“Too young to tame my own heart.”
He grinned. “Well, if you had to tame it so much, it must still have feelings for me. Truth then must surely be truth now. You wanted me to kiss you, didn’t you?”
His words only made the situation more confusing, and Connie didn’t dare let him continue.
“Who is responsible for bringing the whiskey in?” she asked, changing the subject.
He chuckled. “I don’t know. I have my suspicions.”
“Who?”
“Well, a lot of folks think it’s your mother and father.”
“What?” She barely remembered to be surprised. “How can you possibly say that? You know they would never do something like that.”
“I didn’t say I thought they were doing it,” Clint replied.
“But you said you had your suspicions.”
“I don’t suspect your parents. I was only saying what others think. What I’ve overheard.”
“My parents love these people. You know that. You worked with them long before becoming an agent. You know they could never do anything to harm the Indians.” Connie was louder than she’d meant to be and lowered her voice. “You know they’re innocent.”
“I do believe that.” Clint took her by the arm and started back through the brush to the main road. “But a lot of folks think they’re guilty. They believe your parents are unhappy that they were replaced by the Catholic Church.”
“My parents . . . were unhappy . . . to have their ministry . . . taken away.” She was panting hard as Clint pulled her back up the bank to the road in quick strides. “But they’d never do . . . anything to . . . hurt the Indians.”
He continued to move along at a quick clip until the reservation buildings were in sight. Only then did he stop. “I’ll figure this out, Connie, but you need to stay out of it.”
“Does my father know about these crates being snuck in?” She continued to play dumb, hoping Clint might give her information she didn’t already have.
“Yes. We were together on a night just like this when they brought in another supply. We saw the crates stacked on the banks. Your father wanted to confront them, but I suggested we wait and see if we couldn’t learn who was behind it.”
“I’m going to talk to my father about this. Together we must learn the truth.”
He took hold of her arms. “No. You mustn’t say anything about it. Your father doesn’t want you or your mother knowing about it. He made me swear to say nothing.”
“But now that I know—”
“No!” His tone was harsh. “Look, it’s bad enough that you were out there. He’ll be livid if he finds out. Just don’t say anything. In return for you keeping this between us, I’ll tell you whatever I learn. Promise me you’ll stay quiet about it.”
“Well . . . all right. I promise . . . for now.” She wasn’t sure what exactly had him so upset. Was he worried that she would cause problems for his own investigation?
Before she could ask, he slipped into the shadows and was gone. He’d left her within ten yards of her house. Connie didn’t know what to think or do. She was touched that he was working to see her father cleared, but at the same time she was confused by the kiss. It hadn’t filled her with the elation and love she had thought it would. Not that she’d thought it would now, but in the past she had figured it would send her soaring, fill her stomach with the fluttering of butterfly wings, and fill the air with fireworks. It had done none of those things.
“What are you doing out here? It’s well past one in the morning.”
Connie started at the sound of Tom’s voice. “You gave me a fright. I wish you wouldn’t sneak up on me.”
“I was worried about you. I heard you slip out of the house earlier.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bother you. When we were at the store earlier today, I heard a group of men talking about something happening at the river tonight. I went to see what was going on, and it turned out they were smuggling whiskey onto the reservation.”
“What? That could have been dangerous! Why didn’t you tell me? I could have gone with you.”
The moon slid out from behind the clouds, and she could see Tom’s worried expression. “I wasn’t sure if what I’d overheard meant anything. I certainly didn’t expect to see them smuggling whiskey.”
“Was that Clint with you? Did you tell him?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” She sighed. “Yes, it was Clint, but no, I didn’t tell him what I’d heard nor anything else. When I was creeping along the riverbank, Clint caught me and dragged me into the brush to hide. He did tell me he’s trying to figure out who’s smuggling whiskey onto the reservation. Then I heard one of the men wondering where Smith was.”
“Who is Smith?”
“I don’t know. I asked Clint, but he didn’t seem to know either, and all he wanted to talk about was the kiss.”
She hadn’t meant to mention that, but since it was Tom and she usually told him everything, Connie wasn’t overly concerned.
Tom, however, seemed to see it differently. “Kiss? What kiss?”
“Oh, it was nothing, really. Clint kissed me. I think he’s trying to get me to refocus my attention on the past and how I felt for him, but honestly, I don’t know what I feel anymore. That kiss didn’t make me feel anything but confused. I thought there would be fireworks and butterflies in my stomach, but there was nothing.” She started for the house. “We need to figure out who Smith is. Something tells me he’s an important part of this. I think we’re on to something big.”
Tom said nothing, and he didn’t follow her toward the house. No doubt he was still upset with her.
“I promise I won’t go out again without you,” she called over her shoulder. Hopefully that would settle him down.
Chapter 11
Tom spent the next few days meeting people either with Clint or Adam Browning. The people seemed apprehensive of him—even hostile at first—but once they’d spent a little time visiting, the Native people seemed more accepting of him. Two weeks after their arrival, he and Connie began their work together as a team. They started with the people who were on good terms with the Brownings. It was generally felt among the Native people that a friend of a friend was worthy of trust until proven unworthy. Of course, not everyone on the reservation considered the Brownings friends.
They started their official recording of Native culture and history with Rose Johnson. Rosy told many stories from her youth, while Tom and Connie took turns writing down every word. Around twelve thirty, Connie opened the basket she’d brought with her and pulled out leftovers from the previous evening’s meal. Rosy seemed grateful, especially for the generous slices of cake.
“Rosy, I remember you once told me about the bridewealth. It was a price paid for the bride, but it was also used to reckon certain crimes,” Connie commented.
“Yes.” Rosy smiled. “If someone murdered one of the wife’s family members, it required the killer or his family to make a full payment of restitution equal to the bridewealth—the money her father was originally paid by the groom. The bridewealth also determined what a woman’s children would inherit. This made it very important for her father to be paid a good price for his daughter so that the family would gain in importance and wealth.”
Tom looked up. “How was the bridewealth determined?” He had finished his meal and took out a journal to make notes.
“It was based on the woman’s beauty, moral character, and her rank. The common payment was made in dentalia shells and clamshell disk beads. Woodpecker feather scalps were also required, and one or two deerskins. The more that was paid, the more it increased the woman’s value and that of her children. My father received thirty-five long dentalia shells for me and forty woodpecker feather scalps. I don’t remember how many clamshell beads, but he was paid four deerskins. I was ranked very high, and my family was highly regarded.” Her voice betrayed her pride. “And I was once quite beautiful.” She laughed and touched her cheek. �
�But that beauty has been given to another who is young.”
“You are lovely in your old age,” Connie told her.
Rosy smiled. “You would have fetched a great price, Connie.”
Tom smiled and glanced down at his paper as he continued jotting notes. He thought about what it would be like to pay Connie’s father in shells and skins for the right to marry his daughter.
“Could we see your baskets, Rosy?” Connie turned to Tom. “Rosy makes the most beautiful baskets.”
Rosy went to her bed, which stood against the wall. She knelt down and pulled several baskets from underneath it. “I must keep them hidden or that awful Reverend Summers will force me to sell them. He once forced his way in here and took many of my old pieces—things my mother and father had given me. So now I keep a few things that do not matter on the shelves over there so that when he comes, he will be content.”
“That’s terrible, Rosy.”
“The government says it is all right, and so nobody cares to stop it. Our police try to stop him, but Reverend Summers always says that he paid for the pieces. And he does, but not all wanted to sell.”
She brought the tightly woven baskets to the small table. Connie had already removed the extra food and placed it on Rosy’s kitchen counter.
Rosy held up a basket that was about four inches across and the same in height. “This is the first basket that I made completely by myself. When my mother approved it, I was so excited that I ran through the village, declaring the news to anyone who would listen.”
Tom began to sketch it.
Rosy continued her explanation. “This shows the four important weaving methods for twining a basket. Here is the solid line. Then the rows that stack.” She pointed to the design. “And then you learn the weaving of rows that swirl to the right and then rows that swirl to the left. At the top we finish the basket with a simple weave that we do three times.”
“It looks braided,” Tom commented as he went back to drawing.
“Yes, but it is not.” Rosy put the little basket on the table, then picked up another. This one was bigger—about the size of a small dinner plate.
“I’ve always loved this one,” Connie declared. “Rosy’s mother made it for her when she married.”
Tom paused again. Where the other basket had been woven in dark and light tones of a dried grass, this one consisted of various dyed grasses in hues of black, red, and even blue. He finished his quick sketch of the first basket, then began drawing the second.
“What kind of grass are these made from?” Tom asked as he drew the basket.
“Bear grass. It’s rather wiry and very long,” Connie said before Rosy could reply.
“It was taller than me when my mother helped me gather it for the baskets.” Rosy laughed. “I sometimes got lost in it. We also used other things. Sometimes we would weave with tulle or cane, and we used all sorts of things for our dyes.”
“Tom, I can tell you about those later,” Connie interjected. “I helped make dyes when I was a girl. We used flowers and vegetables—fruits too.”
Tom enjoyed her excitement over the baskets. It was almost as if she’d forgotten her worries and was transported back in time to her childhood. He remembered the animated fifteen-year-old who had come to live with her aunt and uncle and wondered what she must have been like as a very young girl.
By the time they finished with Rosy, Tom felt he had a great overview of the history of the Shasta people. Rosy said most of them now lived on the Siletz Reservation near the ocean. It would be some time before Tom and Connie made their way there, but for now, Rosy’s detailed memories of her life as a girl would make for a great outline of life in the Shasta villages.
“She’s a very nice woman. I can see why you consider her a good friend.”
Connie carried the empty food basket. “Rosy was good to my mother even when the others were still so angry.”
“You can hardly blame them for being angry. They were uprooted from all they knew, forced to leave behind so much that was precious to them and march for hundreds of miles.”
“And they watched many of their loved ones die and were then forced to live on a reservation with their enemies.” Connie shook her head.
It was nearly three o’clock, but Connie said they could still talk with another family. They stopped at the poorly structured, unpainted house of the Sheridans.
“The Sheridans are Modoc. The Modoc were enemies of the Shasta at one time. Joseph Sheridan and my father, however, were good friends. They knew each other before the move to the reservation,” Connie told him. She knocked on the frame where a blanket hung instead of a door. “I hope they’ll speak with us.”
An older woman appeared. She seemed surprised by Tom and Connie and called over her shoulder in Modoc. Tom had no idea what she had said, but she disappeared behind the blanket, and two large men appeared.
“Mr. Sheridan, do you remember me?” Connie asked. “I’m Adam Browning’s daughter, Connie.”
“I heard you had returned,” the older of the two men said. “You frightened my wife. Why have you come?” He had a long scar on the side of his neck, and his face was weathered and wrinkled. Tom wondered about the stories he could tell.
Connie explained why they had come. “It’s a good thing that the government has finally seen the importance of remembering the real people, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t,” the younger man spat. “The less the government knows about us, the better. Then maybe they will forget about us and let us live our lives as God intended.” He crossed his arms and glared at Connie. Despite his anger, Connie seemed undaunted.
“We are your friends, but you treat us like enemies, not even inviting us in.”
“We are no longer friends,” the younger of the two declared. “Your father would not help my father when he came to him many years ago.”
“Your father came to my father for help in leaving the reservation,” Connie countered. “It was illegal, and your family would have been killed.”
“I lost my wife and daughters,” the old man said, his voice low. “We died just the same.”
Connie shook her head. “I was sorry for your loss. I loved your wife. She was like an aunt to me—teaching me Modoc cooking and speaking. Now we’ve come to make sure that those things are not forgotten. That the Moatokni maklaks—the Modoc people—are remembered.”
“The Moatokni maklaks do not need your help,” the younger man declared, puffing himself up to tower over Connie.
Tom stepped forward at this. “We come in peace, but you act as though we are at war.”
“You are not our friend. You are a white man. You have stolen our land and ways of life. You force us to dress like you—to speak like you—to live as you do. We have no friendship.”
Connie frowned. “I’m sorry you don’t want to be our friend anymore. But even though it hurts me, I don’t wish you ill. My heart still cares for you, and I will still call you my friend. I will also pray for you and ask God to heal the pain in your heart.”
The younger man shook his head and walked away. He said something in Chinook Jargon that Tom couldn’t understand, then disappeared behind the blanket and back into the house, where the sound of children could be heard.
Joseph looked hard at Connie. “There is war coming between our people. My son Samson will always feel hate for the deaths of his mother and sisters. Do not come back here. We will not speak with you again.” He returned to his house, leaving Tom and Connie to stare at each other in silence.
“That was rather uncalled for,” Tom said.
“No.” Connie shook her head as they walked away. “Joseph blames my father for the deaths of his wife and daughters. He wanted to sneak off the reservation with his entire family—sons, daughters, and their spouses—and make their way to Canada. He went to my father for money and told him what he would do. Papa wouldn’t help him because it was against the law and the soldiers were everywhere. He told Joseph he wo
uld be killed, but Joseph felt certain they could make it. He told my father if they stayed, he knew it would turn out badly, but of course Papa couldn’t do it. He knew Joseph and his family would be caught or more likely killed.”
They walked slowly back to Connie’s home.
“Joseph told my father he knew that if they stayed, his family would suffer, and they did. His wife died two weeks later, and his two daughters died not long after that. One in childbirth and one from typhoid. They left behind little ones who also died a few years later.” Her expression betrayed her sorrow. “Rosy has always said there are more graves holding children than cradles on this reservation.”
“That is terribly sad.” Tom wanted to offer comfort but knew there was none to be had. “Who was the other man—the younger one?”
“Samson, Joseph’s son. I think he’d be about thirty-three now.”
“What did he say there at the last? I couldn’t understand him.”
Connie stopped and shook her head. “He said war is coming and he will do everything he can to kill all of the white people.”
Adam Browning sat on the other side of Clint’s desk. He seemed troubled and had come to Clint for advice. Clint had always liked the way Adam treated him like an equal even though he was years younger than Adam.
“It’s just so perplexing. Why have the people gotten so interested in liquor? I talked to the priest, and he’s just as baffled. The Grand Ronde Indians have never been given to drunkenness. Now we seem to have an epidemic.”
“I know, and I’m trying my best to get to the bottom of it, just like you are. Every time there’s a rumor, I check it out, but so far I haven’t learned anything.”
“There has to be an answer. Someone must know more than they’re saying. I hate to sound demeaning, but the tribes here don’t have the connections to pull this off themselves. There are white men involved in this.”
“I agree, but proving it will be difficult.” Clint moved a stack of papers and pulled out a letter he’d just received. “That brings up another issue. The clerk at the sutler’s store sent me this note. Apparently he’s frustrated by your family handing out goods for free.”
Forever by Your Side Page 12
