any sudden move like that would
get everyone scared, and all those bullets and arrows would go
flying. But I wonder, if there was some way to signal a truce to
that Lakota kid, would he go along?
I’m not sure how it all went so wrong,
anyway. Clark had been going back and forth from our island, giving
gifts to the tribe for the last day or two. Maybe it was the “Great
White Father” medal that finally rubbed them the wrong way. Or
maybe it was when they tasted Lewis’s “portable soup.” That was
probably a mistake, as gifts go.
Clark had ordered us to set off from Good
Humor Island, but when we were getting the pirogues ready, the
Partisan grabbed the ropes to keep us from leaving.
That’s when we noticed all the arrows
pointed at us.
Lewis, for his part, calmly got out his air
rifle. He explained what it was, the translator told the chiefs,
and nobody moved an inch after that. Nobody gave in.
This silence is dangerous. Unless somebody
says something soon, shots will go off just from the tension.
Clark must be thinking the same thing. “We
are not squaws, but warriors,” he says suddenly, out loud.
I’m not sure that’s the kind of
silence-breaking that helps. I guess Clark is getting pretty
frustrated, too.
Why does he make fun of girls, anyway? Like
all girls are scaredy-cats and all boys aren’t. That’s not true. If
they met Thea or her mom, they wouldn’t say stuff like that. Or if
they met my mom.
Though it doesn’t exactly help to think
about her right now.
The Lakota translator is telling the
Partisan, Black Buffalo, and the others what Clark said. He gets a
reply.
“We are not squaws, either.”
I get it with my lingo-spot, before our
translator —Cruzatte — tells Clark.
Share…
What? Share what? Was that me thinking
that?
Somebody has to think of something ,
though. These grownups will get us all killed.
What would Kentuck be doing if he were here?
Would it have changed our luck if he was still alive?
Kentuck…
With my non-rifle hand, I slowly reach into
my pants pocket and pull out the scraggly, leathery “Fives” ball
he’d given me. It feels like every eye in the world is watching
me.
I slowly hold up the ball. And then I start
to bend over and — slowly, slowly — lay down the rifle on the
sand.
Clark and the others are casting glances at
me, too, while trying to keep an eye on the Lakota. “Eli? What in
thunder are you doing?”
“Trust me, sir.”
Showing the Lakota I only have the ball in
my hand, I point across the river to the boy. He’s confused and
looks over to his chiefs for advice. The Partisan just shakes his
head no, without knowing what I’m going to do. Black Buffalo,
though, holds up his hand in more of a let’s-wait-and-see
gesture.
I make a sweeping arc with my hand, for
practice, without releasing the ball.
I found out at Floyd’s funeral that Fives is
some kind of handball game. Nothing to do with bats. But Floyd
wanted me to have it, anyway. For me it’s become a kind of
softball.
Cocking my arm back, I swing forward and
throw it — a nice, easy, underhand pitch — across the water.
It lands at the Lakota kid’s feet on the far
riverbank. He doesn’t know what to do. Black Buffalo looks at the
ball, back at me, and then at his son. This time, he nods. The
Partisan turns away in a huff.
The kid sets down his bow and arrow and
picks up Floyd’s ball like I hoped he would. He looks at me, and I
mime the throwing gesture. He gets it, and without even practicing,
throws the ball over the river, back to me.
We do that one more time. Though after I
throw the ball to the Lakota side, I make another deliberate show
of picking up a damp piece of willow tree driftwood and holding it
aloft.
The Lakota kid is puzzled, but he throws the
ball back again.
And now, as the ball comes flying toward me,
I swing, make contact, and hit the ball toward the boy and the
Lakotas. It falls a little short, landing with a plop in the water
near their
get everyone scared, and all those bullets and arrows would go
flying. But I wonder, if there was some way to signal a truce to
that Lakota kid, would he go along?
I’m not sure how it all went so wrong,
anyway. Clark had been going back and forth from our island, giving
gifts to the tribe for the last day or two. Maybe it was the “Great
White Father” medal that finally rubbed them the wrong way. Or
maybe it was when they tasted Lewis’s “portable soup.” That was
probably a mistake, as gifts go.
Clark had ordered us to set off from Good
Humor Island, but when we were getting the pirogues ready, the
Partisan grabbed the ropes to keep us from leaving.
That’s when we noticed all the arrows
pointed at us.
Lewis, for his part, calmly got out his air
rifle. He explained what it was, the translator told the chiefs,
and nobody moved an inch after that. Nobody gave in.
This silence is dangerous. Unless somebody
says something soon, shots will go off just from the tension.
Clark must be thinking the same thing. “We
are not squaws, but warriors,” he says suddenly, out loud.
I’m not sure that’s the kind of
silence-breaking that helps. I guess Clark is getting pretty
frustrated, too.
Why does he make fun of girls, anyway? Like
all girls are scaredy-cats and all boys aren’t. That’s not true. If
they met Thea or her mom, they wouldn’t say stuff like that. Or if
they met my mom.
Though it doesn’t exactly help to think
about her right now.
The Lakota translator is telling the
Partisan, Black Buffalo, and the others what Clark said. He gets a
reply.
“We are not squaws, either.”
I get it with my lingo-spot, before our
translator —Cruzatte — tells Clark.
Share…
What? Share what? Was that me thinking
that?
Somebody has to think of something ,
though. These grownups will get us all killed.
What would Kentuck be doing if he were here?
Would it have changed our luck if he was still alive?
Kentuck…
With my non-rifle hand, I slowly reach into
my pants pocket and pull out the scraggly, leathery “Fives” ball
he’d given me. It feels like every eye in the world is watching
me.
I slowly hold up the ball. And then I start
to bend over and — slowly, slowly — lay down the rifle on the
sand.
Clark and the others are casting glances at
me, too, while trying to keep an eye on the Lakota. “Eli? What in
thunder are you doing?”
“Trust me, sir.”
Showing the Lakota I only have the ball in
my hand, I point across the river to the boy. He’s confused and
looks over to his chiefs for advice. The Partisan just shakes his
head no, without knowing what I’m going to do. Black Buffalo,
though, holds up his hand in more of a let’s-wait-and-see
gesture.
I make a sweeping arc with my hand, for
practice, without releasing the ball.
I found out at Floyd’s funeral that Fives is
some kind of handball game. Nothing to do with bats. But Floyd
wanted me to have it, anyway. For me it’s become a kind of
softball.
Cocking my arm back, I swing forward and
throw it — a nice, easy, underhand pitch — across the water.
It lands at the Lakota kid’s feet on the far
riverbank. He doesn’t know what to do. Black Buffalo looks at the
ball, back at me, and then at his son. This time, he nods. The
Partisan turns away in a huff.
The kid sets down his bow and arrow and
picks up Floyd’s ball like I hoped he would. He looks at me, and I
mime the throwing gesture. He gets it, and without even practicing,
throws the ball over the river, back to me.
We do that one more time. Though after I
throw the ball to the Lakota side, I make another deliberate show
of picking up a damp piece of willow tree driftwood and holding it
aloft.
The Lakota kid is puzzled, but he throws the
ball back again.
And now, as the ball comes flying toward me,
I swing, make contact, and hit the ball toward the boy and the
Lakotas. It falls a little short, landing with a plop in the water
near their
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