Between Earth and Sky

by Amanda Skenandore

  “Nervous, darling?” Stewart asked.

  “Why ever would I be?” He loosed a hand from the reins and laid it on her jogging knee. She stilled.

  “Neither the judge nor that young hotel clerk seemed to think very highly of the reservation.”

  “I doubt Judge Baum has ever been to a reservation. And that boy? A ninny.”

  “Alma, it’s not like you to be so unkind.”

  “Well, he is. You’ll see. White Earth will be like any other rural community.”

  The wagon rattled onward and they crested a low hill. Alma squinted into the distance, hoping to see a collection of roofs or a spire-capped water tower on the far horizon. Only prairie and a patchwork of trees stretched before them.

  Stewart was right; she was being unkind. But a decade and a half had passed since the Dawes and Nelson acts divided up the reservation into allotments. Surely the Indians’ farms were prospering. By now, not only Asku and Minowe and Frederick, but hundreds of Anishinaabe children had been educated at schools like Stover. They could read and write, had profitable skills and genteel manners.

  Again Asku’s words nettled her. Did you ever think what they were doing to us was wrong? No, their visit to the reservation would prove that. Why, then, was she so nervous?

  “Are there others from Stover you expect to meet at White Earth?” Stewart asked.

  Her knee itched to bounce, but the weight of his hand kept it still. “The reservation is far too large for social calls.”

  “Perhaps they might help with the case.”

  “What time is it? Are we close?”

  “They could show us about the reservation. Answer questions about Agent Andrews.”

  “There’s no one!” She turned her head and stared across the prairie. “The time, please.”

  His hand left her leg. His pocket watch snapped open and closed. “Half past eleven. We’ve a ways yet to go.”

  An hour past noon, several miles into the reservation, they arrived at a small village. Log cabins and a few shotgun houses lined the rutted throughway. Shirts and trousers billowed from backyard clotheslines, and animals brayed in the barns. Farther down the road, the houses gave way to a spattering of shops, a two-story town hall, and a steepled Episcopal church.

  Stewart stopped the wagon in front of the general store. Several Indians tarried about the entry. A strand of fish hung from one man’s shoulder. Others carried sacks or small crates filled with supplies. Birch bark baskets and cradleboards swayed on women’s backs. A group of men lounged against the storefront, talking between drags on their cigarettes.

  “Pardon me, where can we find the Indian Office?” Stewart asked.

  The Indians’ banter ceased and their eyes turned wary. No one spoke.

  “Perhaps I should speak slower. In-di-an Off—”

  Alma put her hand on his arm and turned to the Indians. “Aani-indieteg Ogimaawigamig?”

  Surprise cracked through their guarded expressions. Murmurs rolled among them. After a moment, one of the men nodded toward a homestead-style building farther down the road and said in clear English, “That way.”

  Stewart tipped his hat and urged the horse onward. “Much obliged.”

  They passed by a large storehouse, another barn and stable, and a four-room army barracks. Shutterless windows gaped at her from the rustic buildings, their roughly fashioned doors crooked and unpainted. Utilitarian, she decided. Economical. She would not allow the word bleak.

  “Aaniin. That’s the customary Chippewa greeting, by the way,” she said.

  Stewart repeated the word, stumbling through the syllables. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a shortening of aaniin gidoodem—what clan are you from?”

  His eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

  “You can just say boozhoo.”

  Again that puzzled expression. Then he smiled. “Ah, like bonjour. From the fur trading days.”

  She nodded.

  A flagpole stood before the agency building, the Stars and Stripes whipping in the breeze some twenty-five feet above. A similar flag, she remembered, minus a few stars, had flown proudly over the gabled roof at Stover.

  Beside the flagpole, the white clapboard agency gleamed so brightly in the afternoon sun Alma had to squint. New shingles hung from its roof. Behind it stretched a fallow field dotted with canvas tents and teepees—twenty or thirty structures in all, and more under construction. She frowned. Surely they didn’t live here, like this.

  Stewart tethered the horse and helped her from the buggy. “It still surprises me when I hear you speak their language. I never knew you were so close to these people.”

  She squeezed his hand and said with manufactured lightness, “How boring you would find me, if you knew all my little secrets.”

  “Secrets?” He laughed weakly. “I dare say, the past week has brought surprises enough to last a lifetime.”

  Inside they passed by an unvarnished bench and two mismatched chairs to a long counter. A small picture of President Roosevelt hung in a cheap tin frame, lonely on the wall.

  Beyond the counter, the office was a hive of activity. Stacks of paper and worn ledger books claimed every available surface. Survey maps plastered the walls. The air smelled of stirred-up dust and mildewed paper. One man, a half-breed guessing by his high cheekbones and broad nose, huddled over a spread of documents. Another, the only woman in the room besides Alma, thumbed through a cabinet of folders. Several other workers bustled between desks and file drawers. No one looked up in greeting.

  Stewart rapped gently on the counter. “I’m looking for Deputy Agent Taylor.”

  “Can’t you see we’re—” A burly white man, seated at a nearby desk, glanced up at Stewart and stopped mid-sentence. His eyes flickered to Alma and seemed to stall. He stood, but without hurry, smoothed his jacket, and straightened the gold-plated star pinned above his breast pocket. “What can I do for you?”

  The other employees came to attention as well. Alma’s skin tingled beneath the intensity of their collective gaze. Stewart repeated his request.

  “He’s head agent now,” the man with the star said. “Is he expecting you?”

  “I’m afraid not. Our trip was too sudden to announce by letter, and I was told you have no telephone.”

  “Nearest telephone’s back in Detroit Lakes. I’ll tell Agent Taylor you’re here. What was your name?”

  “Stewart Mitchell. I’m here regarding the murder of Mr. Andrews.”

  “You a lawman?”

  “I’m one of the attorneys involved in the trial.”

  Alma looked around the room. Stewart had not even mentioned which side of the case he represented and already she felt a crackle of tension.

  Her gaze stopped on the half-breed. He was the youngest of the employees, more a boy than a man, and the first to return his attention back to his work. He wore his thick black hair short, parted at the middle, and slicked down with oil. His brown eyes were light, his skin the color of pale clay.

  The man with the star emerged from a door at the back of the room and waved them forward.

  A young man greeted them inside the office. “Welcome, welcome. I’m Agent Taylor.” He shook Stewart’s hand and nodded at Alma. “Have a seat. This is Sheriff Knudson.”

  The man with the gold badge bobbed his head. He closed the door but remained in the room, leaning against the far wall.

  Alma sat in a high-backed wooden chair, feeling caged in the small room. Daylight dribbled in through the milky glass of the lone window. The agent’s musky cologne permeated the stale air. Her eyes drifted from the window to a waist-high bookshelf topped with a mantel clock and matted tintype.

  “That’s my pappy,” Agent Taylor said, smiling at Alma. “Fought with Custer and Colonel Mackenzie during the Great Sioux War.”

  Alma shifted in her chair. The man’s vivid blue eyes and sharp face unnerved her. He leaned back in his chair, still smiling, and laced his hands behind his head.

/>   Stewart cleared his throat. “You served under Mr. Andrews as deputy agent before the murder, is that correct?”

  Mr. Taylor brought his hands around to his lap, but remained relaxed and easy in his chair. “Yes, that’s right. For goin’ on three years.”

  “And, Mr. Knudson”—Stewart swiveled around to face the sheriff—“you completed the investigation against Mr. Muskrat and executed the arrest?”

  Sheriff Knudson nodded.

  “Mr. Muskrat offered no defense or alibi,” Agent Taylor said. “He’d bootlegged a gun same as the one shot Agent Andrews just a few months prior. What more questions could you have?”

  “Did he admit to the crime?”

  “No,” the sheriff said. “He ain’t said nothing at all.”

  Stewart unbuckled the flap of his satchel and withdrew several sheets of paper. “Seven people were listed as witnesses to the crime, but only one interview was filed with the report. Do you have summaries or transcripts of the other six?”

  The sheriff took the top sheet of paper from Stewart and frowned. His rough, weather-beaten skin reminded Alma of Mr. Simms. “I only interviewed the one. Abe Johnson. He’s a worker at this here agency and one of my deputies. Heard the gunshot from his kitchen window and saw Mr. Muskrat fleeing into the woods. No need to interview the others.”

  “From what distance did he see Mr. Muskrat?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How far from Mr. Johnson’s window to the woods?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Fifty yards. A hundred tops.”

  “That’s quite a distance. Especially in the dark.”

  “You city folk might not know, but the moon shines real bright out here in the country.”

  “It was a new moon that night,” Alma said.

  They all looked at her.

  In the days after learning of Asku’s trial, reading and rereading those articles, she’d thought back to where she was the night of the murder. What banality had occupied her time when a thousand miles away all this trouble had begun for Asku? It was a Sunday. She and Stewart attended a dinner party thrown by one of Stewart’s colleagues who’d moved to the suburbs. She’d thought of every laugh, every smile, over and over again until it made her sick. She remembered the hum of the electric hansom that carried them home. “Watch your step, ma’am, it’s mighty dark,” the driver had said. And later, after she and Stewart had made love, she remembered lying awake staring out the bedroom window at the moonless sky.

  “I grew up in the country,” she now said to the sheriff. “It’s black as perdition on a moonless night.”

  “You accusing Deputy Johnson of lying?”

  “No,” Stewart answered. “But if you didn’t question the others, how do you know they were even present at the time of the crime?”

  “It happened right in front of the general store. Mr. Larson hadn’t closed up yet, so naturally he’s a witness.”

  “And these others?”

  “I’m sure you saw on your way over here, the way them Indians loiter about the shop front. Them there’s the names of the usual riffraff who hang about piss-drunk on turpentine and gin.”

  “You never verified that they were actually there?”

  Again the sheriff only shrugged.

  Stewart’s jaw muscles tightened and his nostrils flared. Alma watched him wrestle back the uncustomary tide of anger. When he spoke, his voice was steady and controlled. “I’d like to interview them myself, then, if you don’t mind.”

  “Best’a luck with that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Agent Taylor laughed through his nose. “Won’t find them very willing. One, they don’t speak much English. Two, they’re mighty mistrusting, these Chippewas. Hell, they’ll probably think you a missionary, bringing the missus along and all.” He turned to Alma. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

  “Probably never seen a real red man before,” Sheriff Knudson said before she could answer. “If you were hopin’ for feathers and buckskin, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  “Actually, I—”

  “Is that why you came? To see the noble savage in his natural habitat?” Agent Taylor picked up a stamp from his desk and twirled the wooden handle between his fingers. Ink had stained the rubber seal black. “I’m afraid the sheriff is right. All we have here are would-be farmers and inebriates. Perhaps you’d—”

  “Mr. Taylor, I’ve met and known dozens of Indians. Mr. Muskrat was my friend. I’ve come to see why the investigation against him was so grossly mismanaged.”

  The smirk fell from the agent’s face. “I see.”

  “To that end,” Stewart said, handing Mr. Taylor another sheet of paper, “it says here that numerous complaints had been filed against Mr. Andrews while he was agent here. I’ve a subpoena to examine all the agency’s records.”

  Agent Taylor dropped the stamp. It landed on the papers Stewart handed him, leaving behind a messy streak of ink. The corner of his mouth twitched, making his neatly trimmed mustache look like a fuzzy caterpillar inching atop his lip. “The records won’t show you nothing. The Indians complain because they don’t want to work. They’re indolent, Mr. Mitchell, born and bred lazy as sin. They complain because they want everything handed to them without a drop of sweat on their part. They complain because they want to dance their heathen dances and practice their devil magic.” He slammed his hands down on the desk. “That’s why they file complaints, Mr. Mitchell. That’s why the old Muskrat shot and killed Agent Andrews. That’s the reality here.” He shoved the white pages Stewart had presented back across the desk. “You with your papers and your tailored suit can’t do nothing to change that.”

  Alma leaned away, the wooden chair stiles digging into her back. Stewart didn’t move. “I’ll tell you what I can do, Agent Taylor.” He brushed an invisible fleck of dust from his sleeve, then neatly stacked the papers and returned them to his satchel. “Tomorrow when I return, if you or the sheriff bar me access to your files or impede my interviews with the witnesses, I’ll return to Detroit Lakes and telephone St. Paul. The judge will have you both arrested for delaying and impeding a federal trial.”

  Agent Taylor gave a false chuckle. The color had leached away from his face, leaving his skin sallow. “You can kick up a fuss all you want, Mr. Mitchell, but tomorrow’s Annuity Day. The rolls and records you’re after will be in use. Official government business.”

  Annuity Day. So that was the reason for all the tents and teepees, the reason the agency workers were in such a dither when she and Stewart arrived.

  Stewart stood. He held his hand out for Alma, but his hazel eyes remained fixed on the agent. “We’ll conduct our interviews tomorrow, then. The day after, your records had better be on hand.” He buckled his satchel and tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Wisconsin, 1888

  Outside, the bugle sounded. Rhythmic footfalls marched over the icy crust of yesterday’s snow. Alma lifted the curtain shrouding her bedside window and peeked out. Down in the yard, the Indians’ cheeks were scarlet. Their breath hung in the air. Sweat trickled down their temples, even in the cold. Most kept perfect time and formation—march, half step, hold time—their lines wrapping and weaving throughout the yard. But the newer students stumbled. They slowed when they should quicken, stepped right instead of left.

  George in particular stood out. His knees never rose as high as the others; his arms never swung as straight. His feet struck the ground off tempo. She watched Mr. Simms box him over the head, messing his already untidy hair. To this, George only smirked and quickened his pace a half beat too fast.

  He wore that same mischievous smile as he sauntered behind his marching classmates into the classroom after breakfast. Beneath the desktop, Alma’s hands clenched. She hated the way he flouted the rules. She watched him sink into his seat at the front of the class, beside the younger children. He’d kept up his charade of ignorance, convin
cing even Miss Wells he knew no English. Liar, she wanted to shout when he bungled easy phrases or ignored simple directions. But she kept her mouth shut, grinding her teeth till her jaw ached. The others thought him clever, wily, brave. It was for them she remained silent.

  Only Asku shared her indignation. He slid behind their double-wide desk and handed her a history text. “He’s up to something.”

  Alma placed the heavy book atop the desk but didn’t open it. “If he doesn’t want to learn, why is he here?”

  “The sisters at the missionary school on his reservation kicked him out. So the agent sent him here.”

  She almost laughed. “The agent can’t force someone to come. Enrollment at Stover is voluntary.”

  Asku’s bright eyes dampened. He shook his head and looked down at his book. “They have their ways.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The agent controls the food, tools, and money granted to us in the treaties we signed with the Great Father. We can no longer roam to hunt and fish as we please. Without government rations and supplies we have nothing.”

  Alma bit her lip. “But . . . you wanted to come, didn’t you? And Minowe?”

  His expression grew distant. “In the beginning I was . . . unsure. Our father wanted it. He knew the world was changing.” Asku paused. “Mother disagreed. She cut away her hair, streaked her face black with ash in mourning.” He smoothed a hand down the open page of his textbook. “I see my father’s wisdom now. The way of the white man is the way of the future.”

  Alma nodded halfheartedly. She looked back at George, her throat growing tight. Had his mother cried over his departure too? He sat uncharacteristically straight in his chair, his eyes fixed on the blackboard, where Miss Wells had written out each grade’s lesson plan. His uniform never looked crisp and neat like Asku’s, but, for once, it didn’t bother her. Perhaps he was trying.

  She turned her attention toward her studies—a chronological history of England’s monarchs. Asku was already several pages ahead of her, but she could catch up. That he had progressed so far so quickly impressed not only her but the entire Stover staff, and she wondered briefly before opening her book if she would fare as well were the text before her written in Anishinaabemowin, not English.