“Let me see my friends, please. Rose and Margaret, just one more time.”
A cruel smile spread across the woman’s face. “Why, don’t you know? It was Margaret who told your father of your wicked plans in the first place.”
All feeling left Alma’s limbs. That was impossible; Minowe would never tell. “You’re lying.”
“Even she could see you and that boy didn’t belong together.” Her mother strode out and slammed the door behind her.
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. She sank down onto her bed and stared at her wrinkled, dust-covered dress. After three days of wear, the layers of stockings and petticoats beneath her skirt clung stickily to her legs.
It was a lie. Her mother would say anything now to hurt her. She remembered the way Minowe had held her hand that first night in the woods when no one else wanted Alma to tag along, how they’d passed notes and whispered secrets during class and study hour, how they’d huddled close atop the roof and told stories of the stars.
And yet besides , Minowe was the only person who’d known of Alma’s plans to elope.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She crossed to her vanity and slurped down water from the washbowl. It tasted cold and stale and bitter with perfume.
No one else but Minowe had known. No one else could have told.
She splashed her face and let the water drip down her cheeks onto the collar of her dress. In the mirror, her face looked gaunt, her eyes a crosshatch of red, her lips pale and cracked.
Nindaangwe, her dearest friend, had betrayed her. Why? The water roiled in Alma’s stomach, threatening to rise. She thought back to the night she’d first confessed her love for to her friends. Even then Minowe had disapproved. Did she really care so much about the color of their skins? Did she really think telling Alma’s father would make it all go away?
Alma picked up the silver-handled brush beside the washbowl and threw it at the mirror. The glass cracked and splintered, distorting her reflection into that of a stranger, a monster, a Windigo, a ghost.
When Mr. Simms came to collect her for transport to the train station, Alma was too tired to resist. Nothing remained for her here anyway. The hallways of the great schoolhouse lay as empty as they had the first day she had skipped down them, waiting for the Indians to arrive. It was as if everything between that day and this one had been erased—the lessons she had learned, the friendships she had made, the love she had nurtured. She felt hollowed out, an empty shell that would soon weather to dust.
Her father watched her go from the doorway of his study. His beard was overgrown and the skin beneath his eyes blue and puffy. Several days of dirt and scuff marred his once-glossy boots. She met his stare, feeling her jaw tighten and fingers clench, even as her heart lurched. His glassy, reddened eyes were the first to look away.
She strode past him through the foyer to the front door. Her hand was on the doorknob when his voice stopped her. “Alma, I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I never intended for this to happen. Had you not taken things so far I . . .”
Behind her, the grandfather clock murmured through the seconds. The smell of roasting mutton and burnt coffee wafted from the kitchen. She even thought she heard the soft whisper of chalk against slate. Of course the schoolhouse was not empty as she’d imagined. Only she.
Her hand, still on the knob, twisted.
“Kitten, I’m—”
Without word or backward glance she opened the door and hurried to the landau. When at last she did look back, the school was only a red smudge through the tangle of trees.
Eventually the forest thinned and the road descended downward from the hills. Her heart pounded as the carriage reached the base of Grandfather’s Bluff. A rope still hung from the box elder’s branches, frayed at the bottom where noose and body had been cut free.
She sprang from the landau and rushed to the tree. Falling to her knees, she groped madly through the dirt and brittle grass. Not until her hand grazed the smooth beads of necklace did she realize what she sought. She grabbed hold of the broken strand of quill and beads just as Mr. Simms pulled her from the ground and back to the carriage.
CHAPTER 43
Minnesota, 1906
Not until she’d finished her story did Alma dare look up. Stewart stared at her with wide, flat eyes. Pallor had overtaken his cheeks and his mouth hung open like a broken hinge.
The silence pared her all the way to her bone.
After a moment, Stewart’s lips began to move, silently at first, then with the accompaniment of words. “But you weren’t . . . intimate with him.”
Tears dripped from her chin onto the collar of her dress. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. “We were.”
He stood and turned away from her. Both hands hung at his sides, one opening and closing, the other strangling the necklace.
“I’m so sorry I never told you. It happened long before we met. I love you and didn’t want you to think—”
His hand flew up and silenced her. “I need a moment. A moment to make sense of all this.” He stood like that, hand raised, fingers splayed as his watch ticked away in his waistcoat pocket. Each second dragged longer than the one before.
“Please, my love, you have to understand, I never meant to hurt you with any of this. When I read about Harry’s trial in the paper . . .” She thought back to Minowe’s words. “Some part of me believed that if I could save Askuwheteau, I’d be saving as well.”
He cocked his head in her direction and stared at her like a stranger. Then his red, vacant eyes clouded over with anger. “You lied to me. All these years.”
She flattened her hand over a sob.
“You fornicated with some Indian and then presented yourself to me unsullied.”
“That was your doing,” Alma cried. “You’d cast an image in your mind of who I was before you even met me. There was no room for who I really was.”
“Our entire marriage has been a farce.” He snapped the mended necklace and threw it to the floor. Black beads and porcupine quill rolled helter-skelter across the Oriental rug. He marched from the room, through the parlor, and tore his overcoat from the rack.
Alma hurried behind. “That’s not true! I love you.” Something cracked underfoot. She froze. Beneath her slipper lay a shattered porcupine quill.
A slamming door brought her head up. Stewart was gone.
* * *
Dawn broke gray and cold. From the hotel window, Alma watched the streetlamps flicker off. Newsboys staked out their corners and merchants unlocked their shops.
Stewart had not returned. Where and how he’d spent the night, Alma had no guess. With each passing hour, her chest squeezed tighter. Surely he would be back to dress for court. He hadn’t his shoulder bag or even hat and gloves.
She fled the window and paced the room, wringing her hands until they tingled from loss of blood. He hated her. He must. How could he not after all she had done?
With each turn through the parlor, she checked the polished oak clock atop the side table. Asku’s trial began at eleven. The hotel footman knocked with breakfast trays just after eight. The steaming coffee cooled, and the untouched toast grew stale. By nine, her entire viscera had wound itself into unending knots.
Whatever happened, she could not leave Asku alone. She unpinned the sagging remnants of yesterday’s coiffure with an unsteady hand and undressed. Wrinkles lined her skirt where it had bunched beneath her as she slept, kneeling on the floor, head resting on the couch, waiting for Stewart to return.
She laid a fresh outfit across the bed and stared down at it. A chill prickled her naked skin. She dressed slowly and with care, one layer of fabric at a time, buttons aligned, seams straight. She restyled her hair and pinned atop it a wide-brimmed hat. The clock in the parlor struck ten. With each chime, her heart rocked.
Stewart was not coming back.
Her eyes were spent of tears, but her breast trembled with dry, silent sobs. She forced herself toward the door. Halfway there, she stop
ped and glanced at his hat and gloves nestled atop the hall stand. Her fingers brushed the soft fur felt and kid leather. The scent of his Bay Rum aftershave still lingered in the air. She breathed in deeply and held the air in her lungs until they burned. By the time she returned from the trial, the smell would likely be vanished, his trunks packed and gone. She took another breath, a parting glance, and departed for the courthouse.
CHAPTER 44
Minnesota, 1906
Alma pushed her shoulders back and entered the courtroom. A smartly dressed man with a trim mustache lounged behind the prosecution’s table. Across the aisle sat Mr. Gates, shuffling through a stack of papers. The chair beside him—Stewart’s chair—was vacant. Her carriage sagged. The heavy mahogany door banged closed behind her and Mr. Gates turned around. Relief flashed across his face. He daubed his forehead with a hankie. Almost as quickly as it had come, his smile faded. He rose to his feet and craned his neck to see around her.
“Mrs. Mitchell,” he said when she sat down behind him in the gallery’s front row. “Is your husband not with you?”
Alma took a deep breath. “I came alone.”
“But . . . er . . . he is coming?” Mr. Gates tugged at his collar. “It’s quarter to eleven. I’m hardly prepared to introduce the evidence he found at White Ash myself.”
“White Earth.”
He looked at her blankly.
“The reservation.” She made no attempt to dull the edge in her voice. “Gaa-waabaabiganikaag, if you prefer.”
“Yes. Yes. Either way, what am I supposed to do with this?” He gestured to the jumble of documents strewn across the counsel table.
She glanced back at the door. Without Stewart, she’d have to fight for Asku herself. “Mr. Muskrat would like to change his plea to guilty.”
“Guilty?” He grabbed a fist full of papers. “Then what’s all this for?”
“We, that is, I thought it would help the case. I was wrong.”
“Mr. Mitchell seemed mighty convinced yesterday when he was explaining it all.”
“Mr. Muskrat is adamant.”
“What a mess!” He mopped the sweat from his lined brow and shook his head. “If we don’t submit this, we’ll look like fools. Your friend will hang.”
Alma gritted her teeth. “I’m well aware of the ramifications.”
“Judge Baum’s going to be furious.”
“You can’t ignore Mr. Muskrat’s wishes.”
“Clearly he’s not in a right state of mind.” Mr. Gates turned around and began shuffling again through the papers. “There’s got to be something we can use in here.”
Alma glared at the back of his head. He hadn’t read one page of the brief Stewart had prepared for the court. He didn’t care about this case, about Asku. All he’d seen when Stewart walked through his door was an opportunity to better his record.
Behind her, the courtroom door shuddered open. Both she and Mr. Gates swiveled around. Two men entered. The first was a portly man Alma did not recognize. He strutted down the aisle with the affected confidence of a mid-level bureaucrat. Agent Taylor walked beside him.
He flashed Alma a cocky grin and tipped his hat. “Mrs. Mitchell. Always a pleasure. This is Mr. Raton.” He motioned to the larger man. “Head of the Indian Office here in St. Paul.”
Alma nodded at the man but offered no pleasantries. She turned back to Agent Taylor. “White Earth’s quite a distance hence. With all your agency attends to—intimidation, usury, illegal land transfers—I’m surprised you had time to come.”
His smile held but his blue eyes darkened. “Just here to make sure justice is served.” He followed Mr. Raton into the bench behind the prosecution.
She looked down at her knotted hands, then up to the courtroom’s vaulted ceiling. Electric lights dangled down like globes on a gilded string. She hated these men—the lot of them—all profiteering at the Indians’ expense. It wasn’t just money, but lives—hers, Minowe’s, Asku’s. Her blood turned cold at the thought of his name. Could she really let her friend die? Warm air rose from the brass floor registers spaced about the room, but Alma pulled the lapels of her coat tightly together.
Just before eleven, the bailiff entered through a side door at the front of the room. Twelve men—all of them white—sauntered behind. Alma scrutinized their faces as they seated themselves in the jury box. Their expressions were a checkerboard of curiosity and indifference, broken by the occasional puritanical scowl. What qualified these men to pass judgment on her friend? Without intervention, Mr. Gates would blunder through the trial, cheapening Asku’s bravery with every step, robbing him of his self-determination. And these twelve men, their latent prejudice inflamed, would in turn rob him of his life.
The bailiff left the room and returned a few minutes later. Asku shuffled behind, the chains fettering his ankles scraping over the maple floor. Another set of shackles bound his wrists. His face was calm, but his hands clenched and unclenched as he walked. Alma bit down on her lip, her teeth unyielding even as she tasted blood. He wore the same gray trousers and dirty white shirt she had seen him in on both her visits to Fort Snelling. Why hadn’t she the presence of mind to bring him a change of clothes? She remembered his fastidious attention to dress. Even the cheap wool uniforms at Stover, sent in crates from the Indian Affairs Bureau, he had tended and worn with impeccable care.
He stared forward as he crossed the courtroom, eyes fixed on some distant point, never veering toward Alma or anyone else seated in the whispering audience. But she wanted him to look at her; wanted to let him know she finally understood. A guard walked beside him, his meaty hand tight around Asku’s arm, steering him toward the defendant’s table. She expected the guard to remove the chains once Asku reached his chair, but he did not. If she reached out, the tips of her fingers would brush Asku’s shoulder. Yet the gulf between them felt impossibly wide.
Before Asku could sit down, the judge entered the courtroom and everyone stood. Alma glanced once more at the door behind her. Her last spark of hope fled.
The judge lumbered to his bench. “Be seated, everyone.”
His surly expression was just as Alma remembered from their first encounter, as if the rutted brow and compressed lips were etched permanently on his face. He glowered at the docket, then glanced in the defense’s direction. “Where’s our esteemed counsel from Philadelphia? Not lost on the reservation, I hope?”
Mr. Gates rose to his feet. “He did return, Your Honor, but I’m afraid . . . um . . . If I could just ask for a brief recess—”
“Recess? After ten days’ continuance?” Judge Baum chuckled. “I think not. The trial will progress as scheduled.”
Mr. Gates groped for his chair and sat down. Asku watched with a tight expression. Then his gaze flickered askance to Alma. The weight of it crushed her. Shoulders held wide and chin raised—he sat proud, assured, defiant, just like the color-plate images of warriors of old. But his eyes, deadened as they were, still resembled those of the little boy who’d leapt from the wagon, the childhood friend she’d dearly loved.
“I call the court to order in the case of the United States versus Harry Muskrat. Prosecution, you may—”
Asku stood, his chains clanking. “Your Honor, I would like—”
The judge rapped his gavel upon the desk. “This isn’t a free-for-all, Mr. Muskrat. If you wish to address this court, you may do so from the witness stand.” His pinched gaze shot to Mr. Gates. “Control your client, counselor, or I’ll hold you both in contempt.”
“But Your Honor.” Alma was on her feet too, her hands throttled about her handbag. “The defense wishes to change—”
“Madam, you’re not entitled to address this court.”
Alma’s pulse beat in her ear. She pushed through the bar toward the bench. Mr. Gates grabbed her arm, but she shrugged him off. “And the defendant?” She gestured wildly at Asku. “Is he not entitled? You silenced him before he even began.”
“If you think I won’t throw a lady
out of my courtroom you’re mistaken, Mrs. Mitchell.”
She didn’t care. What more did she have to lose? Too long she’d been silent. “This man has been denied a voice—his true voice—all his life. I won’t let—”
“Bailiff!” the judge shouted.
Before the bailiff could move, the rear door burst open, swinging so wide it struck the wall behind it. The windows rattled in their frames and the dangling lamps swayed.
Stewart marched down the center aisle, still wearing yesterday’s eveningwear. “I beg the court’s forgiveness for my tardiness.” He passed through the bar and stood beside her.
Judge Baum scowled, his narrow eyes measuring every inch of Stewart’s appearance. “I don’t know how they do things in Philadelphia, but in the great city of St. Paul, court convenes on time, and we reserve full evening dress for the dining hall and ballroom.”
Her husband’s lips spread into a boyish grin. “Good thing I opted not to wear my top hat.”
The relief that had transformed Mr. Gates’s face upon Stewart’s arrival melted into wide-eyed horror at the pert remark. The bailiff chuckled into his fist.
Judge Baum flashed him a withering look, then glowered back at the defense. “Your wife is edging upon contempt, Mr. Mitchell.”
Stewart turned to her. Stubble covered his tired face. His hazel eyes were bloodshot. He blinked slowly and breathed a ragged sigh. The adoration she’d seen a million times was gone from his gaze. Yet in its place was forgiveness. Acceptance. A love less perfect but more true. He squeezed her hand and she returned to her seat.
“Good,” the judge said. “Now, if the interruptions will finally cease, the prosecution may deliver their opening statement.”
Stewart threw his overcoat on the back of his chair, but did not sit. “Actually, Your Honor . . .” His voice broke off. He glanced down at the spread of documents they had compiled at White Earth. The interviews and land deeds. The tale of treachery, corruption, and greed. His jaw muscles tightened and he swallowed. He glanced at Asku and regarded for the first time the man who’d set their journey in motion. “Aaniin.”
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