Widow 1881_Flats Junction Series

by Sara Dahmen

He looks away.

  “Bern,” I say again. He looks back, his dark eyes heavily shaded by the brim of his hat. “Who would do such a thing?”

  He sighs. “Most of the town, and a lot of the cowboys, don’t like her here. They want her to go back to her people, join the reservation, and leave us in peace.”

  “But she doesn’t do anything disruptive!” I insist angrily. “Do you mean to say you agree with everyone?”

  “Jane,” he says, placating. “I know you are closer to her than most, since you have to live with her, but you don’t know the history here. When she was staying with old Davies, they did what they pleased, and it was thrown in everyone’s face. Even after the Crow raid of ’74, when everyone stopped feeling kindly toward the Indians, her kin came into town every summer to visit her when they stopped at their ancestral buffalo hunting grounds. They still do. If it weren’t for their camp, the Crow would never have come or raided. People would still have their limbs. Heck, Franklin Jones was a cooper! Now you know he and his family lives mostly on charity. Nels Henderssen—Clara’s husband? He was a farmer, and a damn good one. Because of the Sioux . . . and the Crow, he has no leg. They’ve had to move into town so he can scrape by with a small hobby farm and selling chickens. You just wait. The Sioux will be here soon again.”

  “Surely, she would ask them to stop doing anything bad,” I protest. “Or at the very least, Percival Davies would have done so in the past.”

  “Never.” He gives a hard, rueful chuckle and moves his eyes away from mine. “They are her family. I sometimes think he joined them at night around their bonfires up on the cliff.”

  “So?”

  “So it ain’t done, Jane.” He is suddenly beyond irritable, tips his hat, and leaves me standing without anything more to go on.

  I enter the home. Widow Hawks is kneeling by the fire. Sound travels through the thin wooden walls of the homes here, and I know she has overheard our conversation. Her head is bowed.

  “I cannot leave town, you know,” she says quietly. “Kate is my only family, my daughter, my little girl. I don’t want to leave her.”

  I go to kneel next to her, and bite back an immediate response. Surely Widow Hawks sees that Kate wants nothing to do with her. Why hold on? I suppose I might understand these ties better once I am a mother. I reflect in the silence. When this babe is born, I will love it, of course. But will I do anything for it, and wish to care for it forever? I shake my head inwardly. I cannot fathom the deep love all say exists between parent and child. I must live it myself before I can judge.

  “Perhaps we should tell Kate about this trouble?” I offer.

  “She won’t care,” Widow Hawks says with finality and I know she is right. “No, let it be. We will mend the window papers and hides. The door will hold through the fall. I will see if Patrick can find us wood at the O’Donnell lumberyard. Since Percy died, he does these things for me. Now that my husband is gone, I find myself unwelcome most places otherwise.”

  “It’s not right.” My voice is defiant.

  She reaches over to take my hand and gives a small laugh.

  “Of course it is not right. Is prejudice ever so? But it is the way of people.” She pauses. “Mine and yours, both.”

  Chapter 15

  30 July 1881

  As Bern predicted, the Sioux arrive in Flats Junction at the end of July. A ruckus careens through the streets, first an echo, then a whooping. I rush to the screen door while wiping my hands on my apron, trying to find the fuss. I cannot see anything at first, but as soon as I step outside, Mrs. Molhurst sniffs next door on her porch, shaking her head while peering down the corner of East Avenue, where it curves onto Main Street.

  “What is it?” I ask her, my voice carrying easily across the yard, and jumping over the elderberry bushes she painstakingly tends.

  She gives me a tight, appraising look. Mrs. Molhurst has consistently disapproved of me ever since I displayed my inability to handle that small nest of mice. Of all the neighbors on the doctor’s street, in fact, she is the least welcoming. I am not sure if she had hoped for my job to carry her through her widowhood, or if she doesn’t approve of my boarding with an Indian, or if she simply does not like me. I will likely never really know.

  “Blackfoot,” she says. Then she scurries inside.

  It must be Widow Hawks’ family come to visit. I wait a moment longer, just as a large group comes jostling around, cutting through Sadie Fawcett’s lawn. Some are on horses, an elderly woman reclines on a travois, and a few children dance around the edges. They are all dressed in buckskin, buffalo hides, and faded calico. Realizing I’m staring, I move back and stand inside the screen door to watch them pass. As I count the dark heads, I notice Widow Hawks among them. They head north on Second Avenue, taking Buffalo Jump Path past St. Aloysius. I’m both nervous and curious. But they are Widow Hawks’ family! Well, when I am done with my chores I will go meet them. For now, I must harvest the second crop of beans for canning. Alice Brinkley has promised to show me how to preserve, and I need to work on the laundry. Doctor Kinney has kindly agreed to pull water during lunchtime.

  He comes in from his rounds around noon and brings in the pails for soaking sheets. He works quickly regardless of the heat.

  “The Sihasapa are here. Would you like to meet Widow Hawks’ sisters, brother, and their kin?”

  “I would love to,” I say sincerely. I find I mean my sincerity, truly, and it surprises me. I care for Widow Hawks, and I wish to understand her family better. And maybe . . . I feel a bit beholden to do so, as if I should help fill Kate’s absence, though I should never presume I would ever replace a true blood daughter.

  The doctor gives me a wide grin, turns to refill a pail, then swings back. “Perhaps you should give Widow Hawks time with them tonight. She’ll likely camp up on the cliffs. Kate ought to be able to find a bunk for you in her back room.”

  I do not know how I feel about Kate anymore. She seems to think the incident of the cornbread over, and she talks to me like I am her dear friend, but I am troubled by her lack of regard for her mother. Perhaps there is still another piece to the story I do not know. Is it as simple as anger running deep? I nod in agreeance with the doctor anyway, turning back to the bread as the he ambles to the well for more water.

  “You’re set,” he says, bringing the last of the laundry down from his bedroom. We have a nice way of it now. He is not angry with me for trying to do too much, and I am grateful for the help. Though I am finally seasoning to the hardness of labor in the Territories, I am just now starting to thicken in the waist and I will soon be unable to do much lifting regardless of my desire to keep from being a bother. He seems to know this innately without me drawing attention to my widening size, and once again I’m grateful. Desperately, deeply grateful.

  I pull a small cast iron skillet down from a hook and fry some eggs with dill weed to go with fresh bread. As he sits down to eat, I find the courage to ask my next round of questions.

  “Bern seemed to think Widow Hawks isn’t welcome here.” I think of the animals at her doorstep, and the damage to her home. I find I do not trust the quiet of the town so much when it comes to the topic of the natives. I’m also fearful for my own safety more than ever, even though no one has been unkind.

  The doctor presses his lips together. He knows about the vandalism. He found a new door for Widow Hawks relatively quickly. I hurry on now that I have found a voice.

  “Or more, the townsfolk don’t like the natives coming to town. I shouldn’t really pry, but I hope her family won’t meet with much . . . intolerance while they are here? I cannot expect they do harm to anyone.”

  “They don’t,” he says. “They don’t bother to trade with Kate; she has explained she has no need for pelts or native arts. But one or two might find their way into the mess hall by the depot or the Golden Nail, and alcohol does not sit well with them. And they do their fires and dances, as usual, for it’s a bit of a . . . holiday for them to come th
rough here.”

  “Bern mentioned they visit their ancestral grounds.”

  “Aye. The old buffalo jump.” Doctor Kinney nods. “You can still find the bones of bison on the bottom of the cliff. The Blackfoot Sioux would drive the herds there for easier, safer huntin’. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago now. And then the wagon trail used to stop up there, too. Good view, safe place to camp.”

  “But they don’t go wild in town?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t sound awful at all,” I say.

  The doctor takes a thoughtful bite of bread. “No. But it unnerves the conservatives.” He gives a tight one-shouldered shrug. “And no one likes too much of a brush-in with the Blackfoot. They all still think about the war like it happened yesterday. And I suppose . . . well . . . some lost kin in the skirmishes. Not too many from Flats Junction, but when even one man is lost here, everyone takes it personally.”

  I ask him to explain the viewpoint of the town to me. The news back East always cast Custer as a sensational hero after the Civil War and during the Reconstruction. Even I had been taken in by his wild and handsome face on the cover of Harper’s Weekly. Only five years ago his last battle and death hit the papers. Everyone was shocked about the turn of the battles, appalled that the natives had killed a hero. Headlines had screamed about the indignity of it all. But my mother had tried very hard not to let us be completely mindless about written words. She’d always say there was more to any story. The compelling chance for more narrative and research surges through me.

  “You know of the reservation?” he asks, mouth full with lunch.

  I nod. I have heard tell of it, but of course I don’t know much about it, or what it means, or even how it all came about.

  “Well, before the Army arrived, the territory was mainly Cheyenne and Sioux tribes hereabouts. Widow Hawks’ people pushed out the Cheyenne. But when Custer came out and found gold in the Paha Sapa back in ’74, the subsequent rush created a lot of problems with the local tribes. And the government wanted the gold, too. So, they took more land for the Territories, the sacred Paha—” He stops and shakes his head. “The Black Hills, so they’re called by us. Anyway, eventually many of the different peoples got together, lots of the Sioux and Cheyenne especially, and decided the only way to keep their way of life was to . . . well . . . start a war.”

  I listen hungrily. He is a good storyteller, and even though he lived through this war, he tells it so that I am not keen on either side, but can see the war dispassionately and carefully. I do not ask many questions, preferring to hear the whole of it first. We enjoy talking so much that he starts to help with the laundry so we can continue. I hear of the story of the Battle of Little Bighorn—or the Greasy Grass as the Sioux call it—and more of the Cheyenne and Arapaho nations. He speculates about the great leader called Sitting Bull, who is rumored to still be ensconced somewhere in the Canadian wilderness in the north, and he deftly lists the many inter-native wars that had crisscrossed the plains on top of the settlers coming in.

  I am mesmerized. It is the best lesson I have had since I left school so many years ago, and it gives me more knowledge about the history out in the Territories than any newspaper would care to publish. I realize the railroad that goes past Flats Junction is incredibly new. Only two years ago, it was attacked by renegade Sioux who had still wished to keep whites out. I am glad I did not know all these stories when I agreed to come West. I might not have been courageous enough.

  “How do you know all this history?” I ask, as he wipes his hands of talc and water casually on a corner of my apron.

  “Percy Davies would talk about everythin’ Indian with reverence over supper, and he made sure to give both sides of any tale for his wife’s sake. Widow Hawks will tell stories too. I enjoy learning about the past, and so did my dear auntie. As for the wars . . . well, old Henry Brinkley fought out of duty to the government, but had a pretty hard time of it afterwards, and sometimes I think it eased his mind to talk of it with me. Henry never seemed to get over the required ransackin’ of Indian villages that the Army did. I used to wonder if it was because Percy loved and married a native girl, and Percy and Henry were close. I think Henry’s hesitancy about hurtin’ the Sioux rubbed off on some of his sons. The Brinkley boys are generally decent to Widow Hawks. Strange to see how our lives might affect any children we may have.”

  I agree with him, and I think over his words as I take my time over the last of the laundry.

  The doctor paints a picture of a happy, loving Davies home. I rather like the way he makes Percy Davies sound. How could the banker and Widow Hawks be so blind to Kate’s alienation by the town? They seemed to be attentive, at least to themselves and aware of the world around them. Or did Kate make it worse on herself somehow? Was she too proud, or overly smart? Those qualities are never becoming to any girl, let alone one who is struggling with prejudice from the start.

  And then I think about how the doctor speaks of children, how he still plans very much to have some. I’m glad for him, if he thinks his future with Kate is possible. I know he holds her in high esteem, enough to get a bit bashful when I bring her up. I hope they are well suited. He, being a man of science, and Kate, with her hard independence and strong opinions about her mother, seem a strange match.

  But perhaps opposites attract. Perhaps that is what makes a union fiery and passionate. Henry and I were both suitably muted, and we could only share a small bit of tenderness.

  I should like to think a true romance, like the one between Percy Davies and Widow Hawks, had quite a bit of passion to keep them so happy for so long.

  Chapter 16

  30 July 1881

  We eat a simple supper of bread and cheese, which I slice right off the crusts as we eat. Then the doctor and I head toward the cliff. The shade of the pine trees swarms with bodies in hides, furs, beads, and calico. I am nervous, but one glance at Doctor Kinney’s happy eagerness puts me at ease. So far, I have not been remiss to trust him.

  “Will they welcome me?” I ask.

  He gives me a warm look. “I’m sure by now Widow Hawks has told them all about you, about the comin’ baby, that you are like a daughter to her.”

  “She would say that?” I am taken back. While I find myself caring more and more for the older woman, I did not think she would so easily return the feelings.

  “She’s often said it in such a way to me.”

  “When do you see her so much?”

  He shrugs. “Kate is often unable to drop off the goods Widow Hawks needs, so I take a box once or twice a week to her.”

  I fall silent. Does the doctor manage her household and needs as a son would? Is it because he is beholden to her for accepting him into town? Or simply because he is a good man, and believes her to be his adoptive family?

  We arrive, and the doctor is quickly enveloped by some of the men. The ponies grazing nearby are decorated prettily, with beadwork on the blankets draped across their backs, and feathers in their manes. I recall the doctor mentioning horses as a sign of wealth. So then, Widow Hawks’ family is well off. There are strange smells of things cooking over fires that I do not recognize. Small huddles of women, old and young, mingle with children of various ages, and the men circle with Doctor Kinney. He has started to pull unexpected things from his pockets: buttons, a spool of fishing line, and hard candy for the little ones. Around this group, though, it is obvious that many do not speak English. Even so, the doctor reveals he has some working knowledge of their language. He seems to be thrilled to review his vocabulary.

  “Jane!” Widow Hawks comes over with a smile. She gives me her hand, and turns to the old woman sitting in a crumple of mismatched calico strips, deer hides, and even a bit of buffalo fur in the heat. She is brown, her skin a deeply lined almond, and her black eyes are buried in sunken sockets, but she smiles, showing missing teeth.

  “My mother,” Widow Hawks says, by way of introduction. Sinking to my knees, I give a little bob of a bo
w as the native language washes over me. I do not know what Widow Hawks says, but her mother continues to smile, then leans forward and takes my hand. Her grip is strong and bony and arthritic. Who would have ever expected me to be circled by a large number of Indians? I’m a bit apprehensive, but oddly I don’t have a racing heart.

  I try to stand once the older woman releases me, but Widow Hawks holds me down firmly. “My mother and sisters wish to get to know you.”

  But I do not speak their language, so at first, I sit quietly, almost reverently, next to the matriarch. There is high laughter and chatter among the women, and yet it is not out of control, and I am not frightened. I feel a tap on my shoulder. It is one of the younger women. She takes up my hand and draws into it with her finger. She does not look particularly pleased about what she is drawing. I do not want to offend, so I continue allowing the young woman to silently draw circles in my palm, though I’m unnerved. The grandmother leans in to watch, and gazes into my face before shaking her head and calling out. Widow Hawks appears again.

  Crouching next to me, Widow Hawks watches, then sighs softly, glancing at her mother.

  “My sister-in-law, Hantaywee, has a way with . . . spirits. She draws a moon in your hand.”

  “She does not look very happy about it,” I say worriedly. “Should I ask her to stop?”

  “She will stop when she feels it is right. My mother says you will either have a very good pregnancy, or have need to be fertile again in your life. They know you are widowed, like me.”

  “Oh dear,” I say. Because much of this is very blunt and open, I feel more than a bit exposed. Widow Hawks gives my arm a squeeze.

  “You are doing well. I know it is a lot.”

  “Before I forget, I am to stay with Kate tonight. So, you needn’t worry about me with your family here.”

  “I see.” Her eyes flick over her kin.