When the Indian in front of them stepped away, Stewart shouldered forward with unexpected pluck, pulling her along.
“You two stand out like bacon in beans,” the merchant said. “How can I help ya?”
“Are you Lawrence Filkins?” Stewart asked.
“That’s the name my mother gave me. Most people call me Larry.” He stuck out a grease-stained hand.
To her wonderment, Stewart didn’t hesitate, but took the man’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Pleasure to meet you, Larry. Did I see you here at the June fourteenth celebration?”
“I come out for all the gatherings.”
“To sell your wares?”
“Yep, don’t recall seeing you, though.”
Alma looked down, hiding her flushing cheeks beneath the wide brim of her hat. They hadn’t been here in June. What was Stewart playing at? A row of steel arrowheads caught her eye. How long since she’d shot a bow? It seemed like another lifetime altogether. The newly polished metal shone like snowflakes against the dark velvet coverlet. She reached out and stroked the cold steel.
“Careful, ma’am. Thems sharp.”
Alma pulled her hand away and forced her gaze back to the man’s weather-chapped face. “I know.”
“You . . . er . . . looking to buy arrowheads?”
“No,” said Stewart. “I’d like to buy a pistol.”
Alma feigned a cough to cover her surprise. Was this Stewart’s plan? He’d never told a lie in his life. Why not just come out and ask the man about Asku and the gun?
Larry’s eyes narrowed.
“You sell knives, percussion caps, lead for making bullets.” Stewart rattled a hand in his trouser pocket. Coins clinked and jangled. “Surely you sell guns.”
Several moments passed. Alma waited for Stewart to drop the ruse, but his earnest expression never cracked.
At last Larry said, “What type of pistol you looking to purchase?”
“What types do you have?”
Larry leaned forward to survey the surrounding crowd, then bent down and retrieved a bundle from beneath his stall. He unwrapped it atop the knives and arrowheads, revealing a small cache of revolvers.
“These here are pretty old. I’ve got a better store back in Bemidji—some of them new self-loaders. But you might like this .22 Rimfire or this Starr Single Action.”
Stewart picked up one of the guns. He spun the cylinder and squinted at the sight. The gray steel looked strange in his hands, at odds with the smooth kid leather of his gloves. Alma choked back nervous laughter. Had her husband ever even held a gun?
“What is this, a .44?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“What about a .38? I’m looking for a Colt Lightning model.”
Larry stroked his beard. “Had several of them a while back. Sold my last few over the summer. You don’t want that model nohow. Trigger mechanism’s a bit temperamental. How about this Colt Single Action?”
Stewart handed the gun butt-first back to him. “You do most of your business here on the reservation, Larry?”
He nodded. “Got my official trader’s license.”
“But you’re not licensed to sell guns.”
“Pardon?”
“Selling guns to Indians is illegal.” Stewart’s tone had changed from genial to icy.
Larry frowned and hastily bundled the revolvers. “I only sell to white folks like yourselves.”
“You told Sheriff Knudson you’d sold a Colt Lightning to Harry Muskrat at the June fourteenth celebration.”
“Can’t always tell if thems Indians or not. He spoke real slick English.”
“Yet you believe you could recognize him among a lineup of other Indians?”
“Course I could.”
Alma’s stomach fell, but Stewart pressed on. “And the other Colt Lightnings you sold over the summer? To whom did they go?”
Larry hid his cache back beneath the table. When he rose up, he squared his shoulders and glowered in their direction. “Just what are you getting at?”
Alma shuffled backward. Stewart did not move. “Nothing, Mr. Filkins. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll see you in St. Paul.”
Stewart clasped Alma’s elbow and steered her through the crowd. She fixed her face with a calm expression in case Mr. Filkins was eyeing their departure, but inside she felt gutted.
“That was dreadful,” she said, when they’d cleared the booths. “Do you think the prosecution will call him as a witness?”
“If they don’t, I will.”
“He can identify Harry,” she all but yelled.
Stewart faced her and took her hands. “He’s an illegal arms trader who just admitted he sold several guns of the same model that killed Agent Andrews on this reservation over the summer. Not only does that make him an unsympathetic witness, it widens the suspect pool.”
His step was jaunty as they continued on from the merchants while Alma’s feet were heavy, her insides entangled. She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Filkins. He was holding up a curved knife for a new customer, making skinning motions through the air. A knife made sense here on the reservation. A rifle, too. But a revolver? Why had Asku bought such a gun?
CHAPTER 20
Wisconsin, 1889
The wind blew unseasonably warm. An Indian summer, Alma had heard the townsfolk call it.
Hidden between rows of billowing sheets, she and her friends pushed back their sleeves and unbuttoned their tight collars. They hiked up their skirts, allowing the breeze to kiss their calves and ankles through their stockings. The earthy smell of browning grass and perishing leaves mingled with the crisp scent of soap. Calls and laughter rang from the yard beyond.
“Waú,” said. “How come the boys get to play their sports while we’re stuck doing chores?”
Alma let her head fall back and closed her eyes, relishing the sun’s warmth like a stolen gift. “Is it so different back home on the reservation?”
Minowe laughed. “Gaawesa. Not at all.”
Another rush of wind stole past. Alma’s dark silk dress drank in the heat, but this particular breeze, stealing over her sweat-dewed skin, hinted at the lurking autumn. A chill worked down her body. She opened her eyes and pulled a sheet down from the line.
and Minowe seemed in no hurry to return to their work. They pulled aside one of the hanging sheets and peered at the boys running about the yard.
said.
Minowe wrinkled her nose. “Handsome?”
“Ho. Frederick too,” said.
Minowe rose onto her tiptoes to see over shoulder. “Frederick looks like a spider, all arms and legs. Too . . . too . . . what do you call it, Azaadiins?”
“Gangly,” Alma said. Her friends laughed at the word.
“Gangly,” Minowe repeated.
Alma buried her face in the sheet she was folding to smother a laugh. “Beauty is more a feminine quality.”
“What mean I to say, then?”
Alma glanced beyond her friends at the pack of boys. In her estimation, Asku was more regal than handsome. He sat apart from the others, reading beneath the boughs of a tree, shoulders squared and back straight even in repose, dark eyes ever shrewd. She turned to the others. Frederick had grown so lanky he seemed to trip instead of walk. Walter looked more a boy yet than a man, his cheeks full and ruddy. Her gaze flickered to George, then quickly away. “Well-favored, that’s an expression you could use.”
The boys clumped around a large ball. Frederick tossed it to Walter, who then hurled it forward through the air. Dozens of arms shot up. George’s hand emerged above the rest, fingers splayed, sweat glinting off his skin. He grasped the ball and hugged it against his chest, then barreled through the crowd.
She’d welcomed his departure at the end of summer term when he returned home for the rice harvest. Though his disruptive antics had eased with time, she was ever on guard around him, her stomach tight and tongue ready. He’d made ready friends among the other Indians, making it impossible to avoid his c
ompany. Still, she never addressed him, never applauded his stories, never laughed at his tomfoolery.
His return for a second year of schooling had surprised her, though she knew better now than to assume his enrollment voluntary. He continued to sit at the front of the class, sequestered with second-year students half his age and a third his size, feigning illiteracy. Yet instead of balking at the charade, she felt a tug of admiration for his pluck. Three days into the new term, when a sparrow erupted from the flour tin, showering the kitchen in white and sending Mrs. Simms into hysterics, Alma caught herself smiling. When a screw came loose from the classroom furnace, causing the pipe to rattle with every breeze, Alma swallowed a chuckle.
Now, she watched him fight his way through the cluster of boys. He had grown nearly as tall as Frederick, but his shoulders were much broader, his arms ripe with muscle. She’d spent a year glaring in his direction, but never really noticed the exuberance of his smile, the way his cheekbones sharpened his face, the contrast between his burnt-sugar skin and midnight-black hair.
Alma’s fingers drifted to the nape of her neck, winding about strands of hair that had broken free from her chignon. “You could also say comely, dapper, pleasing to behold . . .” The sound of her trailing voice, suddenly deep and breathy, made her straighten. She looked away and busied herself with another sheet. So what if he was—well—all those things? She spread her arms and pulled the linen taut, continuing to shake the fabric long after the wrinkles had fallen out, as if the action might jog her senses.
grabbed the far end of the sheet and brought the corners together. “What about you, Alma?”
Her head snapped up while her stomach plummeted into her knees. “What about me?”
Her friend tugged the sheet. “Aren’t there any boys from La Crosse you fancy?”
Alma grabbed the corners of the sheet from Hoga and finished folding it herself, drawing out the silence as she smoothed out the fabric and arranged it in a perfect square.
Minowe nudged her and giggled. “What about that blond boy from town?”
“You mean Edward Steele?” She tried to keep her voice light, casual, but it was impossible not to smile when she said his name.
snorted. “We heard about your last call at the Steeles’ for days. Edward said this. Edward did that.”
Minowe clutched her breast. “Oh, Edward!”
Alma bunched up a pillowcase and threw it at her. They all laughed.
It was true. He was always the highlight of her visits. The elder Mr. Steele owned the largest lumber mill in La Crosse. They were New Money, but had more than enough of it for her mother to overlook their undistinguished pedigree. Edward had inherited his father’s strong features and his mother’s fair coloring. He was confident and witty and ever in good form. Alma leaned against the clothesline crossbeam and looked up at the azure sky. True, there was haughtiness to his demeanor. He berated the maids and talked ill of the cook staff. Every conversation circled round to his latest hunt or billiard match. But he had more than enough good qualities to make up for that; she was sure.
Minowe sat down on a wicker basket piled with folded laundry, and reclined against the opposite pole. Enough sheets still hung around them that Alma dared lift her dress and petticoats a few inches above her ankles again. They made sense together, she and Edward. A suitable match, as her mother would say. Everyone had imperfections.
An egg-shaped ball covered in strips of worn leather flew through a narrow break in the sheets. It struck the ground and bounced to a stop at Alma’s feet. George barreled through the sheets after it, stopping short when he saw the girls.
Alma gasped at the intrusion and pushed down her skirts. Her fingers fumbled to button her collar. “Can’t you keep your horseplay away from our work?”
George smiled a crooked smile. His steady gaze unnerved her. “You hardly appears to be working.”
Minowe and Hoga giggled, but Alma scowled. She reared back and kicked the ball straight at him. George ducked. It soared just over his head and above the laundry line, arching downward into the yard beyond.
He swiveled his head to follow its trajectory, then turned back to Alma. “Bully, you should join on the team.”
“I thought we palefaces were forbidden from your practices.”
Usually he grimaced when she used Menominee words. So, of course, she did so at every chance. This time, however, his mischievous smile did not falter. “It’s a game.”
A white man’s game? Alma had never seen it played before. “And yet you deign to participate?”
George shrugged. His dirt-streaked shirt clung sweaty to his chest. “Not so much fun as , but Mr. Simms took all our sticks.”
Alma covered her mouth and feigned a yawn, but George continued, shifting his gaze to her more enrapt companions. “Football, they call it. They’re playing it all over—even at Carlisle. How can big chief Blanchard object?”
Minowe’s cheeks had taken on a pink glow. She leaned forward as if the conversation were somehow interesting. Alma noticed she’d not bothered with her top two buttons, leaving the delicate curve of her collarbone plain to view. “Where did you get the ball?”
“Mrs. Simms.”
“Poppycock,” Alma said. “She hates your silly games as much as we do.”
He turned back to her with a glint in his eye. “It’s true. Frederick asked her to set aside . . . what’s the word . . .” He tapped his finger against his lips in mock concentration.
Alma rolled her eyes.
“Pig’s bladder. That’s the word.”
Her stomach turned. She wiped the tip of her boot in the brown brittle grass.
“Sure you don’t want to play, Miss Alma?” he said with a laugh.
She tried to fashion her usual sneer, but managed only a half-hearted frown. Turning her back to him, she yanked another sheet off the line. Insolent boy. A constant burr inside her stocking. Yet she found her ears straining to catch his voice amid the clamor of the game, found her eyes drifting toward the playing field. Only because she hated him, of course. Only because she hoped he’d stay away.
CHAPTER 21
Wisconsin, 1889
“Can I turn around yet, Mother?”
“Be still while I finish with these buttons.”
But Alma couldn’t. Her heels danced. Her knees bounced. Her fingers played amid the silk flounces cascading about her hips. Her mother had laced her corset so tight that Alma managed only shallow inhales. A wink of cleavage showed above her collar. She tugged down on the lace, only to have her mother reach around and yank the frilly décolletage up again. “If you’d stopped fidgeting, I’d be done by now.”
It took all Alma’s will, but she stilled and glanced out the window. Outside, the snow cover sparkled orange in the setting sunlight. They mustn’t be late. She couldn’t bear to miss a single dance.
“There. Turn around.”
Alma spun around and looked in the oblong mirror above her mother’s vanity. A smile blossomed across her reflection. She ran her hands down the smooth bodice of her dress and swished her heavy skirt. The silk danced and rippled, flashing from soft rose to shiny gold in the lamplight.
Her mother gave the bustle a final fluff and her steel-blue eyes softened with approval. “Parfait.” She retrieved a small bottle from the vanity and removed its crystal stopper. A bouquet of rosewood and lilac bloomed in the air. She dabbed Alma’s neck with a few drops of oil. “You mustn’t let any gentleman sign your dance card more than twice.”
Alma fingered her pearl necklace, still lost in her reflection. “Mm-hmm.”
“Save a dance for Mayor Donelson’s nephew, Mr. Ellis. He runs his own iron factory in Milwaukee, you know.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, the mayor’s nephew.” She tore free from the mirror and hurried to her room.
Her mother followed, hovering like a mosquito, fussing over this ribbon or that bit of lace, her voice a constant buzz. “Avoid lingering by the refreshment table, someone’s bound to spill
punch on your dress. . . .”
Alma collected her gloves, fan, and reticule. A splash of primrose in the small, handheld mirror atop her desk made her stop and admire her dress anew. Edward would be there tonight. Would he ask for a dance? Her stomach thrilled at the thought.
Laughter rang down the hallway followed by echoes of her friends’ voices. She spun toward the lighthearted sound and found her mother still standing in the doorway. “One more thing, dear.” Her face was drawn, her eyes once again chilly. “I know you fancy the Indians your friends. Such . . . associations cannot be helped here at Stover, but there’s no need to appear overly familiar. Certainly not on occasions such as tonight.”
“Ignore them, is that what you’re suggesting? Pretend we came by separate carriages? They are my friends, Mother, and I—”
“You’re a young woman now, Alma. You must exemplify taste and circumspection in your acquaintanceships. Indians do not fit within those parameters.”
Alma frowned. “Says who?”
“I don’t say these things to hurt you, dear. I just . . .” She straightened Alma’s pearls. Her voice was unusually husky. “I had to settle. I don’t want that for you.”
Alma swallowed her brusque reply. A twinge of sympathy surged as she watched her mother glide away to collect her own adornments. Never before had she imagined her mother as a young girl—beautiful, rich, and full of hope. She’d seen the embossed dance cards tucked away between layers of tissue paper in her mother’s closet. Every dance spoken for. At what point had she settled? Marrying her father? Coming here to found Stover? Somehow it was hard to picture her—even at sixteen as Alma was now—carefree and gay.
Sleigh bells sounded from the front yard, pulling her from such weighty thoughts. Alma grabbed her fur-trimmed coat and hurried to the stairs. The younger Indians—those too small to attend the ball—huddled on the landing, peeking between the rungs of the banister. Confusion and awe played across their shadowed faces. Alma knelt among them and admired the spectacle below.
Between Earth and Sky Page 14