Gustie wrapped herself in her blanket and went outside.
The sun had shifted, flooding the prairie with a softer light. Gustie stepped down off the porch and out away from the cabin. She still clung to her blanket even though the day remained warm.
She felt heavy from her nap which had been brief but sound and dreamless. She breathed deeply to clear her head. To her right a dragonfly hovered just above the spears of grass, its wings visible as a blur, its blue-green back iridescent and jewel-like. Young grasshoppers jumped in all directions before her. She turned and walked around behind the cabin to where Jordis sometimes tethered Moon in the shelter of the cottonwoods. Jordis was standing with her head against Moon’s forehead; her hands rested lightly on the horse’s neck. Gustie did not now think it strange, as she would have a few years ago, to see a woman communing head to head with a horse. Since coming to Charity she often found herself talking to Biddie. Once after a harrowing night of dreams, she fled to the barn in the early morning hours and sank her forehead into Biddie’s exactly as she saw Jordis doing now.
Moon, sensing Gustie’s approach, raised her head and snorted. Jordis looked around, one hand still rested on the long white neck.
Gustie said, “She is a beautiful horse.”
There were moments with Jordis when Gustie did not know what to do or what to say, when Jordis seemed aloof, feral, as close to the wild as the pale horse who ran unshod, unsaddled over the prairie, not ruled by but in partnership with the dark woman on her back. Jordis was from another world about which Gustie knew nothing beyond her terrible time at the mission school. Jordis’s arm remained around Moon’s neck. Horse and woman seemed extensions of each other.
Gustie felt her heart swell; it was a time when words might drown her, but she would choke for not speaking. “Did you get her as a filly?”
“No.” Jordis moved to the side of Moon and began to run her hand flat along the mare’s neck in long even strokes.
She worked systematically from the neck to the shoulders and withers with firm pressure. Moon stood still. Here and there a muscle quivered in pleasure. Jordis had no brushes, no cloths—only her hands with which to groom the white horse.
Gustie sat down on a tree stump. Crow Kills emanated a freshness she could smell and feel even without a breeze, and the cool ground, which in the shade of the cottonwoods bore no underbrush, gave up its earthy fragrance, mixed with the pungency of horse dung. A bird trilled in the branches above them.
“Did you get her wild?”
Jordis interrupted the rhythm of her stroking. She looked across Moon’s back at Gustie and shook her head wryly, “No. I have only seen wild horses in my dreams.”
With what blood she had left, Gustie blushed. Only an idiot could think that Indians were still running free across the plains after herds of wild horses. My God, could I have said such a stupid thing? Gustie thought she should just go back to the cabin, crawl under her blanket, and leave Jordis alone.
She was about to do just that when Jordis said, “She was left standing in the sun. The harness had rubbed places raw on her skin. She can not take the same treatment as a dark horse.”
Jordis used both hands now rubbing along Moon’s flank to her hindquarters. Her whole body bent and leaned into the work. “I saw the bruises on her where the harness had rubbed her for too long, and I knew if I took off the saddle I would find sores. I saw the burning around her eyes from the sun. So I untied her and led her to a shed in the back of the building where she could stand in the shade. I gave her water. Then I went into the saloon.”
“Where was this?”
“Wheat Lake. There were a few men in there, but I picked him out easily enough. I said, ‘I am not stealing your horse. She was too hot. I moved her. Gave her water. She is tied out back.’ I shamed him in front of the other men, but I was just a squaw. What could he do to me there? Besides, he saw the knife in my boot. I made sure enough of it was sticking out so they could not miss it. No squaw is worth getting cut for. So he spent the afternoon drinking and came out all full of meanness. He went to an Indian camp over by Campbell Crossing where he thought I came from, I suppose. And he took his meanness out on them. He could have found me easily enough. I was at the agency, just around the corner from the saloon, waiting with Grandmother and everybody else on the Red Sand for our annuities. I hate that. That is why I was in Wheat Lake all day.”
“What did he do? At Campbell Crossing?”
“He slashed a tipi. It fell down and a pole hit a little boy and killed him. They were not even Dakotah. They had nothing to do with me or him or anything. They were just passing through. They took out after him, and I saw them chase him back into town. So I followed. One of them spoke English and told me what he had done. They chased him to the railroad depot, and he did the only thing he could do because he knew they would catch him. He jumped on the train that was just pulling out. He left her standing there all in a lather and exhausted. I saw what they were going to do and I stopped them.”
“What were they going to do? Jump on the train?”
Jordis moved to the other side of Moon and began again stroking her neck. “No. They were going to kill her.”
“Why?” Gustie was shocked.
“Revenge.”
“But the horse didn’t do anything!”
“The horse was his. In a way they would have been killing him. I understand this. But I could not let them kill her.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran in front of her. I said I would fight them. If they killed me the justice was done since this whole thing started with me. I told them that what I did made him mad at Indians. Anyway, if they killed me the justice was done and they could take care of the horse. If I won, I got the horse and they still had a good fight to get rid of some of their feelings. One of them, the dead boy’s older brother, I think, came after me. I kept sidestepping him, and when I pulled my knife his relatives pulled him back, and an older boy came for me.”
“Could they have killed you?”
Jordis nodded. “If they had all jumped me at once. But I fought them one at a time. I fought a couple of them. But they lost heart. They didn’t like fighting a woman. That was part of it. So they just gave up their anger and went home to bury their dead.”
“How did you do it? How did you fight them?”
Jordis paused in her stroking and shrugged her shoulders.
“How did you learn to fight?”
“I started fighting with George when we were children. He taught me and we fought—mock fights, but he was tough and he made me tough. We fought every day. At school I learned to fight for real. Even in the East, I fought. I never started a fight. And I never lost one.” Jordis reached down and pulled a long, slender knife out of her boot. “This helps,” she gave Gustie a slight smile. A thin shaft of light fell through the cottonwood leaves and bounced off its blade. “I have learned not to be where they strike and to cut them when I have to. I have hurt men who have tried to take me. Even here on the reservation. Now they all know. They leave me alone. Even when they are drunk. Grandmother says Dakotah men never used to be like that. Of course, Dakotah women always used to carry butcher knives. I am the only one I know who does any more.” Jordis slid the knife back into her boot and resumed grooming the white horse.
“Little Bull is not like that. He is a good man.”
“Yes. Little Bull is a very good man.”
“You were arguing with him just now.”
“He is angry with me because I will not teach. I will not teach, nor dance. I make him very angry.”
“Dorcas calls you her little wounded bird.”
“Grandmother has her name for everything. To her nothing is just what it is.”
“Dorcas feels the way Little Bull does about your teaching?”
“Not exactly. I do not want to discuss this with you
, Gustie.”
The words were spoken softly without anger, but Gustie felt her own blood sting her face as if she had been slapped.
“Why not?”
“Because it has nothing to do with you.”
“I think it does.”
“It does not.”
“Yes, it does. Tell me why you won’t teach.”
“If I have to tell you, you will not understand.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“The white man’s knowledge killed my brother.”
“It didn’t kill you. It didn’t kill Little Bull.”
“It almost killed me. Little Bull was stronger. And luckier.”
“Why did you go on? Why didn’t you just come home after the mission school?”
“I had no home. My mother was dead. George was dead and I had nothing else to do. The new head of the school...the one who replaced Everude, he said the church would pay for my education. He felt guilty, I suppose. So I went East. I did not care.”
“You were a good student.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why were you a good student? It must have been a lot of work. Why do it?”
“It filled the time.”
“Between fights.”
“Yes. Between fights.”
Gustie was angry, and still she found this conversation funny. Jordis turned and saw the amusement in her eyes and returned it with her own.
“The fighting was easier,” Jordis said.
“I’ll bet it was.”
“Do you ever fight?”
“No. There were times when I should have.”
“I’ll bet there were.”
“It does have to do with me.” Gustie felt a lump growing in her throat.
Jordis turned and faced her.
Gustie pulled the blanket tighter around her, raised her head, and tried to smile. “I am the wasichu...” Gustie looked away at a lacy patch of blue that flickered through the canopy of leaves, “for whom...you will not dance.” Gustie continued to smile, as Jordis heaved herself up on Moon’s back and rode away.
Gustie sat still and released the lump in her throat in a little cry, heard only by the brown birds scratching in the dirt.
She got to her feet and headed back to the cabin. It was time to go back to Charity.
Gustie got up and brushed the hay off her overalls. She was no longer in the mood for demolition. She had to clear away the boards and make sure that nothing was left in here that Biddie might hurt herself on. Her wrists were throbbing wildly.
Red Chokecherries Moon
Gustie rose before dawn and went through her morning rituals in the dark. Then, wearing only her shift with a thin shawl over her shoulders, she settled at her table with a cup of dark coffee to which she had added a dollop of thick cream. She lit a candle and within its small circle of light considered the journal lying open before her.
This book, begun only days ago, was the first writing for its own sake she had attempted since Clare’s death. Her old journal ended with a single entry, “My dear seems better today.”
The next day Clare died. Gustie put the book in the bottom of the trunk and had not touched it since. It was full of Clare.
She left this new journal and its blank pages along with her pens and ink lying on the table for many days before she began tentatively writing descriptions of and her reflections on the prairie, the weather, the plants and animals, plus little incidents from her life here.
Each blank page was an empty frame of hope and possibility to be filled with something that always fell short of her aspirations. But the process delighted and satisfied her. Gustie liked the physical act of writing: the feel of the pen in her hand and the sound it made against the paper, how the writing filled the page and brought it life, how her large scrawling hand was always less legible at the end of a page than at the beginning. Once she began, the writing became easier and pages filled faster. Gustie wrote for herself alone, sometimes indulging in flowery descriptions, sometimes recording fragments of observations and memories. She did not write much about people with one exception: Dorcas. She had many pages of notes on Dorcas. She felt it was important to record everything about her.
Gustie had tried to write about Jordis, but she couldn’t find the words to capture Jordis’s spirit, her stature; how the sun rose when she smiled and the clouds roiled when she frowned; the depths of her eyes; how astride the white horse she looked like a centauress. Gustie was embarrassed by such thoughts and found the pen awkward in her hand. On the subject of Jordis, the blank page remained blank. After several attempts she gave up.
Gustie looked at her pocket watch lying on the table and noted the time. The circle of candle light had been swallowed in the ocean of dawn. Outside her window the land was waking up. Colors of sky and earth were distinguishing themselves from the gray wash of twilight. A moth wobbled out from the corner of her window ledge, clumsily spread one wing and another to the warming light. Birds opened their throats to announce themselves to the sun. She closed her journal, drank the rest of her coffee, and went to finish dressing.
The skirt and blouse she planned to wear to the Fourth of July celebration were already draped across the bed. As she pinned up her hair, she considered herself in the mirror. Her body was wraithlike, wearing thin just like her clothes. She found the notion amusing that she and her wardrobe might disappear together. All that would be left would be her watch—which remained the same but for a softer luster than when her father had presented it to her ten years ago—her glasses and a mass of brown hair showing more and more strands of gray.
Before she dressed she must bandage her wounds. She had lately begun to leave the bandages off at night and to replace them lightly every day. She carefully pulled her shift over her head and studied her naked reflection.
The center of each wound was still a furious red, tender, unhealed. Around the edges the skin was knitting itself together in a pebbly formation, pearly white against the pale pink of her undamaged flesh. There would be no zig zag lightning pattern here, no dance of leaves, just this rough whiteness. She looked long at the forming scars and liked them. They gave her courage. They made her feel free.
As Gustie drove up the winding drive to Lena and Will’s house, she was surprised to see another wagon ahead of her. It was not yet six o’clock.
She maneuvered Biddie under the trees by the well and recognized the short, squarish form of Hank Ackerman standing by his wagon talking to Will, who bent his tall frame slightly toward Hank and cocked his head so that his good ear got all of the conversation. Will did not see Gustie at first. She had driven up on his blind and deaf side. When he straightened up to reply to something Hank said, he saw her and waved her over.
Hank touched the brim of his hat with his left hand and grinned. “Morning, Miss Roemer.”
“Morning, Mr. Ackerman. How is Orville?”
“Oh, doing pretty good. I make him do a little reading every night so he doesn’t lose the hang of it. You need anything done around your place, Miss Roemer?”
“I may need a fence.”
“He could do that. Put up a nice one for you.”
Hank grinned and his blue eyes, strikingly pale in his ruddy brown face, lit with pride.
“I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”
Gustie saw the tips of straw in the back of Hank’s wagon shift. She peered over the sides of the wagon. Lying on her side in the straw was a sow with five piglets. Two were sleeping, three were busy with breakfast.
Hank, she could see now, was holding a sixth in the crook of his right arm. He scratched it behind the ears and it smiled a piggy smile, eyes closed in contentment. He put the piglet back down in the straw and it squirmed in among its siblings and began to suckle.
Gust
ie had never seen such little pigs before. “May I?” she asked.
“Go ahead. She won’t mind. She’s used to it.”
Gustie gently lifted one of the piglets out of the wagon bed and held him in her arms. He folded his tiny hoofed feet under himself and snuggled in, relaxing against the warmth of her body. She was stunned at the baby-ness of him.
“Hank was just sayin’ they’re having big Fourth of July doings over in Wheat Lake, too,” Will said.
“Ja, I thought about takin’ my pigs there instead of here in Charity till I heard the Indians were going to be there. Giving a big pow wow. Then I changed my mind quick. Maybe there is some that finds that heathen squalling and jumpin’ around interesting but not me. I won’t mingle with dog eaters. No sir.”
A small coldness took possession of Gustie’s center. “What?”
“Dog eaters,” Hank explained cheerfully. “They eat dog. Turns my stomach just thinking about it.”
Will said, “Well, we got plenty doing right here in Charity, and you’ll get a good price for your pigs here as much as you would over there. Don’t you worry.”
“You’re probably right.”
Will went on. “Lena’s baking pies enough to feed the county. There’s a band and going to be some horse racing. Old Tom is too old. In his day, boy, he could keep up with the best of ’em. Don’t you worry about that. Later Ike Thorson’s going to play his fiddle and we’ll have a little high stepping.”
Gustie was still cuddling the piglet and running her finger along a soft, pink ear that was sparsely layered with long blond hairs. He peeped up at her through pale lashes, then closed his eyes again in drowsy peacefulness. She asked, “Mr. Ackerman, what are you going to do with these pigs?”
“Well, folks always need a porker or two to fatten up. Will’s right. I’ll get a good price for ’em here as much as Wheat Lake.” He got up into his wagon and picked up the reins. “Want to buy that pig?” He grinned down at Gustie.
“No. Thanks.” She laid the baby pig back in the straw next to his mother.
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