“I supervise little kids because I’ve been coming for years and years,” she said modestly.
“A veteran, huh?”
The finger-pointing boy — Tamantha needed to work on him about that — did it again, while objecting with a mocking, “She’s never been in the Army.”
“It also means someone experienced at something.”
I admired the way Tamantha responded. Not a hint of a sneer. Matter-of-fact, not lording her superior knowledge of the word over him.
He took it the way Tamantha delivered it, with an interested, “Huh.”
Someday, I hoped to grow up into Tamantha Burrell.
“This is my group,” she told me.
“Hi, group.”
Several giggled, a few looked at me with solemn confusion.
“We were talking about making butter,” Tamantha told me. “Now I’m going to tell them how people used to put it on Sheepherder’s bread, like we’re having at lunch.”
“Oh, I like that.”
“Yum.”
“That’s my favorite.”
Majestically acknowledging the enthusiasm with an inclination of her head, Tamantha continued, “To be really authentic you have to dig a hole in the ground and bake it there. Some people use yeast, but I read up on it and a sourdough starter’s more authentic.”
“You know how to make bread? From a sourdough starter?” Tom Burrell knew a lot, but I doubted that included bread-making. And I’d bet Tamantha’s mother hadn’t taught her daughter to make bread before her death. Both because she didn’t know how and she didn’t teach Tamantha much.
“We learn here.” Aha. Tamantha returned her attention to the gathered kids. “Everybody will have some today at lunch and when you come back next time, you’ll be old enough to learn how to make it yourselves.”
Judging by the expressions of the younger kids in her circle, Tamantha should be on Nadine’s payroll for drumming up repeat business.
In a more conversational tone, she added, “I love fry bread, too, but they don’t let us make it here because of the hot oil and the fires and the littler kids.”
“Gabubu bread doesn’t use as much oil,” one of the younger girls said.
Tamantha perked up. “It doesn’t? Maybe we can make that next time.”
“It’s real good with fruit stew. Or with chili.”
Tamantha frowned. “I’m not sure if chili would be authentic. We’ll have to look that up.”
They became fully occupied in discussing whether the miners would have had chili. One boy suggested that if they did, the tribes could have taken it after routing the miners — he announced proudly his older brother was going to be a warrior tomorrow — and that way it could have been introduced early to the tribes … and thus historically accurate to eat now.
Happy to leave Tamantha to field the delicate issue of historic accuracy without crushing impressive creative thinking, I wound my way among the groups and back down to the picnic tables.
Chapter Nine
Nadine Hulte pushed her hair back with both hands and, now that I saw her close up, appeared significantly less well-rested than yesterday.
“As you can see, it is not cowboys and Indians as your colleague said.”
I raised one open-fingered hand, disavowing connection to Thurston Fine. “The kids seem to be fully engaged.”
The defensiveness dropped from her voice. “I hope so. It’s a struggle sometimes to present the full history, the history of all the people. Around here, the mountain men, their rendezvous, and the battles — always the battles — are the most popular. But those represent such a small view of the lives in this area at that time.”
“Not a lot of women involved?”
“Precisely. Nor children, nor family life, nor daily life. For the children who participate, we prefer to offer an immersive experience in real life of that period.”
“How do you do that?”
“We pair each child from a Native American background with a child not from a Native American background. First, they create a name for their pairing and wear the same color t-shirt, reinforcing they are a team and—” She smiled faintly. “—easing our task of organizing them, since we deal with them two at a time. Each pairing spends two days experiencing aspects of daily life from the 1860s as a Native American would have, then two days experiencing aspects as a settler would have at that time. With half in the opposite order and all material tailored to the age group.”
“That must require a great deal of supervision with so many kids across all ages and from different backgrounds.”
“We have a thriving mentoring structure in place. We select children who have experienced our program, who have shown leadership and responsibility. It really helps having the older kids teaching the younger ones. It seems less like school, more like they’re picking up things naturally.”
“And getting the inside scoop from older and cool kids,” I said. “I saw it at work.”
She grinned fleetingly. “Exactly. On the fifth day, we spend the morning having them share what they have learned, as well as what they have taught each other. That’s what we’ve done this morning.
“For me, this is always the best part. To see their recognition that they have taught each other so much — that they had so much knowledge to share.”
In my direct line of sight, Clara Atwood emerged from between two blue tarps, looked around, spotted Nadine and me, and started in our direction.
“How do you organize the mentoring?”
“The fifth-graders have two pairs of younger children to guide. The eighth-graders oversee two of the fifth-graders and their groups. Then the older high schoolers supervise three of the eighth-graders’ groups. Of course,” she added hurriedly, “we have the required number of adults, each with thorough first aid training, and thoroughly vetted through background checks.”
“When my cameraperson arrives, we’ll get you on camera with background on what the camp covers and we’d like to talk to kids. A variety of ages.”
“The girl you were talking to — Tamantha Burrell would be an excellent choice.”
“Mmm. My cameraperson has a personal relationship with the Burrells. Better to talk to other kids.” It was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Clara, who’d arrived in time to hear that, gave me a look that combined skeptical eyebrows with a sympathetic grimace.
Great.
She’d heard … something. Heaven only knew what.
Redirecting to a topic I knew would interest her, I said, “Did you hear about Russell Teague, Clara?”
“That he’s sick? Yeah. Heard that last night on the news.”
“It’s more serious than Thurston might have made it sound.”
“Oh?” She didn’t cross the line of good taste, but she was interested. Teague and the museum were the final major parties left in the legal dispute over historic gold coins found the year before. “How serious?”
“He’s not expected to live much longer.”
In harmony, she and Nadine sucked in a breath.
“I had no idea. I wouldn’t have wished that on him, but I won’t pretend I’m not thinking how good this could be for the museum.” Clara pressed her lips closed. Likely to keep speculations about those gold coins from spilling out.
Nadine, on the other hand, had moved on. Or, should I say, she moved back — to the topic closest to her heart, our coverage of her events.
“Whichever kids you’d like to talk to who are willing to talk to you would be fine. There are a few who might be shy, but most will be happy to be on camera. You know, the more I think of it, the more I feel that, out of fairness, you really should talk to Palmer Rennant.”
“No, she shouldn’t,” Clara said emphatically. “Have that colossal jerk get airtime — which could otherwise be devoted to the camp and reenactment? No way.”
Peacemaker that I am, I said, “In this case it’s moot. That angle could have worked when the shift to t
he new location wasn’t settled or even for an upcoming-events type story, but now that’s been what we call overrun by events. We’d be back-tracking on the story. We want to stay with what’s fresh — and that’s the camp and the reenactment.”
“I still think—”
“Oops, there’s Mrs. Parens, telling me I’m taking too long.” Clara tipped her head toward the tarps. I saw the familiar small, erect figure appear, then disappear between two tarps. “She asked to talk with you, Elizabeth, if you have time. I was sent to get you. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay here.”
“I don’t mind, but I see my cameraperson arriving and need to get with her. When I get to talk to Mrs. Parens, I’m telling her you never said a word.”
Nadine smiled and so did I, as I left to meet Diana. Clara did not.
Chapter Ten
Mrs. Parens spotted me immediately when I eventually entered the tarped off area.
Diana had shot four groups sharing what they’d learned during the week. Now she was picking up background of the buttes, then planned to catch the kids at lunch. After lunch, we’d pull out a few from their reenactment prep duties for one-on-one interviews, plus get Nadine on camera with background.
That gave me lunchtime to check in with Mrs. P.
She was talking with another woman and an older man. I recognized Anna Price-Fox and O.D. Everett from meeting them last winter at an event I attended as a command performance — with Mrs. P doing the commanding. They were among the area’s most influential tribal representatives.
We all said hello. I would have been fine continuing our conversation with them, but they excused themselves and left the tarped area. Perhaps for lunch.
I not only resisted the temptation to blame Clara for my tardiness, I invited Mrs. Parens’ censure when I said, “I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you before I do any recording about tomorrow. Should I call the event being commemorated a battle or a massacre?”
She gave me a severe look. “I believe you intend to draw a reaction from me with that provocative question, Elizabeth. However, I am fully aware that you are aware that neither term is appropriate to these circumstances. Both battle and massacre are overstatements. The more neutral terminology of fight is more balanced and thus acceptable, yet, far more accurate would be to term it a skirmish.”
She had my number. I had tried to provoke her … in hopes of getting more information than she’d shared last night.
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it. Why did it happen at all?”
“Ah, why is a complicated question.”
Showing off a bit, I said, “I know it involves people going to Bozeman.” That sounded significantly thinner aloud than it had in my head, so I added, “On the Bozeman Trail. And broken treaties had a big impact.”
She looked at me expectantly. But I’d shot my wad. Shot my wad — how was that for a nice reenacting term, since it’s based on how muskets operated, with wad and musket ball, and not on male sexual habits, as my tittering nephew J.R. tried to tell me when they visited earlier in the month.
Yes, I am getting old.
Besides, more accurately, I’d shot Diana’s wad, since she was my source for this information.
Mrs. P emitted a soft sigh — more in sorrow than in anger, but disappointment outstripped both. I really wished Diana was with me, instead of safely out there with the campers. I missed Mike and Jennifer, too, and wished they were here. Or Tom.
No. I took that back. Not Tom.
No regrets on his absence. In fact, I was positively glad he wasn’t here.
Not for the reason some might think, because of any lingering awkwardness between us since he’d declared no mas on … well, whatever mas there’d been between us. There was awkwardness. Probably no way there couldn’t be. But that would go away. Eventually.
And it wasn’t the factor now.
The reason I didn’t want him here was because he would know everything about these historical events and I would look even worse in contrast than I did being ignorant on my own.
“In the period we’re discussing, it was not referred to as the Bozeman Trail, but rather as the Montana Road. The purpose was to shorten the trip from the Oregon Trail to the region around current Bozeman, where gold had been discovered.”
“Ah, gold,” I said wisely.
She eyed me. Then she gestured to a map spread out on a table beside her.
In her home, she had a considerable collection of historical artifacts, including maps and photographs that stretched up the walls. She used a pointer to compel attention to specifics there. I now realized her finger served as well, as it traced up the east side of the Big Horn Mountains.
“This portion of the route traveled largely through Crow territory, as delineated by the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1851. However, by the time of the discovery of gold in Montana and the use of the trail, the Crow had been largely pushed out.
“That occurred as a result of the United States failing to enforce the treaty, with ongoing incursions from miners, emigrants, and others, as well as disputes among the tribes. The disputes among tribes were exacerbated by the depletion of the buffalo herds they relied upon.
“By the time the Montana Road was being traveled in 1864, the map of the 1851 treaty was largely mythical. With attacks on wagon trains increasing into 1866, the U.S. Army moved to erect forts to protect Montana Road travelers. Yet the Army ordered the forts be built on the west side of the Powder River, under the delusion the territory, per the 1851 treaty, was controlled by the Crows when, in fact, the Lakota, Arapaho, and Cheyenne considered that their territory.
“That meant the forts — especially Fort Phil Kearny, south of what is now Buffalo — were under constant pressure, if not attack. Fort Reno was built closer to the Oregon Trail and Fort C.F. Smith just north of the modern-day Wyoming border. That north-south stretch was the most dangerous of the Montana Road.
“A small group of travelers cited that as their reason for trying to sweep west of the Big Horn Mountains, up through the Big Horn Basin. However, the basin is semi-arid. That is why it remained uncultivated until the spread of irrigation through the ditch systems with which you became familiar last year, Elizabeth. The travelers — gold miners — who tried this different route, had traversed most of the dry expanse before reaching an area now part of Cottonwood County.
“By the time they found water here, they were desperate. However, so was a small band of Lakota, who had ventured this far west to scout buffalo herds and other game.
“The account of the survivors among the miners is that the Lakota raced down an incline toward them and overran the camp. This terrain suits that scenario far better than our previous location.”
She gestured toward the butte.
I squinted toward it. “Wouldn’t the raiders be spotted?”
“In the accounts of the event, they came from a clump of trees and bushes farther along the creek the miners had camped beside. In their desire for water, they had not scouted the area sufficiently. In our scenario, the riders will start from a cut in the butte that is more than sufficient to mask their presence before they begin their descent.”
A call came that lunch was ready for the older kids — which I suppose included us.
I said no thank you to joining Mrs. Parens and, instead, asked the teenagers if I could join them for the two stews — meat and fruit — the Sheepherders bread and baked pudding in individual cups drizzled with honey and cinnamon. They filled me in on their week’s activities and pointed out which of the younger kids they thought would be comfortable on camera.
Diana didn’t get much to eat, but she got good footage of the kids’ animated connections. Not to mention their delight in the dessert.
After that, we did short interviews of a dozen kids, one by one. While the others “broke camp,” removing the stations where they’d had their activities and setting out stones that indicated where tomorrow’s spectators were supposed to stay on the opposite side of the
creek from the butte.
Diana added a lovely panorama shot from the creek, up to the butte that seemed to shimmer in the afternoon sun.
With that one in the can, we headed back to the station, to edit pieces for the Five and Ten O’clock newscasts.
We could have done three times as many with all the good stuff the kids gave us, even without Tamantha.
She’d been so busy with the other kids, we’d only waved good-bye to each other before I left. Once again proving she was a better grown-up than most who qualified for the title chronologically, she showed no evidence of disappointment to not be one of those interviewed.
The packages for the Five and Ten went together easily. So, we also roughed out a recap piece for Sunday night.
And even so, we got out at a decent time.
I asked Diana if she wanted to come over for a glass of wine, but she said she’d better get home and check on her kids.
I hadn’t imagined the tension in her voice last night. It was there again.
But I wasn’t going to push.
Not yet.
I tried Rennant again — no answer to my earlier message, so I wasn’t hopeful, but sometimes if you catch people on the fly, they accidentally answer and don’t have time to think up a reason to say no.
No fly catching this time. He didn’t answer. I left another message.
I went home to indulge in some Shadow therapy.
At this time of year that consisted of sitting in a chair in my backyard — blooming after my parents tended to it earlier in the season — with my dog and a glass of wine. Wearing a jacket. In August.
The sky was mostly clear, though Warren Fisk had told me rain was expected overnight.
Poor Warren’s weather segment had been sliced so short that he’d taken to disseminating the weather by telling everyone he met what was coming up.
Watching Shadow’s ears as he listened to the sounds of approaching night was enough to make me Zen even about what Thurston Fine had done and would do to the intros to tonight’s packages.
Body Brace (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 10) Page 5
