The Bones of Paradise

by Jonis Agee

  Cullen slowly released his breath and straightened to stand eye to eye with the older man. “I been beat so hard I couldn’t walk, you think a couple little slaps mean anything? These hills are big, lonesome country—you better ride loose from now on. And you interfere with me and my mother again, I’ll kill you on the spot.” Graver could see tears in the boy’s eyes.

  “Anything I can do for you folks?” The sheriff leaned against the wall of the Emporium, watching them.

  Mrs. Bennett hesitated, then stepped down from the gray and handed the reins to Graver. “I need to speak with you,” she said, and the sheriff nodded toward his office a few doors away.

  “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up,” she called back to Rose and Jerome Some Horses. “Boys, you go on, too.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Although she didn’t ask Graver to wait, he did, as he attempted to puzzle out where he’d seen that lawyer before. Then he remembered the December day ten years ago when he’d gone up to Wounded Knee, hitching a ride with a wagonload of whiskey for the extra troops, who arrived so quickly they outran their supplies, especially nonessentials like liquor. The merchants in Rushville had telegraphed an urgent order to Babylon and John Parker had decided to take matters into his own hands. His plan was to drive all the way to Wounded Knee and sell directly to the troops. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision on Graver’s part. One moment he was listening to the talk in the livery stable, where he’d come to have a broken wagon wheel repaired by the blacksmith, the next he was helping Parker heft the barrels and bottles of whiskey on the wagon and climbing up beside him.

  The ride there was bitter cold, and the wind bit into his face and through his coat. He and his bride had just moved into the hills, and it felt like a fine adventure to finally see an Indian encampment and the soldiers he’d heard so much about. His wife was safe; he’d kissed her good-bye and left her in a room at the hotel with a book and plenty of blankets against the cold. He’d also left her with the last of their cash in case she needed anything. Even then, he shook his head at his ignorance. She was seventeen. Of course her eye would be taken by the bright playthings the stores displayed.

  They arrived just after dark, pulling behind the last row of tents so as not to attract the attention of the officers. The sentries let them through as soon as Parker revealed the wagon’s contents, and word quickly spread through the enlisted ranks. For a few hours, they did a land-office business, and by nine o’clock they were rolling out blankets in the bed of the empty wagon. Parker had saved one bottle for himself, and Graver took a couple of quick swallows to warm his empty stomach. By the time he drifted off to sleep, the drunken noise of the camp had grown so loud it formed a disturbing barricade that brought bad dreams and little rest.

  He awoke at dawn to find his blankets and hair coated with heavy frost. Parker shook himself off and climbed down to piss. Graver followed, shaking in the damp cold that had settled in his clothes. Parker tilted his head toward the cooking fires and the two men were able to find coffee and plates of bacon and beans without much trouble, even though the soldiers, holding their swollen, battered faces in their hands as they fought hangovers, were less than eager to see them again. Graver could feel the ill will and short tempers ooze around the camp like a yellow pestilent cloud. Then the Indian drums began to pound and the heads of the men near them jerked up, eyes wild.

  “Are they comin’?” one soldier whispered as he reached for the rifle on the ground beside him.

  Another soldier stood and brought his telescope to his eyes. “Just dancing.” He sat down hard, as if his legs gave out.

  “They’re comin’,” said the first soldier, who stood and cocked his rifle, his face covered in greasy sweat, a sour stink rolling off him in waves.

  Parker stabbed his fork into another piece of bacon and jammed it in his mouth, then stood, placing his metal plate in a pile with the others. “Let’s take a look before we go.” He nodded toward the small valley where the tipis had been hastily rigged. The camp was alive with playing children, romping dogs, and figures collecting at the dance site, the drummers gathering on the circle.

  Behind them a bugle sounded and the hungover men clumsily prepared arms. The Indians seemed to ignore the soldiers, although Graver noticed some officers in conversation with a couple of their elders, while their few young men acted guard, pacing nervously behind them.

  This went on for a while until the young men went back to their tipis, retrieved their old guns and pistols, and dropped them at the feet of the colonel in charge. The steady drumbeat and pulsing rhythm found its way into Graver’s body—thud, thud, thud, the sound pumped in his blood, up his legs, into his chest, down his arms, and inside his head, knocked against his skull and the backs of his eyes until he felt both restless and lulled. The din of the soldiers behind them grew louder, and the young braves standing guard paced, keeping one eye on the soldiers. Graver saw the big Hotchkiss cannons wheeled into place on the rise above the camp. Surely they didn’t mean to . . .

  A dancer threw back his head, chanting in Lakota, and tossed a handful of dirt to the sky. Then a rifle fired. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then all at once every gun roared in reply. Parker pulled him flat and they watched as the cavalry fought the Indians. The big guns mowed down dancers, tipis, children, dogs, old people, and women alike. At some point Graver clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Behind him, he could hear soldiers hit by gunfire cry out.

  When the Hotchkiss guns finally went silent, Graver rose to his hands and knees, looked out across what was left of the camp, now strewn with bodies and burning tipis, and threw up. Parker stood, his expression dazed. He shook his head, made a sound of disgust in his throat, spit, and turned away. “I’ve had enough. You coming?”

  Graver paused, uncertain, and then followed. They didn’t speak all the way to Rushville, where they were forced to spend the night because Parker had driven the horses too hard the night before.

  They bedded in the livery, since it was already snowing. The New Year coming, and his wife alone. At the time, Graver had no idea that night was only the start of the disappointment that awaited her in married life. Warm at last, nestled in the straw of the loft, he couldn’t stop replaying the morning’s bloody images, and finally he rose and walked down the street to the hotel. Although it was coming on midnight, the town was awake with dangerous energy like they rode an electrical current that would never release them. He could hear men swearing and fighting up and down the street. Whatever they had done up there, he was sure they would never be free of it.

  At the hotel saloon he stood at the bar and ordered a beer. The stranger next to him turned and raised his glass in a toast. Graver stared at the man, tall, blond, and handsome with unearned amusement in his eyes, like he had won some game without having to play too hard. His lips were pursed as if he held in outright laughter and Graver’s first instinct was to punch him in the face. The man dropped something on the bar and Graver stared at a pair of child’s moccasins, beaded, the bottoms barely worn. He raised his eyes to the stranger, who shrugged and drank from his glass of whiskey.

  “You there today? Thought I saw you there. Yes, you were the one brought the whiskey to the troops.” The man nodded and a conspirator’s smile, small and confident, appeared on his face.

  Graver thought to deny that it was his liquor, then said nothing and looked at his beer. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want the man to say another word.

  “We were lucky to be there. Spectacular show. Never saw anything like it. Especially afterwards . . . some wonderful pieces to be had . . . I found these on a young girl.” He spread his palm over the moccasins.

  Graver lifted his fist, then dropped it, turned, and walked out. The man’s smug laughter followed him all the way into sleep when it finally arrived around dawn. The memory still chilled him, made him feel as if he had somehow used a gun on those people, too.

  The lawyer, Percival Chance, was
the man in the bar, Graver was certain. He would never forget the amused expression on the man’s face as he gestured toward his trophy.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As soon as she reached the end of the block, Rose turned the uncooperative horses and circled behind the Emporium. Tying them to the rail, she eased around to the back door, the one Indians were forced to use. White people paid little attention to the comings and goings back here. She pulled the door open slowly so it didn’t squeak and let it settle behind her without latching.

  The storeroom was in twilight compared to the next room, and she took her time, gazing around at the bags of flour, sugar, and coffee alongside barrels that held whiskey and pickles. She had never understood pickles, and she hated whiskey. She was of half a mind to stick her skinning knife in the barrels to release their contents, but had more important things to do. She edged to the door and peered into the main room, where Smith hustled up and down aisles waiting on white customers, too cheap to hire help. She could do it, she knew every item in the store, where it was, and what it cost. She’d spent that much time studying what she couldn’t afford. If he caught her now, he might ban them forever. As it was, they were only allowed in on Mondays and Thursdays, never the weekends when most ranch families came to town. And they had to be gone from town by five P.M.

  She thought of pulling her shirt over her head and half covering her face, knowing that it wouldn’t make her invisible to others, that it would only make her feel better. In fact, it might make her more distinct. She took a deep breath and edged into the main room, eyeing Smith as she ducked behind the counter.

  A yellow-haired white woman in a plain white cotton dress filled the aisle ahead, speaking over her shoulder to the storekeeper as she shook out a remnant of gingham cloth. “I want something original, handmade. I’m surprised you have nothing made by Indians here. Surely you can put them to work beading and sewing. Why in Denver, I visited the most wonderful store full of Indian crafts.”

  The yellow-haired woman wanted to buy a headdress, a pair of moccasins, a quilled or beaded medicine bag. She only wanted handmade. Rose imagined more women like her collecting tribal goods for their houses, putting her people on display as curiosities. These people stuffed the animals they killed, and would stuff Indians too if they could. Although whites thought her slow-witted, Rose was known as a wise woman on the reservation, one who could read English on her own. She’d read all the contracts her people had made with the U.S. government. She spoke with the tribal elders about the laws that changed constantly, and the ways the government cheated them out of their allotted land and food. But none of that mattered after Star was found murdered. Now she had one job: to find the man who had killed two women in her family. From what Star had said that last day at the trading post in Mission, Rose believed she had found him. Then she was killed on Bennett land. Rose knew the answers were out there, and hoped, for Dulcinea’s sake, that it wasn’t J. B. Bennett or her boys. She planned to take her revenge. No counting coups this time.

  Rose searched the shelves under the counter. She had to hurry before Smith came back for the shawl and belt to show the white woman. She hoped he hadn’t the time to put it away in his storeroom. She’d made the belt for Star, but her sister was killed before she had the chance to give it to her, and Rose had vowed she’d wear it forever when she learned of her death. There it was, the white stars glowing under her shawl. He could keep that, it meant nothing. She pulled out the belt and wrapped it around her waist, pulling her shirttail over it before standing and quickly leaving the way she’d come, shoulders stiff against the fear of his voice demanding that she stop.

  Some Horses waited at the edge of town, and the boys were nowhere in sight. Rose’s heart thumped at the sight of her family. Lily was the leader in the games and tricks the children played on their elders, and Some Horses was popular for his funny stories and quick schemes. He made money off any whites who happened to cross his path. Their history was a tale of survival, whether it was recorded as the winter count on the tipis or in the stories and songs they passed along their generations. Even now, the Lakota held hidden gatherings to practice the peyote religion that had made its way from the Southwest, while the Christian converts decorated their churches in traditional Lakota colors. Some of the priests understood, learned their language and studied their beliefs so the two could merge without harm. She’d even heard of one priest who secretly entered traditional life, living in his residence only when his own elders visited. Otherwise, he was a married man who supported a family, attended sweats in the lodge behind the church, and observed the traditional calendar alongside the Christian one. It wasn’t especially confusing to her people. She wasn’t so sure about the whites, who seemed able to grasp only a single thought or belief at a time. She pitied them in that.

  As she drew up beside the runabout, the paint tried to buck in its traces, and she checked him with the rein, so instead he reached over and bit the fat mare’s neck. She squealed but slumped her head in defeat. Rose picked up the whip and gave him a stinging cut across his wide buttocks and cursed him in Lakota. He stood trembling, and then hesitantly twisted his head around to peer back at her. She commanded him to move in Lakota. He put his shoulders into the harness and trudged forward. She wondered where the pony came from on the reservation.

  With time to think on the ride back to the ranch, Rose said a quick prayer to Star, and waited, but received no reply. It was discouraging. Either the ghost was with her or not. She had entered into a fearful bargain with her dead sister, violated all of their teachings about death. If her people knew that she’d invited the ghost back to live with her, they would shun her, or worse, insist she spend time alone, without family, and undergo a cleanse in the hope that her sister could be persuaded to the red road and home.

  “I know what I’m doing,” she whispered and lifted the reins to urge the horses faster than their plodding walk so the runabout wouldn’t get too far ahead. Ten years ago, she’d learned that no one cared about her people’s dead. Seventeen soldiers received the Medal of Honor for their killings at Wounded Knee and at White Clay Creek the following day. She spit to the side of the wagon. She alone was responsible for finding her sister’s killer. Dulcinea would ask the sheriff for help, and involve the white courts, but Rose knew it was worthless.

  She thought about the Pine Ridge Indian School, where she’d been forced to board, where the doors were locked night and day, the grounds surrounded by barbed wire, and the children imprisoned for their own good, or so they were told. They were punished for speaking Lakota and could not practice their religion, but their families found ways to continue their traditions. Once her mother sent a doeskin bag filled with healing plants, their uses outlined with beads and signs that a white would interpret as mere decoration. Rose still had the bag, the last gift she’d received from her mother. It was for her also that she must undertake this vengeance. A flood of warm anger spread across her chest and she lifted her head to scan the hills.

  This was not her first act of vengeance. Rose was known as a fierce warrior among those who attended the school. While the whites mistook her as untrainable, she worked against them and held secret classes where the children spoke their language, performed the pipe ritual, observed the moons, and practiced dancing. They were almost never discovered, and when they were she always took the blame, which would usually be light since she was considered too dumb to learn. She found her weapon, though. In February of 1894, she set fire to the school and burned it to the ground. The snow around it melted and the earth welcomed the new freedom from the weight of the building that had held so much wrong for so long. She sang prayers for her mother’s spirit that night as the sky burst yellow and red, strong colors, from the burning building. It wasn’t enough.

  Her need for vengeance was a rank seed she watered daily, until even her husband grew afraid. After Star’s funeral, she spent two days sweating and praying, her husband and child left alone. Then she consult
ed the oldest woman on the reservation, the one person who held enough wisdom to help. The visit did not go well, and she left feeling more alone than ever before. It was her task only, she decided, although the woman told her that the world would die in a flood many lifetimes beyond, and that all creation would be called to justice, so there was no point to vengeance. She said too much wrong had tilted the people into chaos that would not be righted in her lifetime or her child’s or her child’s child’s. Her task was to survive, merely to survive. Rose jumped up from her chair and rushed out the door.

  She had thought hard as she and Dulcinea rode back to the Bennetts’ ranch, and sent a message to Some Horses to meet her in town. She assured him she would not take any action that would endanger their family, their child, and that she merely wanted to bring the killer to the attention of white authorities. They both knew she lied, but in a marriage, one agrees to certain stories in order to survive. She would be careful, she promised herself. Her husband and child were part of her spirit and she theirs. She would die before seeing them harmed.

  The runabout slowed and pulled to the side as Dulcinea and Graver galloped up and hauled their horses to a prancing stop. The two boys came whooping out of the little draw ahead and Rose saw Dulcinea watching her sons, a fearful expression on her face. Had they done the killings? Rose had asked around the reservation about Star and heard strange tales from her aunt’s husband, of some Lakota boys and white boys at the last rodeo. She wondered if these were the boys. She would find out.

  As she drew up to the runabout, Some Horses glanced down at Lily squirming on the seat, then out into the flat expanse. The girl needed to pee. “Traveler’s stop. You go on ahead,” Rose said as she pulled up beside them.

  Rose climbed down, handed the lines to Graver, and took her daughter out a ways, finally stopping in a patch of soapweed tall enough to screen the squatting child. Lily was about to stand when they heard the warning rattle behind her and both froze. Rose waited, tried not to hold her breath, and was on the verge of greeting the snake in Lakota when it uncoiled so she could see its huge head and thick body as it stretched to its full six feet. It gazed at her, tongue fingering the air, then oozed away, leaving a signature trail etched in the sandy dirt.