“I come I come, old bear grandpapa, we fix everything right will be left nothing undone,” she burst into the room.
“This we cannot fix,” said Hannali. “I die Anna-Hata.”
“Oh, I know that. What are we, white people, that we kid each other?”
White people! Anna-Hata was white people from her mother Hazel and her grandmother Marie DuShane — white people French. She was white people from her father Jemmy Buster — white people Texas. She had eyes like blue cornflowers and hair like corn. But Hannali, looking at her there, knew that the world had not run out of Indians yet.
“I turn white people myself,” said Hannali, “I die of white people pneumonia that is better than the new Choctaw fashion to sicken and linger with white people tuberculosis to what lengths do the people not go to prove that we are now white.”
Hannali was born when Napoleon was still on his surge upward. As a boy and young man he had heard all three of the Medal Mingos speak: Pushmataha, Apukshunubbee, Moshulatubbee. Who else still living had heard all three of them? He had been in every nation of the Plains during his long life; he had been in Florida of Spain and in Louisiana of France; he had been in old Mexico and in Texas of Mexico. He knew the nations of the Creeks and Seminoles and Osages and Cherokees, of the Quapaws and Absentee Shawnees, of the Wichitas and the Quahada Comanches and the southern Cheyennes, of the Kiowas and the Arapahos, of the Caddoes and Tonkawas. He had known nations of Indians that have since disappeared in every man of them.
He had learned every common trade that a man may carry on with his hands. Never in his life had he availed himself of the services of a doctor, lawyer, or sheriff. He had not backed down from any man in his life, and he came fearless to the hour of his death.
He was a Mingo.
2.
Why we gathered here then, to play pinochle? Hell is full of men who die with dignity. The smoke has gone up.
The husband of Anna-Hata, along with the priest, arrived late in the afternoon.
“Hasn't the doctor been here?'' the husband asked. “I thought you would long since have the doctor out from Eufaula.”
“Why no,” said Anna-Hata, “they're not particular friends; I saw no reason to have the doctor out. About a dozen people have come — those who knew to come without being sent for, little Catherine and her mother, most of the good friends. None other of the kindred lives close enough or would know to come without being contacted.”
“I do not mean the doctor for friendship, Anna-Hata,” said the husband. “I mean to have the doctor out professionally. Papa Hannali seems very low to me.”
“Low as a snake's liver, good husband. Doctor is in the way with sick people.”
“The doctor is not in the way with sick people, Anna-Hata. I'll ride to get him now. Papa Hannali might die.”
“But of course he will die! We agreed on that much. The priest is here and ourselves. What shall we do, make a show of it?”
“She is right,” the priest told the husband. “Hannali will die, and there is no use bothering his dying with a doctor. Get out of here, Anna-Hata, and take your husband. I have my own business to transact with Hannali.”
So Hannali was confessed, counseled, and composed, and made ready for the journey about which he showed great curiosity.
“I'll know in a little while,” Hannali said, “I'll know it all there's a dozen things I've argued about and I bet I'm right about every one of them that all knowledge is given to us immediately after the particular judgment is one of the things I've argued why have a man to wait so long to know everything.”
Anna-Hata and her husband came back in, and the priest gave Communion and Extreme Unction to Hannali. Thereupon Hannali went to sleep till midnight, and Anna-Hata sat with him. Into his breast pocket she slipped a corn cake that he could eat on the journey. Hannali wakened at deep night and talked to Anna-Hata:
“I tell you little straw-colored bird I have just arrived at the solution of it all call the two men in and we finish with it.”
“Come you in the men,” called Anna-Hata going to the door, “we have decided to make the finish to it.”
“It is like this,” said Hannali, “the priest will have to get back to Muskogee the grave still has to be dug I had put off doing it as I hadn't intended to die till later in the year other things must be taken care of if the key act waits till morning then we will all lose valuable time O.K. then I die now we fix it all.”
“No, no, do not talk of dying,” gasped the husband of Anna-Hata.
“Why we gathered here then to play pinochle,” asked Hannali, “I do it now it take me about five minutes when I make up my mind then husband get busy dig the grave coffin is already made in the big room behind also rollers to get me out the door in it I am very heavy these I make myself others will do other things and all can start home by sunup.”
“Only God can say when you will die, Hannali,” chided the priest.
“So then He say it to not keep these good people waiting Hannali He say how do you know which ear He talk to me in He tell me to get with it now I die in five minutes watch and you learn how to do it.”
“Death is not a joke, Papa Hannali,” said the husband of Anna-Hata.
“What then should I die with dignity,” asked Hannali, “Hell is full of men who die with dignity sure it is a joke the last one of all to get out of every life trap get away clear watch this old operator operate I bet I can do it in five minutes and me not even very sick right now.”
“Sure you can, Papa Hannali,” said Anna-Hata, “go get that old thing. Don't wait him come get you, old buffalo bull grandpapa. I bet you can cut a minute off it.”
“Anna-Hata, this is ghastly!” protested the husband.
“What? To laugh and smile at the old thing when it comes along to one of us? What are we, white people, that we use such words as ghastly? Look! The old bear will do it with plenty of time left over.”
Hannali did it in good time. He died in about three minutes after he really put his mind to it. It would have taken most strong men twice that long.
He was clear in his mind to the end. He had never been anything else. He remembered every name or word he had ever heard — every scent he had ever smelled — every object to which he had put his hand — every notion he had ever entertained in the dark of night. He remembered every blade of grass he had ever seen.
His memory was unimpaired. Nor did his eyes really grow dim till he shut them by his own effort.
He was really the last of them.
The smoke has gone up. The talk is over with.
In the beginning was first the Okla — the people.
This is the story of what happened to the people.
Okla Hannali Page 25
