The Great Plains

by Nicole Alexander

  ‘Didn’t know it had a name,’ Jerome replied. The blunt end of the rifle’s butt hit him squarely in the stomach and he fell to the ground, winded. George got to his feet.

  ‘Steady, old man,’ Harry advised.

  Jerome watched as his uncle retrieved the canteen from under the blanket and tossed it to the man called Harry.

  ‘Obliged,’ he answered. Harry nodded to his companion. ‘For thieves you’re not very good at it.’ He threw the canteen to his friend, who proceeded to slice the sides open with a knife.

  ‘All here,’ he confirmed, stuffing the wads of notes inside his coat.

  ‘Not much point being a bounty hunter if your reward is stolen,’ Harry told them.

  ‘We didn’t realise what was in there,’ Jerome gasped, clutching his stomach.

  ‘Well it doesn’t matter, because the chase is up, boy.’ Harry cradled the rifle in his arms. ‘I’m not sure we need the old Injun, Wendell, just the boy.’

  Wendell cocked the rifle and aimed it at George’s chest.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Harry complained, ‘it’s a waste of a bullet. He’s harmless.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Wendell took a coil of rope from where it hung on his saddle. ‘Come here, boy.’

  Overhead there was movement. Jerome looked skyward as a golden eagle soared above. Immediately his heart increased its beat.

  ‘I said, come here, boy.’ Harry levelled the rifle at the old Indian.

  As if in slow motion Jerome watched Uncle George leap towards the armed man. Jerome dived at his uncle’s attacker, a surge of strength propelling him forward so that he tackled the man side-on as the rifle went off. He plunged the broken knife his sister had given him into the man’s side as a second bullet whizzed past from behind. He heard the heavy whack of lead hitting flesh and felt himself fall as the momentum of the man he’d knifed dragged him to the ground. Jerome fell face down in the dirt. He turned his neck sideways. The man called Harry lay next to him, unmoving. Feet away his uncle stared at him, his eyes wide. Blood stained his waistcoat.

  ‘Damn it.’

  The voice belonged to Wendell. Jerome listened to the man’s footsteps. Cautiously he slid his hand to where the knife protruded from the dead man beside him. His fingers grasped the broken hilt.

  Wendell kicked at his companion’s body before poking Jerome with the barrel of his rifle.

  Jerome grabbed the cold steel and in an instant was pulling himself upwards and plunging the knife deep into the man’s chest. Their eyes met briefly as Jerome pulled the blade free and Wendell fell. Jerome lay the edge of the knife against his scalp. The knife seemed to move of its own accord and he watched as a thin line of blood appeared. Something inside of Jerome wanted to take this scalp. The need for a trophy to mark this moment of victory was intense.

  ‘Jerome,’ Uncle George said loudly.

  Overhead the eagle flew in concentric circles before disappearing above the trees.

  Jerome gazed at his bloody hands, at the two dead men lying in the dirt, and then knelt by his uncle’s side. He laid a hand over the bullet hole, applying pressure to the wound. His uncle’s eyes were glassy. ‘What can I do?’ The blood staining the old man’s clothing was dark.

  ‘Nothing, I have already outlived my time, Jerome.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  His uncle covered Jerome’s hand with his own, blood seeped through their fingers. ‘You know it to be true. The night of the black storm I felt the spirits calling but I ignored them. Even without this wounding I never intended to travel as far as Broken Arrow. I must die here. Bury me deep, boy. Bury me at night and walk away.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Take the history of our people, bury everything else I own and never forget who you are.’ George took his nephew’s hand, the strength of his grasp was surprising. ‘Take pride in your people, in being a descendant of Geronimo.’

  ‘How can that be?’ Jerome stuttered. ‘You always said you didn’t know my blood.’

  Uncle George gave a pained chuckle. ‘Don’t tell your sister. Abelena will never accept that Philomena was saved by the white man’s enemy. My mother was found and rescued, and she was raised a favourite. Philomena was not a woman to be given to any Brave.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jerome’s question went unanswered. He held his uncle’s hand as his breathing began to ebb.

  ‘You must tell Abelena to accept the Apache within her. Until she does she will remain angry with our people. She hides it well but her heart cries out to belong. The white part of her fights an Indian heart, but she will never win. We are too strong … In the beginning the world was covered with darkness. There was no sun, no day. The perpetual night had no moon or stars …’

  ‘Uncle.’ Jerome shook the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Abelena has the heart of an Apache. Were she not so stubborn I would have trained her in our ways even though she is only a woman,’ he moaned quietly. ‘One day, my boy, you will have to give her the history of our people.’

  His uncle’s tone was ominous. ‘So she will outlive me?’

  ‘Abelena’s journey is long, her burial place far away from these lands, but she will leave behind another to take her place and this boy will be strong in the ways of the medicine man, like his mother.’

  ‘Abelena has the gift of medicine?’ Jerome shook his head. ‘And what of me, Uncle? What of my journey?’

  The old man coughed weakly. ‘The great Ussen calls me.’

  Jerome bowed his head. The afternoon drifted. When the old man finally expelled his last breath, the shadows were lengthening. In the distance the wail of a coyote sounded, followed by the rush of wind. Jerome closed his uncle’s eyelids and imagined him walking across the once fertile grasslands of The Great Plains.

  It took two hours to dig the grave. Jerome used his bare hands to clear away the loose topsoil before digging the hole with a branch whittled to a point with the broken knife. It was a laborious process but finally he dragged the old man into the shallow grave located slightly upstream from their original camp. Then he retrieved his uncle’s possessions and, according to tradition, placed everything in the grave; blanket and water carrier, a small woven basket. Only the painted hide remained unburied. The copied history of the Apache people belonged to Jerome now.

  Jerome pushed the soil down around his uncle’s body. He sang for a life well lived as he sprinkled earth over the man’s face. And it was then that he noticed the faded strands of the medicine cord poking out from under his shirt. The izze-kloth was sacred, he knew this, and Uncle George had told him more than once that it had to be buried with him upon his death. He’d been told it would be worthless to him and yet Jerome knew that it had been made by a di-yin specialising in war. Where were such men now? His soiled fingers poked at the strands of animal hide. It was wrong to take the medicine cord. It was said it would lose its powers if looked upon or handled by strangers and it was certainly not a possession to be passed on, yet Jerome wanted this most sacred of his uncle’s belongings, believed to give Apache warriors extra strength in battle. He plucked at the strands of animal hide and then reached for the knife and cut them, pulling the medicine cord free of his uncle’s body. Quickly he wrapped the dyed strands around the pollen-filled pouch they were attached to, admiring the stone beads made of sacred green chalchihuitl, which served as decoration.

  ‘I am sorry, Uncle.’ As he spoke, the moon showed itself above the treetops. He tucked the izze-kloth safely in his shirt, slung the history of his people over a shoulder and finished patting down the grave. At the place where the two dead men lay, he unsaddled their horses. Once this was done he rummaged through their belongings and took what was needed, including a pair of the men’s boots. Ernst waited patiently as he mounted up and then, leading the other two horses, he left the dead to the night.

  Jerome caught up with his sister and the three children at midnight. He could smell the fire they’d lit and the musky scent of
their bodies. Only Abelena stirred on his approach. He watched her slip from the clearing where the campfire glowed and walk through the timber to crouch behind a tree, a sturdy branch in one hand. Jerome whistled softly and called her name. She ran to him and waited until the horses were tethered.

  ‘Where is Uncle?’ she asked, looking into the dense trees from which he’d appeared.

  Jerome squatted as the embers fizzed and the branch ignited. Tiredness washed over him as he held his palms towards the blaze. ‘There were two of them.’

  Abelena sat beside him. ‘And Uncle George?’ Her voice trembled. She was staring at his blood-and-dirt-encrusted hands.

  Jerome raised a finger to his lips. The twins were huddled close to the campfire. Tess was lying on her back, swaddled in a blanket. He touched the child’s cheek, noticing the dried blood caking his skin. ‘He was shot,’ he whispered. ‘I buried him and took the horses.’

  Abelena gave a sob and bit hard on her knuckle to quiet herself. Jerome clasped her shoulder as she rocked back and forth. ‘Be strong. It was a good death, Abelena.’

  ‘But it’s my fault. If I hadn’t taken those things …’ Her voice trailed off. She wiped her face. ‘Always he has told me that I am wrong, that I am only a woman, that I must do this or that or –’

  ‘Be calm, sister, and listen to me when I tell you that his death was inevitable. He only lasted this long in order to save us.’

  ‘And the men?’ she finally asked, her voice wavering.

  ‘Dead. I left them for the coyotes. We have to keep moving, Abelena. The sooner we get to Broken Arrow the better.’ He walked back to where the horses were tied. He’d removed the saddles from the newly stolen horses in case of recognition, only retaining one of the rifles, a blanket and the bloodstained notes he’d retrieved. ‘Here, I forgot.’ He’d found dried meat in the dead men’s possessions. The jerky was tough but flavoursome.

  Abelena bit down hungrily on the strip of meat and chewed. She looked guiltily at the sleeping children but continued to eat. ‘How much is there?’

  ‘Quite a bit. The children can have some when we wake them and tomorrow at dawn I’ll share out the rest. Take another piece and chew it up for Tess. How is she?’

  ‘The same. Worse.’ Abelena lifted the child and dribbled water into her mouth from a canteen. ‘The dust still eats at her chest while her body starves.’ Wiping the girl’s mouth, Abelena spat out a wad of the moistened jerky and pushed it into Tess’s mouth. The child chewed slowly.

  In spite of the urgency to keep moving, Jerome knew that they would have to slow down. ‘Tomorrow we’ll hunt, light a fire, cook ourselves some decent food. There is food in these woods. I’ve seen quail.’

  ‘I know we should keep moving but you’re right, brother. We need to rest and eat, all of us.’

  ‘If Tess doesn’t improve then you and she should probably stay in Broken Arrow, at least until she’s better.’

  ‘And then what?’ Abelena paled.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jerome admitted. ‘I don’t want the family to be separated either but if it means saving Tess …’

  Cupping the little girl’s face, Abelena looked up at her brother. There were blue-black circles under her eyes. ‘Don’t leave me by myself.’

  ‘Shush, sister, be calm, we’ll think of something.’ Jerome doubted his words. ‘In the meantime we must watch Mathew. Uncle George and I did a good job of covering our tracks after we left the ghost town, but Mathew was always dragging behind and those men said we left a pretty obvious trail.’

  Abelena looked at the sleeping boys. ‘You don’t think …?’

  ‘We both know that he would do anything to protect Mark and what benefit is there to them being forced to run because of me? We can’t take any chances. Come on, let’s wake them up.’

  As Abelena roused the irritable twins, Jerome stamped out the fire.

  ‘Where’s Uncle George?’ Mathew asked.

  ‘He was shot by the men that followed us. I buried him,’ Jerome said bluntly. ‘We’re leaving, so let’s go.’

  Mathew digested the news with little emotion and then, taking his brother by the arm, led him to the horses.

  ‘I’ll miss him,’ Jerome told his sister. ‘He was like a father to us.’

  Abelena bit her lip. ‘The way of the Apache was not for me, Jerome, nor is it the way of the future.’

  Once mounted, Jerome placed Tess in front of her older sister. ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t grieve for him.’

  Chapter 33

  May, 1935 – Pawnee County, Oklahoma

  The steel track was cold against Jerome’s ear. He could hear no sound, detect no vibration although the shiny metal showed that the railway line was still in use. After so many days on the run, he both hoped for and feared human contact yet they could not keep living this way. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun. Ahead a water tower beckoned. Prairie land and tilled fields extended outwards punctuated by lines of timber and, in the distance, rolling hills that dipped and rose.

  Mark squatted in the dirt, poking at a lump of dark rock lying near the railway line. Picking it up, he noticed the black smear that stained his skin and proceeded to rub the blackness against his hands and face.

  ‘Coal,’ Jerome told the boy, pointing at the lump in the kid’s hands. ‘Dirty.’ He took the rock from Mark and threw it away. The boy began to howl.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Mathew slid from his horse and handed his brother his last piece of jerky. Mark snatched at the dried meat and then gave his brother a crooked smile before holding up the food for Abelena’s inspection.

  Jerome turned back towards the water tower. Their journey had been kinder over the past few days. The grasses sprouted green shoots and they’d meandered across gently rolling country, disturbing wild animals as they went. Flycatchers darted overhead, the weather was mild, they’d caught quail to roast and even managed to spear some fish. Combined with the berries they’d picked, their hunger had been satisfied. It was not a difficult task to fill the children’s stomachs, Jerome discovered. When at long last there was ample food, their bellies appeared to have shrunk. Campfires remained unsafe; however, they cooked at night and put the fire out quickly.

  Abelena tugged on the reins to steady Ernst. Untying the blanket ends from across her chest, she manoeuvred Tess until the child sat on her lap. The little girl leant forward listlessly and rested on the gelding’s neck.

  Jerome waved at the child. How he wished he could scratch out a few lines of explanation to mail to Mr Blum in an effort to scatter the evil that had followed them for so long. He knew he had to leave his family, run far away so that they could be free. It was the only way to protect them, especially now that two more men lay dead because of his actions.

  ‘What are you thinking, Jerome?’ Abelena interrupted his thoughts.

  He pointed at the water tower. ‘If a train stops we should get on it. Maybe travel for a few days and then hop off to find food.’

  Abelena caressed Tess’s head. ‘But we’ve hardly got anything to take with us, Jerome. A handful of berries and water, that’s all. I don’t want Tess to start starving again.’

  ‘What about me and Mark?’ Mathew reminded them.

  ‘No-one will starve,’ Jerome placated, although they all looked at him with disbelief. ‘It’ll be safer if we keep moving for just a little longer.’

  His sister scowled. ‘So we wait near the water tower?’

  ‘Yes.’ He tried not to sound impatient.

  The horses padded quietly across the ground as they made their way to the tower. It was a fine morning for riding and Jerome found himself thinking about his uncle and the words he’d spoken just before his death. He wondered if his uncle had told the truth about his ancestry, for although the man had no reason to lie, Jerome felt unworthy of such a connection. Yet at the same time he pondered on whether Geronimo would be proud of him. The old Apaches had measured their worth by the number of horses they
stole and, regardless of inclination, Jerome had managed three so far. It was a pity they would have to leave the animals behind.

  They tied the horses to nearby trees and, settling Tess on a blanket to rest, began to scavenge the area for food. Jerome didn’t want to risk a cooking fire for they would be riding the train illegally although he had the bounty hunter’s money should they be caught. Their foraging yielded nuts as well as some edible roots and bulbs. By the time night darkened the countryside they had eaten and settled on their blankets to gaze at the stars.

  The glow of pre-dawn came too quickly.

  ‘Will a train come soon?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jerome admitted to his sister, as the last remnants of the night began to disappear. ‘At least we have water here.’ If all went to plan they would continue to travel towards the rising sun, towards a new life as the old slowly dwindled to nothingness. ‘In the beginning, nothing existed,’ Jerome began, ‘no earth, no sky, no sun, no moon, only darkness was everywhere.’

  ‘You’ll wake the children,’ Abelena complained. Mathew stirred and yawned. ‘See.’

  ‘It’s only Injun stuff,’ Mathew told her.

  Jerome touched the leather strands of the izze-kloth around his neck. ‘The creator of all things was a small bearded man, the One Who Lives Above.’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish, Jerome. It’s bad enough Uncle filled your head with his nonsense, but I don’t want the children listening to it.’

  Jerome ignored his sister. ‘When he looked into the endless darkness, light appeared above. He looked down and it became a sea of light. To the east he created yellow streaks of dawn. To the west there were many colours and clouds filled with colour.’

  ‘Did the man make everything?’ Mark asked, crawling to Jerome’s side. The boy rarely spoke full sentences.

  ‘Yes. He made the Sun God and the wind, the Lightning Maker and Mother Earth.’

  Mark touched Jerome’s shoulder. ‘If earth has a mother, where’s mine?’

  Jerome searched for the right words.