Three paragraphs into her study, a low buzzing noise snagged her attention. She looked around the room for the offending bee or horsefly. Seeing none, she returned to her book.
Amid the sound of chalk scratching over slate and the occasional flutter of a turning page, the buzz continued. Alma found herself reading the same passage about Richard I over and over again.
With a huff, she looked up again. By now, the noise had caught the attention of Miss Wells. The teacher’s thin lips curled slightly. She strode along the near wall, shaking out the checkered window drapes. Her bones stood out beneath her dry, pale skin as she moved—those of her wrist, her hands, the sharp vertebrae of her neck.
A soft giggle drew Alma’s attention forward. A few of the first years leaned toward George, shaking with suppressed laughter. Alma sat forward to get a better look. Beneath his desk, George held a small cream-colored box. Whenever the buzzing began to taper, he gave the box a gentle shake and the noise flared.
Miss Wells walked from the bank of windows to the front of the class, striding so close to George the hem of her skirt brushed his gangly leg. She cocked her head, clearly alert to the proximity of sound, but did not see the paper box hidden beneath his desk.
She shook her head as if to dislodge the low, persistent noise from her ears and straightened. “All right. First, second, and third years, eyes on the blackboard.”
The buzzing continued as Miss Wells chalked out a series of short phrases on the board. Alma could see the teacher’s shoulders bunching with tension. Her lettering grew dark and cramped, her fingers throttling the chalk.
By now most of the students had seen the box. They craned, twisted, and pointed behind the Skunk’s back, their lips clamped, holding back laughter.
Had it not been George’s doing, Alma might have laughed too.
Miss Wells turned around and the class went rigid. The older children dropped their heads over their textbooks. The younger ones fixed their gaze forward. George cradled the box between his knees and folded his hands atop the desk. The humming quieted.
Beside her, Asku remained lost in Plantagenet history, but Alma gaped at the scene at the front, her face angled down to feign study, her eyes straining upward.
“Who can read the first line for me?” Miss Wells asked.
As usual, no one volunteered. Indolence, Miss Wells frequently complained. But Alma knew the Indians simply preferred not to stand out or appear conceited.
The teacher’s face soured. “William, please rise and recite the first line.”
The young Potawatomi boy stood on command. His cheeks grew flush. He fidgeted with the hem of his suit coat, rolling the coarse fabric between his thumb and forefinger. After a heavy silence, he began, “God b-b-bless our se-chul.”
“We learned this word last week.” Miss Wells’s words came more clipped than usual. “Sound out the letters.”
William’s face turned from pink to crimson. “Sss . . . chhh . . . oool?”
“School. The last word is school.” slammed the edge of her hand atop her palm like an ax. “As a second year, you should know this word by now. Repeat the phrase in full.”
“G-g-god b-b-bless our s-k-k-k—” William stopped and took a deep breath.
Alma bit her lip and looked down. William never stuttered when he spoke in Potawatomi.
Renewed buzzing broke the painful silence.
“Sk-k-k—”
“School!” Miss Wells shouted.
The class jerked to attention. Alma blinked and swallowed. The teacher smoothed her hands down the front of her dress and breathed in deeply through her nose. She turned back to the board and wrote the word school in big letters. “Everyone take out your slates and write out this word a hundred times.”
“There isn’t room,” Catherine said.
“Write. Small.”
George shook the box again.
Miss Wells spun around, eyes bulging. “Where is that noise coming from?”
After a moment, she seemed to catch the sound’s origin and crossed to George.
As she neared, George let his arm fall to his side, the white paper box cupped in his hand. Walter, seated directly behind him, grabbed the box and hid it in his lap.
“Show me your hands, young man,” Miss Wells said to George.
He placed his hands, palms up, atop his desk. The corners of his lips twitched, as if fighting back a smirk.
The Skunk’s eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and moved on to Walter. “Hands.”
Having passed the box behind him to Frederick, Walter produced his hands.
Giggles erupted like popping corn around the classroom. Miss Wells raised her head, her gray irises blazing like a firebrand, and the room went silent.
The buzzing box passed covertly from one student’s hand to the next, always a step or two ahead of the fuming teacher. When reached them, the Indians would hold up their empty hands and shrug, their round faces beaming with a practiced look of innocence.
The prank continued for several minutes. Gone was the pretense of study. Miss Wells stalked up and down each aisle. “All of you—fifteen demerits, unless someone tells me who is making that hideous noise.”
Without even a twitch of a smile, Alice raised her hand. “I don’t hear no noise, Miss Wells.”
The teacher’s lips turned purple. Her neck muscles bulged beneath her sallow skin. “It’s any noise. I do not hear any noise.”
More hushed laughter. Even Alma had to bite down on her tongue to keep from giggling. She felt a tug on her sleeve and turned. From across the aisle, Minowe thrust the offending box in her direction. Alma’s eyes widened and she shook her head.
“Odaapinan,” Minowe hissed. Take it.
Alma’s gaze flickered to Miss Wells. She had resumed her desk-by-desk inspection, winding her way toward them. Any moment she would look up and see the box in Minowe’s outstretched hand.
With a scowl, Alma snatched the box and hid it in her hands beneath her desk. It was made from thick foolscap paper. George had probably filched the paper from her father’s office. Alma pulled back one of the side flaps and peered inside.
A hornet!
She slapped her palm over the opening to keep the insect from flying out and looked up. George leered at her from the front of the room. He lounged like a tramp behind his desk, arm lolling over the back of his chair, legs protruding into the aisle.
A sharp pain stung her palm. She clamped her lips around a scream, but a tiny squeak escaped. George smirked. Miss Wells spun toward her.
“Miss Blanchard, whatever is the matter?”
Alma fumbled with the box flap, closing it just before the hornet escaped. “What? Um . . . nothing’s the matter.”
The insect buzzed angrily in the box. The teacher stepped forward, her eyes hungry like a bloodhound tracking a scent. “Do you hear that?”
Alma looked past the teacher at George. How had he even found a hornet midwinter? His smug expression made her blood crackle. She could show the box to Miss Wells, tell her George was to blame for the entire escapade. The thought brought an inward smile. But his was not the only face turned in her direction. The entire room, all her friends and classmates, stared, watching what she would do.
She shoved the box between her legs, burying it in the folds of her skirt to muffle the sound. “A horsefly was buzzing at the windowsill a while back.” With a quick squeeze, she crushed the box between her knees. The noise deadened. “It must have flown out into the hall.”
Miss Wells tilted her head, as if combing the silence for some lingering trace of sound. After a long moment, the madness drained from her face. “Back to your studies, class.”
Everyone turned forward, save for George. Alma held his stare, matching his scowl with a smug smile. She tossed the crumpled box over her shoulder, sat up extra straight, and dusted off her hands with exaggerated show. His frown deepened a moment, then morphed into a lopsided grin. He chuckled silently and turned forward while Alma pre
ened.
CHAPTER 19
Minnesota, 1906
The small gathering of tents and teepees she and Stewart had seen on the edge of White Earth Village the day before had grown into a bustling encampment. Mule-drawn carts and rusted buggies choked the thoroughfare. Their shaggy horse lurched and ambled as people on foot, even those carrying heavy packs or canoes, passed them on either side. How would she and Stewart find the men they needed to interview—the “witnesses” listed in the investigation report—amid this crowd?
Something else unsettled her as well. Minowe. It was impossible not to think of her. She must be here. Alma scanned the swarm of faces. Would she even recognize her after all these years? The thought brought an unexpected surge of sadness. Would the laugh lines around Minowe’s mouth and eyes now be permanent fixtures? Would the luster have vanished from her skin the way Alma’s had? Would her gap-toothed smile give her away or be locked behind a scowl? Alma squared her shoulders and raised her chin. It didn’t matter. She had enough trouble beating back the past without thinking of such things.
At last they reached the livery. She and Stewart left the wagon and walked the short distance to the agency.
“Let’s start by finding the arms merchant,” Stewart said, scanning the crowd. “A white man will be easier to spot.”
He started toward the cluster of booths that had risen at the far corner of the field like the trading posts of old. Alma hesitated, pulling back on his arm, her attention captured by the goings-on before the office. “Just a moment, dearest.”
A long table had been set up with a muslin tarp stretched overhead to block the sun. Sheriff Knudson and his deputies hovered beside a heap of broadcloth-wrapped bundles. He looked in Alma’s direction and tipped his hat, his aspect smug and vaguely menacing despite his full-toothed grin. She ignored the prickle of hairs rising beneath her collar and nodded back.
Agent Taylor sat drumming his fingers atop the table. If he saw Alma and her husband, he made no show of it, even as she pulled Stewart forward to get a better view of the proceedings.
A line of Indians had formed—if one could call so lively and unruly a gathering a line—stretching deep into the adjacent field. People stepped in and out as they spotted friends and family. They hugged, laughed, cooed over the little ones strapped in cradleboards on their mothers’ backs. A young man had lured a cluster of blushing girls with his flute. Farther back in line, a rattle sounded. Above the songs, Alma heard fragments of jokes, stories, and gossip. Those who had food or tobacco shared it readily, and the fragrant scent wafted above the gathering.
Yet beneath the conviviality, Alma sensed the crackle of discord. Whispers, sidelong glances, even the occasional sneer. Those with lighter coloring or facial hair congregated together. Their collared shirts and calico dresses looked less worn than the beaded buckskin and broadcloth their counterparts wore. English and French peppered their speech. The divide, subtle as it was, surprised her. Had Asku or Minowe hinted at such things as children? Not that Alma could remember. It was her world—the white world—that cared about class and blood quanta.
“Next,” the agent hollered over the din, drawing her gaze forward.
An older man shuffled to the table. Crevasses, deep as dried riverbeds, furrowed his dark brown skin. Morning sunlight glinted off metal cones dangling from his ears. When asked his name, he replied, “Niski’gwun.” Ruffled feathers. The mixed-blood she’d seen yesterday, James, the agent called him, handed the man a fountain pen and pointed to an open ledger. Niski’gwun fisted the pen the way her classmates had when they first arrived at Stover, and scratched an X beside his name. Ink smudged onto his fingers. He wiped them on his weatherworn trousers before reaching for the silver Agent Taylor had counted out for him. Niski’gwun picked up the coins one at a time with a shaky hand—one, two, three, four, five—and stowed them in his jacket pocket.
Agent Taylor sighed. He shooed Niski’gwun toward the stacks of bundled goods and flagged the next Indian forward. This man approached with his wife and small son. Unlike the older Indian, whose long gray hair was bound in several braids, he kept his hair cropped and fashionably parted to the side. He gave Christian names for himself and his family and signed his name in clear script. Five coins to him, four to his wife, and two for the small boy.
“Only this?” the man asked.
“Now, now. You know y’all received more than your due back in the nineties. Won’t be paid back in full for a couple of years yet.”
“Your mistake, not ours.”
Agent Taylor kept one hand atop the metal cashbox. The other fell to his side, dangling next to the pistol holstered at his hip. “Get along now.”
The family collected the money and then their rations. Before walking away, the wife peeked inside her bundle, opening it just wide enough for Alma to spy its contents: a length of green calico, a spool of thread, a comb, a few packets of seeds, a sack of flour, and a tin plate and matching bowl.
The woman reached inside and rummaged through the goods, her face coloring with disappointment. Her son skipped beside her and held up the new blanket he’d received. “Look, nimaamaa.”
“It is good.” Her voice cracked. She smiled for the boy, even as tears built on her lashes.
Alma watched them go with growing unease.
“Come along, darling,” Stewart said. “The longer we tarry, the busier the merchants become.”
She knew he was right, but her feet refused to move, her eyes refused to waver.
The family stopped before another table just beyond the cover of the agency’s tarp. A man stepped from the shade. Though he was well dressed in a silk shirt and fur-lined coat, the gold tooth that flashed when he grinned hinted at meaner beginnings. He, too, had a cashbox and ledger, but Alma didn’t recognize him from the agency.
She watched as the father laid the family’s coins—all eleven dollars—on the table. The gold-toothed man consulted his ledger. After a quick count on his chubby fingers, he slid two coins back to the father. The rest he tossed into his cashbox. Alma’s stomach roiled—the clanking silver, the man’s glinting smile. What right did he have to this family’s money?
“Just a merchant settling accounts.”
Alma startled. Sheriff Knudson had sidled up beside her and was staring in the family’s direction. “You looked worried is all, ma’am.”
Again something about him reminded her of Mr. Simms—the gravelly voice, the calloused hands, the scent of stale sweat. She couldn’t quite place it. For all his rancor, Mr. Simms had been harmless. But Sheriff Knudson? A shiver spread through her limbs, but she didn’t slink back, didn’t shy away when his watery gaze turned upon her. Harmless. Still she was glad when Stewart stepped between them and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
“Shouldn’t Agent Taylor oversee such transactions?” he said. “Dollar to your dime your merchant is violating anti-usury laws.”
“You don’t strike me a bettin’ man, Mr. Mitchell.”
“This, Sheriff, is not a gamble.”
He chuckled. “You gonna get a subpoena for thems records, too?”
Alma felt Stewart’s muscles tighten, but when he spoke, his voice was even. “Excuse us. We’ve a botched investigation to attend to.” He tugged lightly on her arm. Reluctantly, she followed, glancing back over her shoulder as the merchant’s box jingled with another deposit.
The field beyond the agency had the feeling of a county fair, and Alma’s step lightened. Wild rice simmered over cook fires, perfuming the air with its nutty aroma. Boys hurled sticks and squatted together with round stones in a game akin to marbles. Her gaze snagged on a troop of girls running to and fro. Each brandished two long sticks above her head. A loop of twine with two thumb-sized billets spun through the air from one girl’s stick to another. Alma paused, watching them scamper through the browning grass.
“Pupu’sikawe’win.”
“What, darling?”
“Oh, it’s a game. I used to play it
when I was little.” Minowe had taught her, passed her the billets when no one else would, despite Alma’s dubious ability to catch them.
Alma turned away, but their laughter followed. Only after she reached the commotion of the merchants’ stalls did it finally subside. She welcomed the escape.
Indians crowded the tables, inspecting the wares. She stood on her tiptoes, craned her neck, and finally pushed into the crowd to see what lay for sale. Bolts of fleece and broadcloth. Checkered quilts and calico bonnets. Farther along, an assortment of beads. She lost Stewart, but went on. The arms merchant must be here. Fry pans, buckets, shovels, candles, oil lamps, soap, buttons. Hunks of salt pork surrounded by a swarm of flies. Someone stepped on the hem of her dress. Another elbowed good-naturedly past. More bolts of cloth. Saddles and harnesses. Plow blades and seeders. Nuns handing out wooden rosaries. A few stalls down, the Episcopals peddling prayer books.
Alma disentangled herself from the mob and watched from the periphery. Some bartered in English. Too much. Too high. Others pointed and shook their heads. They traded not only in coin, but also with animal pelts and jugs of maple syrup. She caught glimpses of other deals too—those conducted furtively beneath the tabletops. Flashes of silver exchanged for jars of tawny-brown liquid.
But no guns.
Perhaps the man who claimed to have sold to Asku wasn’t here.
A hand clasped about her arm. Alma jumped.
“Just me, darling,” Stewart said.
“I don’t see anyone selling firearms.”
“Technically, it’s illegal to sell guns to Indians living on the reservation. But I think I’ve found him.” Stewart nodded to a nearby table. Steadying herself against him, she rose onto her toes again and scanned the booth. A hodgepodge of hunting knives rested atop a worn velvet drape. Stacks of lead bars teetered beside a pyramid of cans. DUPONT GUNPOWDER, their labels read. The man behind the counter wore a collared shirt, yellowed from too many washes, under a buckskin jacket. A graying beard covered his face.
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