Turning slowly, Stone reestablished eye contact. “Because it’s important to you.”
Cullin was speechless.
“Leave, now,” the elder urged, “and visit Decoreous Blackfoot. Unless he grants you permission for your investigation, I cannot help you.”
Reluctantly, Cullin started back to his pickup. His head was low, his shoulders slumped, his face sometimes distorted as he stepped with pain over the uneven earth. The eyes of the tribe were again upon him. Even the yellow dogs, their ears perked, wondered why a man’s tail hung so low. Each barked in perfect unison.
Though clear and proud of his words, the elder watched his childhood friend depart, as if there was more that needed saying.
If the sheriff had a sixth sense, a certain sensitivity to stares, he might’ve felt the laser precision of a pair of eyes coming from a far corner of the assembly. Seated just outside of the circle on an old oak stump, oblivious to the fire or the conversation among friends or the stories of old, a grubby man watched Cullin. As Indians go, he did not fit the physical stereotype. He was short, fat, and had a pudgy but expressive face that seemed habitually averse to a razor. Even his clothes were different. In contrast to the other men, he wore denim bib overalls with one shoulder strap loose and dangling over his belly, a dirty gray shirt underneath. His gaze lasted long after the rest of Wasin grew disinterested. His head even craned as Cullin moved by, opened the Ford’s driver-side door with a squeal, and started the engine. A loud backfire brought a wide grin to the Indian’s face, which showed gaps between his teeth. For those intact, splashes of yellow-brown stains covered the enamel.
With the brake lights disappearing into the forest, the powwow resumed. The fire roared back to life. The drums beat loudly. And the chanting continued, hitting even higher and higher notes.
6. The Anniversary
July 19th, 1945, 11:10 a.m.
Later, the clouds dissipated in Westcreek, giving way to bright sunshine. Downtown, the gravel roads and wooden buildings dried out, shedding the remnants of a storm that was reluctant to leave. Near the middle of Main Street, on the south side, a group of men huddled around a square board nailed into a vertical post attached to an expansive wooden awning. A piece of paper listing day jobs for tomorrow was stapled to the board. Tired eyes read about ditch-digging, house painting, crop cleaning, light manufacturing, and masonry work outside of the valley, sometimes as far as seventy miles away. Attaining employment was the first hurdle, getting to the job site an often tougher second.
A scrunching noise from the east drew the group’s attention. A black Chrysler De Soto with shiny sidewalls rolled forward and past, a stoic husband and wife seated on a front bench seat and a freckle-faced girl in back, squished against a near window to accommodate suitcases, hat boxes, and straw baskets full of linen, plates, cups, and silverware. On top of the car, three mattresses, four wooden chairs, and a red tricycle were tightly tied down.
Can you take one of us with you? some of the men questioned silently. Can you send help? Can you at least tell others about our hardship?
The vehicle kicked up a light dust, and the men pivoted, following the sleek car sight-wise until it became smaller and smaller on the horizon. The scene was mind-numbingly familiar. It happened over and over.
But not everyone was leaving.
On the side of the road, heading in the opposite direction and becoming larger and larger, Steven came into view. He was keeping a promise.
One . . . two, three . . . four, he stepped. One . . . two, three . . . four.
The closer to downtown he got, the greater the number of intense stares he attracted. The men saw a half-Indian boy dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt hobbling on a crutch. In Steven’s hand, he held a bouquet of white and red daisies.
Whispers consumed the group, and stares turned to suspicious glares. A young miner asked, in private, if the Indian was new in town, for he hadn’t seen him before. A lumberjack, smoking a pipe, who had lived in the valley for twenty years, struggled to recall Steven’s name. And a banker in a tweed jacket with a tinny voice asked why “he” was here and not on the reservation. At one point, all the men pondered Steven’s knowledge of, or involvement in, the events of the previous night.
Near midtown, his heart pounding, Steven picked up the pace. Only once did he peek over at the group. Only once did he try to acknowledge the men’s presence, and hopefully they, his. Only once did he seek a connection. Steven saw only cold, dark eyes. No faces. No expressions. No skin tones or even hair color. Just cold, dark eyes.
Wanting to get “off stage,” he hobbled at a near sprint the rest of the way through downtown, stabbing the end of his crutch into the earth while muttering curse words under his breath. He eventually vanished around the back corner of a small church where the gravel on Main Street faded.
Reluctantly the men returned their focus back to the job board. Whispers became loud, boisterous conversations as a verbal pecking order was established, larger, older townspeople telling smaller, younger ones that they’d have to find work the day after tomorrow or the day after that—the elders had seniority. Tempers flared. Arguments were made about bills needing to be paid, about food needing to be bought. Light pushing and shoving turned into an all-out brawl.
But a gunshot would bring everyone to order.
From the Westcreek Café on the opposite side of Main Street, holding a black pistol with a long barrel pointed to the sky, Mayor Pike sauntered to the gathering. Near the men, he carefully holstered his gun deep inside a pocket within his long blue suitcoat. Then he stood with his hands on his hips. “Now, now, friends,” he toyed. “We are nothing if we are not civilized. Any more of this unrest and I’ll have the sheriff throw the lot of ya in jail. Am I clear?”
A few mouthed yes while a majority simply nodded their heads.
“I posted those jobs. I’ll decide who goes and who will wait. Everyone else should finish packing and make living arrangements outside of the valley. And don’t forget: your signed paperwork needs to be on my desk before you leave. I’ll be the last to turn out the lights.” He visually scanned the downtown buildings. “Unless something changes, this will all belong to the Indians.”
“Now go,” he barked, as if growing tired of the group’s presence. “I don’t want any more trouble.”
The men didn’t move.
Pike pulled out his pistol and fired again into the air. “I said go!”
The response was immediate. Jolting into action, some hurried to the General Store, some to their homes, but most to the Westcreek Café.
The mayor watched for a short while before switching his attention to the small church at the east end of town. Taking out a fresh cigar from his vest pocket, cropping the end, and sparking a match off his shiny belt buckle, he wondered what Steven was doing. Taking two short puffs, a smirk crossed his face.
It was like he knew a secret about the boy.
/////
Our Savior’s Lutheran Church stood on the southeast corner of Main Street and Silent Drive. Rectangular, with a high-pitched roof, a small cross on the crest, and surrounded for the most part by a waist-high fence, its front door was holey, as if termites had eaten their way inward. Through the small holes, one could see rows of wooden pews set askew. Outside, out-of-control quack grass covered the grounds, especially around the foundation, and where cracks or chunks of cement were missing, spiderwebs flourished.
In the back, Steven entered a squeaky gate supported by only one hinge and limped to the south side, to a cemetery, where the fence abruptly ended, as if too tired to continue. His head hung low. Limping over old graves of pioneers who died of such things as influenza, smallpox, overexposure, and even skirmishes with Indians, the boy headed for a far corner and stopped. He bent carefully down and silently placed the bouquet of daisies near a black-and-white rock. Standing up and repositioning the crutch squarely under his arm, he folded his hands and spoke.
“Lazy Boy was always tired,” he began, “a
lways sleeping. On the morning of the great hunt he could not be awakened, so the village men left without him. They were off to track the swift deer and gather food. The men were gone for days. And when they didn’t return, the village women sobbed.”
Steven lifted his light brown face to the warm sun. “The winds,” he continued, “awoke Lazy Boy and told him that the men were devoured by a Great Monster living deep within the forest. Lazy Boy did not know what to do, so he laid back down and closed his eyes. In his dreams a mighty eagle visited and whispered instructions on how to kill the beast. Lazy Boy awoke to find a magical knife within his hand.
“Lazy Boy waited until dusk,” he said more slowly. “Then he searched for the Great Monster, finding it lying on a lush riverbank. The beast was bloated, full from eating all day long. It was too stuffed to defend itself. With little effort, Lazy Boy killed the creature, slitting its belly wide open and releasing all the men inside that had been lost. Back at the village, everyone celebrated Lazy Boy’s courage. Everyone . . . except Lazy Boy. He simply fell asleep.”
Steven dropped his eyes back down to the rock. “That was your favorite tale, father. One you told me over and over. But I can’t help wondering: Where is the hero for our people? Why won’t the mighty eagle visit us with a solution? The village is empty, with many pushed onto reservations and others . . . just fading away. I’m left here with only memories. Memories of grandfather. Nothing more.”
As a light breeze swept through the cemetery, he paused and swallowed hard. Then he closed his eyes. “You once said family was at the heart of the spirit. That in times of pain or loneliness, seek out family for warmth. Well, I’m very cold, father. My heart is about to stop. You’re gone. Grandfather’s gone. And mother spends her days and nights in dishonor. She muddies her spirit with booze and chases after shameful men. I don’t think she can see through it all. I don’t think she can see me. I think as she dies . . . I die.”
As if reflecting on the truth in his words, he winced. Then he squeezed the handle of his crutch, reluctantly letting a tear escape from his eye. Then he whispered. “Father,” he said, “two years ago today you were murdered. They called it an accident. But there are no accidents in Westcreek. I am here to never forget and to never forgive. And though I know you are at peace, that you roam through the forest and play with the white deer, I can’t help but hope that the mighty eagle will show me a way to vengeance. A way to pay back this town.”
His heart racing, Steven wiped away the tear that had now traveled down under his jaw. “Ginoo akii bimaadizi,” he growled in the Native tongue.
Turning abruptly, he left the cemetery, experiencing intense anger and sadness in his chest. His mind had trouble managing both emotions; he couldn’t think straight.
His legs would find a remedy.
/////
Stumbling in his steps, he hobbled across the gravel street to a town park in disarray. Five blocks wide by five blocks long, it was overrun by thistle, creeping Charlie, and witch grass. Marigolds and wildflowers tried to emerge from the depths of the scrub but wilted only halfway up, unable to receive enough of the sun’s nurturing rays to grow. Steven plowed his way through. He was headed for the middle of the park and a rundown gazebo.
Hexagonal in shape, several beams from the roof dangled, some touching the crumbling floor. Sets of stairs leading to the middle of the stage had missing or cracked steps. Even the once shiny white paint was dull or chipped, and the red-and-black trim was nonexistent or faded into pink and gray colors, respectively. On top of the gazebo, a metal weathervane with a rusted rooster at one end was bent sharply to the east. Steven carefully climbed a flight of broken stairs and set his crutch against one of the nearby pillars. To him, the gathering house was as beautiful as he remembered.
Tripping to the middle, Steven moved in circles, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. A smile appeared on his otherwise tense face, and he could hear and see the sounds of yesteryear. Remembering his sixth birthday party, he listened to the laughter of children, the clapping of adult hands after feats of brilliance and wonder, and the whips of wind that precipitated a grand and mysterious ride. His muscles relaxing, he could envision sparks of light jumping to and fro across the stage, coins falling from young earlobes, a black top hat waddling here, there, and everywhere, and the loss of gravity that allowed his friends to be positioned at equal spaces around the edge of the roof. The boy was becoming intoxicated with happiness.
He began to dance. Pretending he was the mystic, Steven waltzed and flipped a magic switch in his head, causing all the children to move forward at equal rates and slowly up and down.
One, two, three, one . . . two, three, he waltzed, nearly falling. One, two, three, one . . . two, three.
Vigilant, Steven tottered to all sides of the gazebo and stared up, trying to assess speed, distance between child and roof, distance between boy and girl, and height of rising and falling. In his vision, the mechanics had to be perfect—to his grandfather’s liking. He broke out in perspiration, internalizing the importance of the job. At the west end of the crumbling structure, he reached out high with his right hand, pretending he, too, could hold the air and exert influence.
That’s when the dream and all the children inside came crashing down.
A grubby hand nabbed Steven’s wrist.
“Practicing magic, boy?” an intense voice asked.
Startled, sheer fright etched across his face, Steven immediately found the source of his capture. What he saw was an old Indian with a dirty face, shifty eyes, and an almost crazy grin. Most surprising, though, was the queer sense that he knew or should know the man.
“Answer me, boy!” the uninvited guest scolded, shaking Steven. “You causin’ problems in these parts? Huh? Carrying on like your grandfather?”
Tugging, Steven tried to regain his wrist. But to no avail. He spoke meekly. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Who are you?”
“Folks around these parts call me Amos.”
“What do you want?”
His detainer drew close, and Steven smelled a combination of cheap wine and body odor.
“I want answers!” the man replied, spit dribbling off his lips. “Where is your grandfather? What terrible things does he have planned for both red and white?”
With all his strength, Steven pulled back violently, finally gaining freedom. Floundering in his balance, he took two steps back, trying to make sense of the sudden assault. “My grandfather is gone. Chased out of this valley many years ago.”
“Sure of that, are you?” Amos questioned, his bushy brows raised. “That’s what they’d like you to believe. That he’s gone for good. But search deep within your heart. Don’t you feel him? Hmmm? Like sudden cold air on the back of your neck?”
The boy gazed into Amos’s eyes. They were big, brown, and quivering, and what he saw was a man on edge, as if expecting some catastrophe to happen if certain steps weren’t taken. In one sense, Steven didn’t believe the madman; in another, the words were insightful, for a regular stirring in his gut over the past few days suggested someone was watching—that someone comforting was near. But when investigating those suspicions, searching for a tangible source in the immediate environment, he found nothing. It was like a ghost came and went. Steven felt especially close to the ghost when perusing the items in the chest.
Was it you, grandfather? Steven questioned silently. Have you been near me? Are you truly alive?
Logic won out. Closing off his heart and thinking rationally, Steven dismissed Amos’s assertion. “I told you, my grandfather is gone. Probably dead after all this time.”
“Probably?” Amos quibbled. “Probably is as good as not. Let me dispel any doubt.” Briefly laughing, like a bout of gas had surprised his esophagus, he closed what physical gap remained, pointing at his nose and trying to emphasize a coming point. “He has to be here. He’s bound by ancestral duties. The dead won’t let him leave, at least alive. He’s out there in the forest a
nd crazy—crazier than me and wanting to make trouble. He’s killed before, you know. Now killed again, this time by four. The whites are red with rage, and only bloodshed will quiet their voices.”
Steven puckered his face in disdain, shook his head from side to side, and then hurried toward his crutch and the stairs. “You’re ill!”
“Maybe, maybe,” Amos agreed, grabbing Steven’s shirt to slow progress. “But sane enough to know this: Your grandfather will seek you out. He’ll want to be near kin in these times of trouble. Stay away from him—run from him. Tell him to stop his murderous ways. And don’t let him close to your spirit . . . or we’re all doomed.”
Abruptly, Amos widened his shaky eyes and sniffed. Still holding Steven, he sniffed near the boy’s chest and hands. “Flowers—daisies, I smell. Ones that were there but now are gone.” A sudden a-ha expression crossed his face as he pointed to his nose again. “You’ve been to the town cemetery. ‘Tis an anniversary. Yes? Of your father’s death?” He chuckled, flashing his dirty teeth. “Next time you see him—give him a kiss from his ol’ Uncle Amos!”
As if the words were a lightning strike, Steven yanked away, grabbed his crutch, hastily descended the broken stairs, and then hightailed it out of the park and down Main Street, crowding the north side.
The thought of home and his attic never felt more soothing.
And Amos watched. But only for a moment. Suddenly he heard something from the north—something faint but present, and with haste he walked across the gazebo to a far railing. He sniffed the wind three long times, then tilted an ear upward. Still, like a statue, he thought he heard whispering in the forest. Childlike whispering. But he couldn’t make out the words. The words were there yet nowhere in particular. He listened—he sniffed again, trying to make better sense of what was happening. But he couldn’t.
7. Gloria, Dex, and a Sheriff’s Lament
July 19th, 1945, 9:45 p.m.
At sunset, Gloria finished her shift at the Westcreek Café. Alone, meandering sluggishly west, her high heels crunching the stiff gravel on Main Street, she reached into a small purse for a tin pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. Carefully choosing one, she brought it to her full red lips and lit the end. After inhaling deeply—exhaling just as long—she sighed, balancing the tin container and purse under her left armpit while pulling at a tight pink dress that crowded her small round hips with the other hand. It had been a long day: lots of drinks served, lots of come-ons deflected, few tips gained. Listening to out-of-tune crickets call out for a mate, Gloria thought about what it would feel like to finally leave Westcreek. She was flush with anticipation and eager for a new life. For both her and Steven.
The Guardian Hills Saga Page 5
