“’Twas a larrapin’ supper, Granny.” Ike finished his dish of peach cobbler and leaned back in his chair.
“Mrs. Murphy to you, Ike Klein. Yo’re older’n me, or I miss my guess.” Granny’s tone was sharp, but there was a twinkle in her eye.
“If’n ya wish to think such, ma’am, it be yer right. Don’t know as I ever et a finer mess a vittles cooked by sich a sightly young woman.”
“That be hogwash and ya be knowin’ it.” Granny got up from the table. “It ain’t gettin’ ya a second helpin’ of that cobbler if’n that’s what yo’re anglin’ for.”
“We thank you for the deer meat,” Jenny said.
“Yore smokehouse needs fixin’. Ya’ll be needin’ to lay in a store a meat. Won’t take much fixin’ if ya got nails.”
“I found a sack of steel nails on a high ledge in the shed.” Colleen spoke while helping Granny carry dishes from the table. She almost choked up remembering that they’d had no nails to build a burying box for her father. “Screen doors are up there, too.”
“Screen doors?”
“Two of ’em.”
“Goodness sake! Why would he take off the screen doors?”
“Same reason he took the rope and pulley off the well and dammed up the creek.”
“The … the scalawag!” Jenny looked at Beatrice, then back at Colleen and mouthed another word.
The lamplight shone on the faces of her new friends. Jenny and the girls were becoming increasingly fond of the Murphys. Granny not only knew the mysteries of the cookstove, but she was wonderfully patient with Beatrice’s small demands for attention and Cassandra’s never-ending questions.
Being partially freed from the job of looking after her younger sister, Cassandra trailed Colleen when she wasn’t scanning one of the books from Jenny’s trunk. They staked the horses out to feed, and did other chores.
Colleen cleared away weeds and debris near the cabin that a snake could take refuge in. She hated snakes, the harmless ones as well as rattlers, and was constantly warning the girls to be on the lookout for them. She was not put off by Cassandra’s superior knowledge of almost any subject nor her direct way of saying whatever was on her mind. In fact, she seemed to welcome and enjoy the younger girl’s company. To be accepted by an older person she admired was a boost to Cassandra’s self-esteem.
“Let’s take Whit some food. He’s at the school.”
“How do ya know that, Cass?” Trell and now Colleen were the only people Cassandra allowed to shorten her name.
“Because the pony in the corral kept running to the fence and looking that way. He’s nickering now. He does it every time Whit is around.”
Jenny got to her feet. “If I’d known that, I would have insisted he come over—”
“Don’t, ma’am. It’d only cause the boy hurt.”
“You’re right, Ike. I’ll fix something and walk over.”
As Jenny was wrapping a large piece of meat and several biscuits in a cloth, Cassandra lighted the lantern.
“I’ll take it.”
“Not by yoreself, ya won’t.” Colleen picked up her rifle. “Me and Cass’ll take it to the boy, Jenny. Yo’re wantin’ to put down all that writin’ for Trell to mail. Boy might not even be there.”
“He’s there. Don’t you believe me?”
“Shore, sugarfoot. I believed ya, too, when ya told me that folks hundreds a miles apart was talkin’ to each other over a wire. Didn’t bat a eye when ya told me.”
“It’s true. The telephone lines are strung from Chicago to New York and people talk to each other.”
“We ain’t got no wires strung ’tween here and the schoolhouse. If’n we want to talk to Whit, we got to start puttin’ one foot ’fore the other.” Colleen opened the door.
Cassandra started out the door then turned back and hurried into the room she shared with her sisters. She returned with a book under her arm and scurried out the door.
“It’s darker than I thought it was.”
“Carry the lantern and don’t look into the light.” Colleen cradled the rifle in her arms. She had seldom been without the weapon since her father was killed.
“When I grow up, I want to live on a mountain where there are no people. I’ve got to learn all the practical things you know, Colleen.”
“Live on a mountain and not talk to folks a hundred miles away on a wire? Betcha ya change yore mind.”
“Betcha I don’t.”
As they neared the school, Colleen became more vigilant, walking slower, keeping the rifle at ready.
“Whit!” Cassandra called. “Whit! I know you’re around here someplace.”
“Have you got no brains? You make noise like a herd of buffer.” The boy’s voice came out of the darkness behind them.
“You knew who we were. Why didn’t you call out? I hate people sneaking up behind me,” Cassandra said sharply.
Whit took the lantern and doused the flame.
“How did you know I was here? It could a been bad white man.”
“Yore pony told us. We brought you some food.”
Cassandra held out the cloth-wrapped bundle. Whit refused it.
“I no take food from women.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Stubborn, stiff-necked, clabberhead!” Cassandra sputtered.
“The meat is from Ike. He said the deer was on Indian land and part of it ort to go to a Shoshoni.” Colleen hoped that for once Cassandra would not contradict her.
“Crazy Swallow got deer on Shoshoni land?”
“Yes.” Colleen insisted.
Whit snatched the bundle from Cassandra’s hand. “Then it is my right to have it.”
“Are you going to sleep here?”
“Why you want to know that, Girl-Who-Squawk-Like-Jaybird?”
“Because, Boy-With-Feather-Growing-Out-Of-Head, I just naturally want to know things. Here.” She thrust the book in his hands. “You said you could read. While you’re reclining under the bushes watching the house you may as well be improving your mind.”
“What’s this?”
“A book, you dolt. A book about a brave Indian named Uncas, the last of the Mohican tribe, and an evil Huron Indian, named Magua. If you can’t read it, I’ll take it back.”
“I not heard of Mohican or Huron. Where their camps?”
“The story took place a long time ago and a long way from here.” She reached to snatch the book back. Whit held it out of her reach.
“You think I don’t read. You think I lie.”
“What I think is that you’re rude and ungrateful. Be careful of that book, it was very expensive.”
“What’s expensive?”
“It cost a lot of money.”
“Then take it.” He thrust the book out.
“Keep it, Whit,” Colleen said. “Prove to her that you can read. I don’t read much myself ’cept for verses in the Bible. Someday I’m goin’ to read a story.”
“Do you want to? Jenny’s got a book by Helen Hunt called Ramona. It’s about a white woman and her Indian lover, Alessandro.”
“You’ve read it?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Oh, yes.” Whit echoed sarcastically. The child/woman, with her superior knowledge, irritated him. It wasn’t natural for a child, a girl, to know so much. “You go. It is not wise to go from the house at night. Or far into the woods in the light of day. Bad men talk of fire and being shot by two guns. Ask about man named McCall.”
“Where did you hear this?” Colleen asked.
“Sneaking Weasel like to talk. Sometime I listen at window.”
“Who is—?”
“I knew you would ask.” Whit glared at Cassandra. “It’s name for skinny boy at Agency store.”
“Very fitting. I like it.”
“Go. It is foolish to wear light clothes at night. Even stupid Indian know that.”
“He’s right, Cass. I should have known better.”
“Sneaking Weasel speak of you,” Whit sai
d to Colleen. “Say man plenty mad at you for shooting him in back.”
“I hoped I’d killed the buzzard!”
“Only not bad wounded. He say he screw you into the ground. What that mean?”
“I’m … not sure. We’d better get back to the house, Cass.”
Cassandra stood staring at Whit even after Colleen turned back.
“What are you waiting for?” Whit growled.
“I’m waiting for a thank-you,” she replied with all the dignity her nine years would allow.
“For what?”
“The food and book, you dolt!”
“The food was from Crazy Swallow. The book is teacher’s. Why say thank you to silly child?”
Cassandra stomped her foot. “You make me so mad!” She spun around and hurried to catch up with Colleen.
Whit watched until they were safely in the house. Then clutching the book and the food parcel, he vanished into the darkness.
“Mr. Havelshell is here!” Cassandra burst into the schoolroom, where Jenny and Colleen were cleaning. “He’s getting out of his buggy.”
Jenny’s expression changed from surprise to one of determination. She placed the pieces of slate on one of the few upright benches and went to the door. Mr. Havelshell was standing beside his buggy talking to the rider who had accompanied him.
“Cassandra, go tell him to come over here.” Jenny decided to summon the agent to her rather than go to him. “Be polite about it.”
“Do ya want me to go?” Colleen picked up her rifle.
“Stay. I’m proud to have you with me.”
Jenny and Colleen waited beside the schoolhouse door and watched the agent come up the path from the house. He was dressed in a black business suit, white shirt and string tie. His face was clean-shaven and his mustache trimmed. The picture of his grossly fat wife flashed into Jenny’s mind as the agent carefully removed his bowler hat and smoothed the hair at his temples with his palm.
“Good morning,” Jenny greeted him with as much civility as she could manage. “Have you met Miss Murphy? She’s the daughter of the late Mr. Miles Murphy, who was killed on this property not long ago.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure. How do you do, ma’am?”
“Not good since ya had my pa killed, ya lousy, shit-eatin’ pissant.”
Havelshell took a step back from the slender, dark-haired girl in the tattered overalls. Her voice was not loud but her tone was one of pure hatred; and if her eyes had been six-guns, he would be dead.
“You are mistaken, ma’am. I—”
“Cut the windies, mister. I ain’t buying it. Ya can tell the one that done it, I’ve got another bullet in this rifle with his name on it. The first one got ’em in the back and didn’t do much hurt. The next one’ll send him straight to hell.”
Havelshell’s face turned red with anger. Even so, he was careful when he put his hat back on.
“A man’s got a right to protect himself. Murphy shouldn’t have drawn his gun.”
“If that’s your man’s story, he’s a gol-damned murderin’ liar! We left the guns in the house a-purpose. He gunned down a unarmed man like I’m doin’ him when I set eyes on him, packin’ a gun or not.”
“You’ll get yourself killed.”
“Oh, I bet ya’d cry ’bout that,” Colleen sneered. “Then what’d ya do? Go after my granny?”
Havelshell refused to answer. He stood silent and tight-lipped. Finally he turned his back and ignored the angry girl.
Fearing that her anger would bring tears that would shame her, Colleen went stiffly down the path to the house, cursing the man with every step she took.
Havelshell turned to Jenny. His face creased in lines of distress.
“I’m sorry about Mr. Murphy. The girl is mistaken about the way he was killed. Three men came back to town with the same story about how Murphy drew his gun and they were forced to kill him.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment. Why would they incriminate themselves in a murder? Come in, Mr. Havelshell. I think you will be pleased at how thoroughly the schoolroom has been wrecked.”
He followed her into the schoolhouse and stood just inside the door. His eyes swept the room, noting the piles of broken slates, torn books and broken and splintered benches.
“Miss Gray, are you implying that I ordered this destruction? If so, I resent it. I am the agent here. It is my responsibility to help these people adjust to life on the reservation. It’s clear to me the little heathens don’t want an education. They want to chase rabbits, dig for roots and steal as they’ve always done.”
“I didn’t come out here completely ignorant of the Indian ways. After I accepted the assignment, I read everything I could find about the Shoshoni and other tribes in the area. This destruction is not the work of Indians. They may steal, but they do not vandalize. This was done by a white man … or boy … with the sole purpose of keeping the school closed.”
“So … you claim to be an authority on Indian behavior after only a few weeks in the territory,” he sneered.
“How long have you been in the territory, Mr. Havelshell?” Jenny countered.
“Long enough to become a valued member of this community.”
“No doubt,” she said drily. “Tell your boy, Linus, to stay away from this school. I may mistake him for a robber and … shoot him. Of course, he will be armed and will be threatening me.”
Jenny stared the agent in the eye. She knew she was not building a foundation for the request she was going to make before he left, but he irritated her to the point of near-complete frustration.
“First, he is not my boy,” Havelshell declared, but his red face made Jenny wonder if she had not stumbled onto a secret connection. “He works at the Agency store.”
“Yes, I know. I met him there yesterday. I also met your wife and purchased a few things.”
His face darkened even more, and his nostrils flared when she mentioned his wife.
“You should not forget that I am in complete charge of this reservation. I hired you and I can send you packing.”
“That is where you are wrong. As I told you the day I arrived, my contract is with the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The only way you’ll get me to leave here is to kill me. Should that happen, by accident or otherwise, the Federal marshals will swarm all over the place. Another thing I wish to make perfectly clear: the Murphys are in my employ and will be living here with me. Keep your gunmen away from here and away from them.”
Havelshell walked around the room picking up ripped books, some of which Jenny and Colleen were going to salvage.
“How are you going to teach without books or slates?”
“Oh, that’s no problem. I brought a trunk full of books and slates. I was unaware that Mr. Whitaker had already furnished them.”
“You’re a gentle-born lady.” He spoke to her from across the room, noting the proud way she stood, head up, shoulders straight. Deep within him a spark of regret began to stir. Why couldn’t he have met such a woman years ago? With someone like her by his side he could have become anything he wanted to be.
“I’m familiar with the term, sir, but I do not concur with the accepted meaning. We are all gentle-born. It’s what we do after we get here that makes a difference in our lives.”
“What I was going to say, ma’am, was that this is not the kind of life you were born into or educated for. It is summer now, and you can see how difficult it is to keep the water bucket full, the stock fed and the firewood cut. Those hardships will be multiplied by ten when winter comes. Winters out here are long and cold.”
“Do you think I am so … dense that I didn’t know from the first day that you didn’t want me or any other teacher here? And that you intend to make being here as unpleasant as possible. You want me to give up before I start classes?”
“It would be the wise thing to do. I’m sure that you want what’s best for your sisters. It’s a hard thing to see a small child cold and hungry. Wolves are dangerous her
e in the winter as are other … animals when they are hungry.”
“What will you do, sir, if I leave? Find another teacher or inform the Bureau that a teacher could not be found and that Mr. Whitaker’s land must be put up for auction.”
“I will look for another teacher.” Havelshell was so angry that his mouth snapped shut after uttering the lie.
Jenny smiled. “I’ll lift the burden of having to make that decision from you. I’m not leaving.”
He looked at her openly for a long while and began mentally to undress her. She would have a tight neat body; the kind of body he liked to have beneath his. The fabric of her simple dress draped her high, softly rounded breasts in a way that made it hard to tear his gaze away. Melva’s breasts had started to sag, her belly was beginning to pouch and her hips were spreading, yet compared to his wife—
The mental vision of his wife unclothed made him want to puke. The only time he’d seen her naked was a couple of years ago. Even then she was the most repulsive thing he’d ever seen, with large rolls of fat from her triple chins to her knees. He shuddered thinking of the difficulty he’d had consummating the marriage. It was easy to believe she had gained a hundred pounds since then. How could that arrogant bastard think he could get a son out of that fat sow?
“Mr. Havelshell, before you go—”
Damned high-toned bitch was dismissing him.
“—There is another matter I wish to discuss with you.” He said nothing, so she continued. “Your orders that prevent Whit Whitaker from visiting his father’s house are ridiculous. I’m serving notice that I plan to hire the boy to work about the place.”
“You are serving notice that you are going to break the law?”
“What law? Yours?”
He smiled. “Territorial law. Indians are to be confined to the reservation. All those who disobey are to be punished.”
“And you follow the law to the letter,” Jenny said cuttingly.
“Absolutely.”
“And punishment means flogging?”
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