by Jonis Agee
The sound of hurried boots on the porch brought both men’s attention to the kitchen door as Hayward burst through, already trying to assume an authority that sat poorly on his face and shoulders. There was something there, though, a worried expression that flitted across his eyes behind the defiance.
“What do you want?” He stood beside the door, arms folded, leaning stiffly against the wall.
Drum studied the boy he rarely saw. J.B. hadn’t the heart to make a man out of him. Though he and Cullen were brothers, four years apart, this one was a waste of good food. Drum thought briefly of taking him home, too, then stopped. He was already ruint. Fancy shirt, trousers, even his boots showed little wear. Kid had those dark circles under his eyes and pale skin from doing more night work than day jobs.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Drum asked.
“What’s it to you, old man?” The kid actually sneered and Drum was on him, slapped his face so hard his head banged against the wall. As soon as the boy started for him, Drum slapped him on the other side just as hard, and watched with pleasure as the pale skin flamed with his fingerprints and the kid shook his head to clear it.
When Hayward started for him again, Drum balled his fist and bent his knees, but Higgs caught his arm before he could throw the punch that would’ve broken the boy’s nose.
“Let him be,” Higgs warned.
“I’ll get you!” With tears in his eyes, Hayward glared at his grandfather, turned and yanked open the door, and ran outside.
Drum snorted in laughter. “Kid’s got some gristle after all.”
“He just lost his father,” Vera said in a voice that let him know he’d stepped over the line. The image of the fleeing doughnuts made Drum a little sorry.
“Can’t baby a half-grown boy, make a bottle calf out of him.” He grabbed his hat and put it on, gave the brim a yank, and moved the slide up the stampede strap to his chin. Damn wind always blowing in the hills, trying to take a man’s hat and his thoughts both.
“I’ll be sending a man over in the morning to inventory the place before I decide who to keep on.” He glanced around the kitchen once more. It might work out that he would move over here, run the combined ranches from the more comfortable place, let the boys have the run of the other house, which was so rough they couldn’t do more damage if they tried.
“I don’t think so,” Higgs said.
“What?” Drum tilted his head like he hadn’t heard right.
“You’re not sending anyone over here.” Higgs straightened his shoulders and raised his head so his four extra inches seemed to grow.
Drum chuckled and shook his head. He’d have to fire him now.
“J.B. left a will. Copy’s with the lawyer in Babylon.”
Drum’s stomach churned unpleasantly and sent painful acid-laced food into his mouth. He swallowed and scowled at the other man. “What’s it say?”
“Wife and boys.” Higgs fought the faint expression of amusement in the corners of his mouth. “She’s to look after the youngster, and Cullen takes over running the ranch.”
Drum’s skin prickled cold. “He did that. Left those no-count boys and a runaway wife . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” He knew they hadn’t seen eye to eye on things, but to leave it all outside the family this way. Was he drinking? Drum felt the flush of anger move up his legs, spread through his torso and along his arms, and threaten to choke off his breath. He fought to keep it from flooding his brain, making him do things he’d regret. He had to get out of here, go home, and consider his next steps carefully, away from Higgs’s prying eyes.
He pulled open the door and hurried outside, passing Cullen, who lounged against the fence post bordering the yard. “Let’s go,” Drum ordered.
“Cullen.” From the doorway Higgs said the boy’s name loud enough that Drum glared at him. “You want to come inside a minute, son? I got something to tell you.”
“Come on, damn it.” Drum jerked his horse’s reins loose from the hitching rail. Used to his master’s impatience, the big spotted gelding stood, iron jawed and unblinking as the man tightened the cinch with short, hard pulls.
“I’m gonna see what he wants,” Cullen said, already halfway up the steps to the house.
“Get back here!” Drum raised his quirt as if he could strike the boy from that distance, and the horse shied, aware that it might be the recipient of the blow. Cullen sneered at him and disappeared into the house, letting the door slam loud enough to spook the spotted horse.
“Hold still, you ignorant son of a bitch.” Although his words were rage filled, Drum kept his voice and body quiet so the horse wouldn’t shy and buck away. How was it that nobody was listening to him today? “I’ll settle with that boy later,” he muttered, all the while wondering whether it wasn’t a little late for that now that Cullen was taller, faster, and meaner than his grandfather. Those days of beating sense into the boy were over. Now it was time to see what took and what didn’t. The cussedness of J.B. giving the ranch over about knocked Drum off his horse. The wife would want to sell it, and Drum would have to come up with ready cash he didn’t have unless he raided his gold stash again, and that was a dangerous proposition. Why couldn’t his son have just died and let his father take over? They never had a need for lawyers and such. No high-falutin judge had ever put his thieving fingers in the family business and come out rich. Not until now. Next thing he knew, that damn wife of J.B.’s would sneak back and lay claim to everything. His threats wouldn’t hold much water now with J.B. gone. A thought crossed his mind that made him so uncomfortable he shook his head and cursed. He hoped to God he didn’t have to sink so low as to kill a woman.
“Damn you, son, what the hell were you thinking? How’d you go and get yourself shot anyways?” Drum put the horse into its running walk, the one that ate miles as if they were inches and stayed easy on his back.
It dawned on him slowly, spreading a smile across his face even as the horse sidestepped to avoid a prairie dog hole. He settled his seat again and gave the animal its head. Yes, Higgs would need his help convincing the men. No reason a man shouldn’t go and help his grandsons and his son’s widow. One thing continued to bother him during the ride home, though: Why was J.B. so unforgiving about his taking Cullen to be raised? Drum had gotten over it, as he guessed his own father had. It was what they did with first sons, took them to be raised right, like the old Greeks, the Spartans, so they’d grow to be men who could last, men who’d stand in a fight. Drum remembered his own cousins, how shiftless they turned out, running off to fight for the wrong side in the war, getting themselves kilt with a bunch of border raiders in Missouri. Drum’s great-grandfather drank himself into steady decline until he swole up like a pillow, turned yellow, and died in the front porch rocker his father had made when their people first came to the Missouri Ozarks. It was Drum who pushed west to the Sand Hills of Nebraska and used his gold to buy as much land as he could before anyone else found out about the place.
Drum stopped at the windmill that marked the end of J.B.’s land and the beginning of his, where his son had been murdered. The cattle had trampled the grass into sand, and only the water tank kept the place from blowing out. The wind was a low, steady hum in his ears, but he could still make out the bellering of a cow to her calf beyond the nearest hill. His horse pricked up its ears and snorted, shifting its weight back and forth between its front legs. Drum lifted the reins and the horse broke into a lope, heading for the noise.
While the rest of the herd grazed their way up the next hill, a brown-and-white cow paced frantically in front of a small blowout, where her calf churned its legs in a futile attempt to stand on the dissolving surface. The calf’s sides were heaving wet and its tongue hung outside its mouth, but it wouldn’t give up. Drum hoped the cow wouldn’t charge him as a threat to her baby. He untied his rope, built a loop, and edged the horse closer. But as soon as the rope settled around the calf’s neck, the cow charged his horse, butting him with
her head so hard the horse lost its balance and went down, rolling on Drum’s leg before he could free himself from the stirrups. The cow ducked away and stared at the spectacle from some distance while the calf on the end of the taut line, still fastened to the saddle, fought the rope cutting off its breath.
Drum’s leg was numb as the horse lay on top of him, and for a moment he was content to stay there, not wanting to know what lay beneath the numbness. Then he swore and slapped the horse’s neck. “Get off me!” It rolled onto its belly, propped its front legs straight, and raised its hind end with a big lurch. When it was on its feet again, it gave a whole-body shake like a dog and looked down at its rider, who had managed to slip his boot out of the stirrup just in time.
“Hold on. I’m coming.” Drum sat and looked at his boot toe turned unnaturally inward. Then the pain swept up his leg and nearly flattened him.
“Damn it all to hell!” He began a long string of curses at the broken ankle. The cow started bellering again, drawing his attention to the calf choking to death on the end of the rope the horse pulled taut as it had been trained to do but wouldn’t half the time. Now, of course, the damn jughead decided to do as it was told.
Drum searched for something to use as a crutch, but without trees in the hills, there weren’t any fallen limbs or sticks. He considered the tall dried stems of the soapweed around him, but they wouldn’t hold his weight, and he couldn’t afford another fall.
The cow pawed the ground like she meant to charge the horse and man again. Drum struggled to drag his pistol from the holster he wore on rides into the hills. He’d shoot her if she tried to pull another stunt like that.
“Get away!” he shouted at her and waved his arms. The horse rolled its eye and tossed its head. “Not you, you damn fool,” he crooned to the horse. He wanted to put a bullet in him, too. “Ease up, now, easy,” he coaxed. The horse miraculously obeyed, and stepped forward to slacken the rope.
Drum’s next maneuver was the real test. He tucked the shooting pain from his foot in a corner of his jaw, like a plug of stale tobacco, and dragged himself to the horse with a steady stream of words so the animal kept its mind on business. As soon as he was under the stirrup, he pulled himself upright, almost falling down again when his foot accidentally swept the resistance of the grass and new pain roared up his leg and burst in his head. But he fought it, as his grandfather had trained him to do with repeated beatings. “Don’t you show a thing,” he muttered.
“Whoa now, son, steady.” He talked his way around the horse, used the animal’s body, tail, and saddle to stand upright until he was on the far side and could mount using his good foot. He swung the bad foot over the horse’s rump, miscalculated, and grazed it, nearly knocking himself off the saddle. He had little control of the broken foot, and could only rest it near the stirrup, knowing the heavy wood would bang the broken bones with every stride.
Even though it was a mild day, his shirt was wet and sweat ran into his eyes. He removed his hat, which had miraculously stayed put, and wiped his face on his sleeve.
Lifting the reins, he backed the horse, tightening the rope and slowly dragging the calf out of the sand bog, but he couldn’t jump down to remove the line. He felt on his belt for his knife. Fortunately, it hadn’t slipped from its sheath. He nudged the horse as close to the calf as he could, and kept an eye on the cow, who again pawed the ground. He was half-inclined to shoot her and be done with it, but then he’d lose two animals instead of one—he was in no shape to carry a motherless calf back to the barn to put it on the bottle. The horse tilted its head and rolled its eyes at the cow and danced lightly in place, ready to launch if she moved.
“Hold still, damn it.” Drum gathered as much rope as he could into loops until the calf was just below his stirrup, then he slashed the line, leaving the calf with a collar of about three feet. With any luck, it would fall off or he could send someone out to fix it. Now, the question was, could he make the three-hour ride to his place? The foot was starting to throb like a son of a bitch. He wished he’d cut his boot before he mounted but a man hated to ruin something still of use. He looked over his shoulder at the thin path he’d just trod between the two ranches. Maybe there was something he could salvage here, he thought, and turned his horse back toward J.B.’s place. He should be there when that damn woman showed up throwing all kinds of fit.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dulcinea Bennett closed Grimm’s Fairy Tales and smiled at the boys and girls sitting stiffly at attention at the wooden desks before her. A few wore fearful expressions as the result of one story after another in which mothers and fathers betrayed their children, or acted foolishly and lost them. The animals weren’t much better. She hated these stories. As she looked across the room, her eye caught on Lily, Rose’s daughter, whose small round face was filled with enthusiasm as she raised her hand, something that almost never happened among the Indian children at the Rosebud Reservation school.
Lily burst out, unable to contain herself. “Our spider is smarter than the one living with the flea in your story, Mrs. Bennett. Iktomi is powerful. He does things backwards to fool you. He can trick you, too.”
The other children glanced nervously at each other. The use of Lakota language was forbidden, and they must never speak of their old ways. Willow, a tall, reedy girl with bowed legs, leaned over and whispered to Lily, who blushed and dropped her eyes.
“What a wonderful creature! Can you tell me about any others?” Dulcinea glanced at Crooked Tail, seated next to last in the row by the door. He opened and closed his mouth indecisively, and his hand fluttered at his shoulder. When she nodded at him, he spoke so softly she had to move closer to hear.
“Rabbit Boy. Hero,” he said, his hand collapsing on the desk with a soft thump.
“Wagnuka, red-headed woodpecker,” Sarah Sweetwater said. Dulcinea looked at the girl seated across from Crooked Tail. She had spent the entire year in silence, but now spoke clearly and confidently. Her large eyes made her thin face seem narrow and she kept her lips closed to hide the fact that her baby teeth had never fallen out and now crowded her larger ones. Her cousin, Lost Bird, had been adopted or bought by General Colby after Wounded Knee, depending on which story one believed. She was taken to Colby’s home in Beatrice, Nebraska, and raised by a white family. Sarah’s aunt never recovered from the shock of the killings at Wounded Knee or losing the child. This past summer, Mrs. Colby tried to enroll her adopted daughter with the Cheyenne River Agency for full tribal rights, including an allotment of land.
“Don’t forget kangi the crow and the turtle keya,” Billy Blue Horse said in his distinct high, clipped voice.
“Ptan and capa,” a voice called out. It was the tiny, sickly Otter girl who sat in the front, as far from the windows as possible to stay warm. Dulcinea turned and smiled at her, and the girl said, “Wakan Tanka,” in an awed whisper, her face alight as she glanced shyly at the other children, who grew quiet, caution in their eyes. A couple of the oldest watched for Dulcinea’s reaction. She had heard the words before and knew they were sacred, a reference to the great mystery, the creating power of the Lakota people. She closed her eyes and nodded.
An angry male voice said, “Hestovatohkeo’o.” It was Stone Road, a fourteen-year-old who was held back for not learning his numbers and letters. He spent most days locked in the cloakroom or working in the kitchen, punishment for using Lakota or practicing his religion. The Indian agent had tried punishing the families of children like him by withholding food allocations and other supplies, but in his case it did no good. This was his last year in school. He was one of the children Dulcinea had tried to reach, to tutor privately, but it didn’t work. In a way, she was relieved he wouldn’t return in the fall.
“And who is that?” she asked in a tired voice.
“Double Face. The second one grows on the back of his head. Make eye contact, you die!” The boy smiled and opened his hands while the other children shifted uncomfortably and whispered to each other.
“Your fairy tales have anyone that powerful?” he demanded.
She was about to answer, then closed her mouth and looked at her students—dressed in plain cotton clothing, hair shorn, lacking ornament as if they had taken the vows of a strict Christian order—and shook her head. It was self-evident who had the power here. She recalled the supervisor’s warning last fall. She was hired to introduce them to white culture and teach them to be of service in white families.
“By six and seven, Indian children have stopped playing with toys and are considered adults, working as hard as any grown person. They don’t need coddling. Teach them how to be good citizens, how to follow rules, and about the consequences of poor decisions. And let’s hope they go home and teach their families so we stop having all this trouble.” The supervisor had looked out the window of the classroom at the bleak sweep of rolling hills nearly devoid of trees, with only the tall grasses and the empty mindless blue sky to relieve the eye. He wasn’t a bad man. Dulcinea had heard him called saintly for his Christian convictions. He had fought to keep the school open when whites wanted to empty the reservations after Wounded Knee. He’d ordered the doors locked during those dangerous times, and the children were unable to join their families at the Ghost Dance. Although he was praised, Dulcinea wondered at his strategy. She’d worked at the school for a year now, and suspected that much of what she was asked to teach the children was useless or worse.
She glanced at the gray walls neatly lined with pictures of happy white children playing with farm animals, baking cookies with their mother, decorating a Christmas tree, ironically drawing turkeys and Indians for Thanksgiving—calendar pictures from previous years. She had been instructed not to allow the students to express their tribal culture with Lakota language or customs, and under no circumstances to celebrate their primitive rituals or display their drawings or handicrafts unless they reflected white culture. It was a ridiculous order, and she spent the year afraid to violate it. Now, in ten minutes’ time she had undone the year, and felt relieved. It was the last day of school and she could feel the rising impatience in her charges, who sat twitching like horses under the burden of required stillness. When they returned in the fall, they would struggle to refrain from smiling, to maintain blank faces, and she would once again feel the weight of their obedience. Her friend Rose often hinted at the richness of Lakota life but was hesitant to reveal much. Dulcinea suspected that Rose met with the students secretly to share news of home and their culture. She had no real proof, though, except for Stone Road.