on the ground. Indian singing to the monotonous beat of a drum could be heard.

Randall sat down at a card table and inhaled the thick tobacco smoke floating around his head. The card table instantly awakened the spirit of the cardsharp in him, which had been sleeping during the voyage after a long flight from justice. Randall cracked his knuckles. He saw the cunning squint of his gaming partners, their cracked lips, powerful hands with prominent veins. And he also felt the air, the foreign air of an unfamiliar country stretching beyond the fort walls. Randall understood that he had to play honestly, at least for today… But he cheated, and was immediately grabbed by the hand – they were sharp-eyed people, playing for pleasure, not for deceit…

“What do I see?” a thick bass voice sounded with a French accent.

Randall instinctively jerked, trying to free his hand, jumped sharply to his feet, and saw a shadow flash before him, which momentarily blocked the light of the kerosene lamp and with a ringing blow to the cheekbone sent him flat on his back. Falling, he caught the table with his legs and overturned it. The scattered cards flared up like white moths under the lamp.

And then a shot rang out. Randall heard it from somewhere beneath him, not yet realizing that he himself had pulled the Collier from his belt and pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed under the ceiling, and the room filled with acrid smoke.

Later, Randall vaguely remembered how some force carried him out of the saloon into the darkness of the night, leaving the bluish powder clouds behind. There was rough shouting, stomping feet, chairs clattering. Within seconds, he was outside the fort among the Indian dwellings. Moving swiftly on half-bent legs and looking back, he reached his lodging, nimbly grabbed his bag, and, taking his horse by the bridle, led it away from the palisade at a run.

“Whizzed right past my ear!” voices carried. “What a skunk hide!”

“Who is he? From the steamer?”

“I’ll be damned if I don’t make him eat his own shit!”

“In the morning, I’ll get to that pig and strangle him! Nail him like the rat whose head I chopped off in the shed today.”

“Rats again?”

“Big ones! Not rats, more like buffaloes, damn them…”

Several Indians sitting near the palisade, illuminated by the fire’s glow, watched Randall go with raised eyebrows but remained seated, legs crossed. The shouts and commotion behind him gradually died down, but Randall Scott did not stop.

The Indian camp near the fort turned out to be incredibly huge. Randall Scott walked through it as through a real city. Incomprehensible speech was heard from everywhere, drums beat here and there. Suddenly, several Indians and a bearded white man in a worn-out leather jacket blocked his path. They were full of calm and were smoking a long pipe. At Randall’s appearance, they looked at him indifferently but did not move. He slowed his pace and went around them, not taking his eyes off the bearded man. He was a broad-faced man, very old and very strong, which was evident from his huge, sinewy neck rising from a greasy collar like a gnarled tree trunk.

“If it was you making that noise in the fort,” the bearded man suddenly said without turning his head, “I’ve no business with it. You need fear neither my fists nor my rifle. As long as you don’t step on my corns, I won’t touch you. If you want a bite, sit down here.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know who you are or where you’re heading,” continued the bearded man, expressively flaring his nostrils, “but I know for sure that on a moonless night like this, it’s better to stay among people. If you join our pipe, stranger, it will assure me you don’t intend any mischief sitting by our fire…”

“I had no such thought…”

“The pipe will convince me more strongly,” the bearded man grinned.

“Which way should I head tomorrow?” Randall hurried to ask after the first puff.

“Any. Depends on where you need to go.”

“I don’t need to go anywhere.”

“Then stay here.”

Randall glanced back doubtfully at the fort walls and shook his head.

“Did you fill anyone full of lead in there?” the bearded man inquired in an almost indifferent tone.

“Seems not. But they chased me.”

“Everyone here is chasing someone. A petty scrape, a squabble like that isn’t worth a trifling conversation. Ha-ha! I remember when I first came to the Missouri some thirty years ago, I managed to shoot a chief on the very first day, in the village where I found shelter. Now that was a fix! And even then I wriggled out, as you see. By the way, this fellow here,” the bearded man nodded his shaggy head towards a thin Indian with a tattooed chin sitting to his right, “is my son and the grandson of that chief I laid low. And a couple of years later, I took the chief’s orphaned daughter as my wife, and she bore me a son, a daughter, then three more sons. This is the youngest. Ha-ha! Such are the winding paths here, friend…”

“Where is your wife?”

“Died,” the bearded man spread his hands. “Everyone dies sometime. And in the open, it happens especially often. There are many claws, fangs, knives, and other dangerous rubbish here…”

Randall Scott

From the Diary

June 25, 1833

My lack of restraint will be the death of me someday. Yesterday, I almost shot a card sharp at the gaming table. Absurd and stupid!

I am homeless again. Pursuers may appear behind me, although the old man I spoke with last night assured me that I am threatened by precisely nothing, save perhaps a couple of good cuffs. Still, I decided to flee, as I clearly heard the words of one of those who chased me. He said he would cut off my head like a stinking rat. An unpleasant prospect, even if the words about the rat were a common local joke…

June 26

Today I met a strange-looking man in a large wagon. He introduced himself as Keith Melbraid. He looks about forty. Shortish, reddish-haired. Dressed in an old canvas shirt, long faded, and leather leggings in the Indian style (that is, only the legs are covered, and the rear and private parts are covered by a crumpled breechcloth, meaning the buttocks remain bare and gleam in the sun). His head is adorned by a heavily soiled top hat. A long leather strap, beaded, is attached to the back of the hat; it falls almost to the middle of his back – a pointless and inconvenient thing, in my opinion, like any other decorations, for that matter.

Keith Melbraid calls himself a trader. His wagon is indeed full of all sorts of junk. There’s powder, lead, flint strikers, axes, knives, bright fabrics, fishhooks, mirrors, beads, and even a box with feathers from an ordinary domestic rooster. He says he’s been bartering furs from the savages for these goods for about three years now. There are many tribes here, and I’ve never heard of any of them before. Keith can speak a little in some dialects but more often uses the language of signs, as he calls it.

Today we crossed to the opposite bank on a ferry. Keith believes a trader like him has no business on the side where Fort Union stands because the redskins from that shore can easily get to the white men’s goods themselves. Melbraid is interested in remote tribes whom the French traders once called the Sioux. Everyone has called these savages that ever since, though no one knows what it means. From him, I learned that trade on Indian lands can only be conducted with the government’s permission, and the sale of liquor is forbidden altogether. Of course, strong drink still finds its way to the Indians, thanks to “free” traders who seek places where government agents won’t catch them. Keith Melbraid is one of those.

I wonder what awaits me ahead? It seems a quiet life is not in sight, with redskins prowling everywhere.

June 30, 1833

We passed through an abandoned Indian village. On the ground, the circular traces where dwellings once stood were clearly visible. I approached the single remaining frame of an Indian dwelling. Many poles lashed together formed a cone, which was about half-covered with oak bark. The bark was teeming with fleas. In the center of this wigwam, as in other spots where tents had stood, blackened a fire pit surrounded by stones. Keith called it a hearth.

Behind this conical skeleton rose three platforms about ten feet high, on which stood crooked boxes made of tree bark. Countless ants streamed up and down the logs supporting the platforms. Melbraid said that dead bodies lay in the boxes. Between these burial structures stood a tall, bent pole with a large leather bundle at the top. A bunch of grass stuck out of it, and on long threads hung small, incomprehensible objects that swayed at the slightest breath of wind and knocked against each other. Near the pole on the ground lay several red-colored arrows in a semicircle and the skeleton of a dog.

The cemetery made a gloomy impression on me. What was incomprehensible and therefore mysterious affected me most strongly – the strange bundle and the trinkets near it. A sense of danger crept up. I realized that this is an alien world, that its laws are unknown to me, that I would not be able to negotiate (if necessary) with people about whom I have not the slightest idea.

I feel very uneasy now. I should have stayed in the fort and somehow settled the misunderstanding in the saloon, even if I had to pay all my money as a fine for disturbing the peace and give up card playing for a month, even a year.

July 2

Again we passed by burial platforms on which human bones were visible. Probably the burials are very old, the flesh and clothing have decomposed or been pecked away by birds. At the base of the poles lay yellowish bones, possibly human, that had fallen from the burial bier, but they could also be animal remains, as I saw several large skulls, seemingly equine. Keith assures me that the savages often slaughter their horses and hang their heads on the platform. Keith also claims that the redskins often bury the dead waist-deep in the ground, facing east, and leave them like that until decomposition. Terrible savagery!

One gets the impression that this country is overflowing with graves.

July 10

Saw buffalo. They wandered over distant hills and looked like black dots splattered on the slopes; these dots merged into spots, and the spots into a single dark mass. I never imagined herds could be so numerous. I suggested to Keith that we hunt, but he grumpily refused, not wanting to unhitch his mules for the task, and said we had plenty of meat from the antelope shot yesterday. He thinks it’s better to reach our destination early and hunt there with the savages if I want to so badly.

He must be right. I’m just overcome with impatience. I never thought I’d want to touch everything I see here with my hands. Take the buffalo, for example. I firmly know I will see the hunt for these giants more than once and will take part in it myself. But the local expanses, the boundlessness, the freedom – it all instills in my heart delight and a thirst for activity. That’s why I want to chase the bulls, experience the thrill of a primitive hunter in a primitive country.

It’s amazing how closeness to nature can change one’s perception of the world! Just yesterday I was an inveterate gambler, the space of the gaming table filled me completely. I saw and desired to see nothing but cards. I was filled only with cards. It wasn’t the winning that interested me, but the game, exclusively the game, the anticipation of success or failure, the constant tension, the thrill. And now, a few days on the spacious breast of the prairie have etched out this love for cards, turned it to dust, and the ceaseless local wind has scattered it! I can’t believe it, but it’s true! The thirst to play has vanished.

Though, no, it hasn’t vanished. One must be honest with oneself. It’s just that I am ready to play at something else, completely new to me. Henceforth, my gaming table is the prairie. But what game is shaping up here?

July 11