Stewart waved away the smoke. “Seven people were claimed to have seen Mr. Muskrat within the hours surrounding Agent Andrews’s murder, but only one was interviewed.” Her husband withdrew a sheet of paper from his bag. “Furthermore, numerous complaints had been filed against Mr. Andrews over the years. I’d like a subpoena to review the agency’s records and investigate these complaints.”
“Just what are you hoping to get out of this, Mr. Mitchell?”
Stewart glanced back at Alma. “Proof of his innocence. Reasonable suspicion that someone other than Mr. Muskrat might have committed the crime.”
The judge took the paper from Stewart’s hand with a dark chuckle.
“Your Honor, this is life or death for this man. Due diligence is required.”
“And how do you expect to uncover this proof? Travel up to the red man’s reservation and play detective?”
“I just want to interview the other witnesses.”
“Look at these names, Mr. Mitchell. Mis-sah-bay, Oge-mah-we-guan. . . these are backwoods, teepee-building savages. You speak Indian? Or were you expecting to converse with them in your Harvard English?”
Stewart’s face hardened and the tips of his ears grew red. “Princeton, Your Honor, and I do not—”
“Nindanishinaabem,” Alma said, standing. The men turned and stared. “I speak Chippewa. A little, anyway.”
The cigar dropped from the judge’s lips. His face pinched with suspicion. “That sounded like more than a little to me.”
Alma glanced at Stewart. He rattled his head and blinked several times, his dark pupils crowding out the hazel of his eyes. She should have told him beforehand. But when? How does such a thing come up when you keep your past so hidden? Before she could telegraph her apology, he looked away and cleared his throat. “My wife was . . . er . . . formerly acquainted with the defendant. She wanted to speak on behalf of his character. We have letters from her mother and Mr. Muskrat’s former teacher as well—all attesting to his good nature.”
The judge leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips. He looked first at Alma and then turned his glare on her husband. “I’m not inclined toward leeway in my court, Mr. Mitchell. I’d just as soon have this whole business done and behind us. There’s little you could produce that would sway a jury toward a verdict of innocence. People want to feel safe in their beds at night, not afraid a wild Indian is going to come and kill them while they sleep.” Alma opened her mouth to protest, but the judge waved her off. “I know, most of that business was done half a century ago. They’re nothing now but a beaten and dying race. Still, the law must be upheld.” He handed the witness list back to Stewart, nodded for the clerk to open the door, and picked up his sandwich.
Anger flared inside her. This was not justice. She crossed the small chamber and gripped the edge of the judge’s desk. “Have you even looked at the case?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It doesn’t make sense. Mr. Muskrat is not the blanket Indian you described. He’s smart, educated. He wouldn’t kill someone in plain sight, then carelessly discard the murder weapon.”
Stewart touched her arm. “Alma, dear—”
Judge Baum sat forward, rolling his cigar between his thumb and forefinger, an air of amusement lighting his expression. “It’s all right. Go on, Mrs. Mitchell. What do you think happened?”
“That he was set up. That the reservation police picked up the first Indian they saw just to close the case.”
The judge snickered.
“I know Harry Muskrat. He’s a good man. And I’ve dealt with hayseed sheriffs before, too. I know what they’re capable of.” She leaned forward over his desk, ignoring the stench of smoke and cured meat. “You speak of upholding the law, yet you’d sooner hang a man than entertain questions about his guilt.”
“You’re the only one who questions his guilt,” the judge said, but the snide quality to his voice was gone. “How did you come to know this man?”
She let go his desk and straightened. “My father ran a government boarding school for Indians.”
“I take it Mr. Muskrat was a student there?”
“For nine years.”
“And he did well?”
“He was the brightest student ever to attend the school. He graduated valedictorian and went on to study at Brown. And he was well liked, beyond academics. Faculty, students, even the townsfolk were fond of him. It’s all here.” She handed over the letters.
“How did he end up back on the reservation?”
“I don’t know . . . we lost touch, I’m afraid.”
“I see.” The judge unsealed the letters and glanced over their contents. Alma watched him read—the back and forth of his eyes, the grind of his teeth as he chewed on the butt of his cigar. Surely this would sway him. His nose twitched. An eyebrow rose. Alma held her breath.
“His history is very interesting, Mrs. Mitchell, but nothing in these letters precludes him murdering that agent. I’ve seen plenty of good, intelligent people commit crimes.”
“We just need a little more time!” She winced at the shrillness of her voice. “Your Honor.”
“Have you ever been to a reservation? Rough places.”
“Like you said, the Indian Wars were done a long time ago. They’re farmers now. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
The judge sat back in his chair, silent. Alma could hear the surge of her pulse in her ears. Again he looked between her and Stewart, and for a brief moment, as their eyes met, his gaze softened. He sucked a long drag off his cigar and blew the smoke off to the side.
“All right. I’ll give you ten days, Mr. Mitchell. After that, no more blasted motions or delays.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Stewart said.
Alma smiled, a true smile. “Thank you.”
The judge snorted and returned to his lunch. Between mouthfuls of sandwich he said, “Temper your zeal, Mrs. Mitchell. You might not like what you find up there.”
CHAPTER 16
Wisconsin, 1888
“You took plenty time,” said when Alma arrived at the rendezvous point behind the large maple at the edge of the yard. “We were about to leave without you.”
“I had to wait for my parents to sleep,” she said, panting. “Father only just snuffed out his candle.” Her less-than-graceful climb down from her bedroom window had left her palms scratched and the pads of her feet stinging.
Minowe snickered. “Next time we leave you for the Windigo.”
“I’m not afraid,” Alma lied as they started into the woods. Though she could easily find the secret clearing, she would hate to brave the dark forest without them. Tales of this man-eating monster were popular around their bonfires, and she often thought she heard his cry lurking in the wind. But tonight, Alma’s anxiety ran deeper even than the Windigo. She, Minowe, and did everything together. To be left behind, to trudge along without them and arrive alone, that would hurt her more than any spirit could.
Moonlight cut through the canopy and revealed a teasing twinkle in Minowe’s eyes. flashed her dependable grin. Alma’s unease retreated and she pulled her friends closer. The promise of winter hung in the chilly air. The musty smell of fallen leaves swirled about them.
“What were you all giggling about during study hour?” Alma asked. “I heard you clear from the parlor.”
smile broadened. “Someone put chalk dust inside ledger book. When she opened it, the dust spilled out all on her dress.”
Alma stifled a laugh. Walter had christened Miss Wells Oneida word for skunk—several years back when she’d given him thirty demerits for accidentally lighting fire to a textbook. The name stuck. “She must have been furious. Who did it?”
“No one owned to it,” Minowe said. “We all of us got ten demerits.”
A frown swept Alma’s face. George. “When are you going to stop defending that boy?”
shrugged. Minowe stared forward with a moony expression, as if she’d hardly heard Alma’s words.
&
nbsp; “Father ought to send him home. He’s an utter dunce.”
“No,” Minowe said. “He’s much brave.”
“Brave?”
“Weyi,” agreed.
Alma shook her head but let the subject drop.
A low, steady rhythm sounded in the distance. With each step, the drumbeat swelled, accompanied by familiar, high-pitched chanting. Alma’s heartbeat quickened, matching the lively pace. Firelight broke through the thickness of trees, and dancing shadows stretched along the ground like spokes on a giant wheel. Dust clouds bloomed as feet struck the earth in time with the song.
When they entered the clearing, Alma squinted in the bonfire’s sudden brightness. Smoke perfumed the air. Chatter buzzed over the song and the crackle of the fire. The tone was light, the words an easy tapestry of Indian and English. Back at the schoolhouse, the watchful gaze of adults followed them everywhere—from morning bed inspection to evening prayer. Here in the forest they mingled freely, not as schoolmates but as siblings, cousins, and friends.
A steady stream of dancers stomped and shuffled around the fire. Others lounged at the periphery. A Ho-chunk boy had sneaked a flute from home and played along with the drums. Dried gourds rattled in time with the music.
Minowe pulled Alma into the circle of dancers. They shuffled side by side, bouncing with the song’s rhythm. Minowe moved like an eagle, her arms spread wide, her quilt stretched like wings, its colored pattern feathers fluttering through the air. She kicked up her knees, twirling as she moved.
Alma hitched her nightshirt above her ankles and followed after her friend, losing herself in the song. Here her dance was free, unscripted, nothing like the measured movements of the waltz or polka her mother insisted she learn. Her skin, numb from walking through the frigid forest, began to thaw. She threw her head back and drank in the full moon’s brilliant glow.
Without warning, a hand circled around her arm and yanked her from the thick of dancers.
“You don’t belong here,” George said, loud enough for the entire camp to hear.
What? Alma rattled her head. He spoke English?
Silence spread through the clearing. The singers dropped out one by one. The drummers’ hands slowed. The dancers’ feet deadened. All faces turned toward her and George. Minowe, hitherto beside her, shuffled back into the crowd.
Alma pulled free from his grasp. “Who are you to say who may attend?”
“You are no Indian.” He turned to the crowd. “Who invited this , this paleface?”
The fire answered with a pop and crackle, a nearby owl with a lonely hoot. Her friends, however, said nothing.
“I have as much right to be here as you.” Her voice sounded thin, but she held George’s stare, stilling her trembling hands into fists.
“Get out of here. ! Go home to your white man’s school.”
Alma opened her mouth in reply, but her voice found no hold. Tears threatened in her eyes. She cast a desperate gaze at Minowe. Her friend’s eyes darted to the ground, her silence as biting as a hundred hateful words. Never before had Alma felt so alone.
Then a voice rose from the gaggle of onlookers. “I invited her.” Asku pushed forward, moving between her and George. “She stays.”
George closed the distance, bringing his face only inches from Asku’s. They stood equal in height, Asku slim but solid, George broad and gangly. “She’ll betray us. The white man always does.”
“She is Azaadiins—friend and sister to us. Our secrets are her secrets.”
George said, turning to the crowd with a sneer. “He is foolish, the white man’s pet.”
A few chuckles rose from the silence. Alma’s heart skittered in her chest.
“And you live in the past,” Asku said. “I learn the ways of the white man so the Anishinaabe have a future. You are gagiibiingwe—blind—if you do not see it.”
The crowd grew quiet. A few heads bobbed in agreement, but otherwise no one moved. The air seemed thick, electric, too dense to breathe. George glared at Asku, but finally stepped back. He turned to Alma and held out a closed fist thumb-side down. Firelight glinted in his narrowed eyes. He extended his fingers and said, “
She’d never heard the phrase before, but judging by his scowl and the gasps of the other Menominees, it was hardly a friendly remark or gesture. Her knees softened, but she refused her feet a backward step.
George turned and stalked toward Frederick and a group of older boys a few paces off.
A solitary drum broke the uncomfortable silence, joined quickly by another. The flute and rattles caught the beat, breathing life back into the singers and dancers. Asku took hold of Alma’s hand and led her to a nearby log.
“Thanks for standing up for me.”
“Always, Azaadiins.”
The scuffle had made a briar of her insides. She wrapped her free arm around her stomach, nursing a faint nausea. Could what George said be true? Was she the outsider, the interloper he claimed her to be? Save for those few weeks when the Indians first arrived, she’d never felt like one. Their stories were her stories. Their language her language. She kept their secrets and they kept hers.
Why, then, had only Asku spoken up?
He squeezed Alma’s hand, pulling her from her reverie. His grip was soft, tentative. The same jolt she’d felt that day by the stream hummed through her. But the effect was short-lived and weaker than before. The heat that radiated from his hand reached no farther than her skin. She pulled free and looked away.
“What you say to make so angry?” Alice asked, coming toward them.
“Me? He began it.”
Alice flashed a sheepish smile and tossed her a few warm acorns. Minowe and joined them too. Alma rolled the acorns round and round in her palm. Where had the girls been a few moments before when she needed them? In their position, she would have stood beside them and spoken up.
Minowe inched closer to her on the log. She leaned her head on Alma’s shoulder and squeezed her hand. “It’s hard for . . . er . . . George, not having come here when he was young.”
Alma trained her gaze on a small fir tree across the clearing. She didn’t care about George’s reasoning or his real name. How could Minowe, of all people, have said nothing? They’d been the closest of friends for years. George wasn’t even of her tribe.
Minowe squeezed her hand again, a small, wordless token of apology, and Alma’s anger tottered. She remembered the way she ofttimes felt in town, the awkward pull between the white friends whose approval she so craved and her Indian friends whose company she truly enjoyed.
After a heavy moment, she laid her head on Minowe’s and returned the squeeze. The blistering loneliness she had felt standing alone before George slowly faded. Once again, the fire’s warmth embraced her. The lively music pulsed through her veins.
George was wrong. Indian or not, she did belong.
CHAPTER 17
Minnesota, 1906
Alma tried to sleep, but the stars whispered to her through the train window. The three hunters roamed the dark sky chasing after makwa, the bear. Jiibay-miikana, the Path of Souls, stretched like eyelet lace across the blankness. Her friends’ voices rang in her ears—Minowe’s melodious tone, giggles. Memories of the cold night air prickled her skin, and she could almost see the fog of their breath drifting up from their rooftop hideout to the inky heavens above.
Beside her on the train, Stewart slept. His hair, the color of a wet beach, had fallen across his forehead. The lines around his eyes and those cut across his brow had smoothed. She alone had carved them into his skin and was glad the damage was only transitory. She traced the outline of his handsome face with the tips of her fingers, gently so as not to wake him. He would forgive her this—the trouble of it all, her secrets. Wouldn’t he?
Just after dawn, they alighted at the tiny town of Detroit Lakes and hired a rickety wagon to take them to their hotel. Twice along the short ride down Main Street, Alma saw hand-painted signs in the storefront windows: NO INDIANS ALLOWED
.
In their hotel room, Alma splashed some water on her face and pinned back the locks of hair that had fallen out of place during the sleepless night on the train. The lumpy bed in the center of the small room tempted her, but they hadn’t time to tarry. She lingered a moment more before the washstand, her hands clutching the sides of the chipped porcelain basin. The woman that stared back at her in the filmy mirror on the wall looked haggard—dry lips, bloodshot eyes, lackluster skin. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks until they colored. Better, yes, but fleeting. She looked away before the pallor returned.
At the front desk she and Stewart inquired after a horse and buggy to take to the reservation. The young clerk scratched his head. Dandruff showered down from his rumpled hair. Or were they nits? Alma shuffled backward, fighting back a grimace.
“We got a buggy you can rent, but it’s a long way to the reservation,” he said.
“Twenty-two miles. I know,” Stewart said. “Have you a good horse?”
“Good enough. ’Cept . . .” His eyes darted to Alma. “Wouldn’t linger there after dark. A man was kilt there not long back. Shot by one of them Injuns in cold blood.”
Alma clenched her teeth, barring passage to the sharp words readied on her tongue.
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” Stewart said. “Show us to the buggy and hitch the horse, if you please. As you say, we’ve a long ride ahead of us.”
“Ain’t got nothing against them Chippewas,” the clerk said as he led them to the barn. “Heck, we’ve even had some famous chiefs stay here. Hole-in-the-Day, Little Wolf, and the like.” He turned to Alma. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We boiled the sheets and scrubbed down the floors right after.”
* * *
The road to White Earth snaked northward through dry, golden prairie. Lakes winked in the morning sunlight, roped together by winding streams. An occasional hill swelled above the flatlands. Pine forests, far to the east, painted the horizon a cool blue-green. Farms lay scattered across the land like fallen leaves, windrows of hay and rows of cornstalks bounded by unspoiled meadows. Still, for all the beauty, she couldn’t sit still.
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