Between Earth and Sky(17)

When the song ended, the boys whooped and hollered. Rose gave Minowe a one-armed hug. Alma clapped.

“Your name means to sing, then?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Minowe said with the same straight face she used in class when addressing Miss Wells. They both laughed. “What Alma mean?”

Alma paused. Her name had come from a great-aunt whom she’d never met. If it had some meaning, she certainly did not know what it was. She looked down and toyed with the cuff of her sleeve. “It’s just a name.”

“We give you Anishinaabe name.” Asku leaned forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. After a moment, he pointed to a cluster of aspen trees, their pale bark silver in the moonlight.

“Azaadiins,” he said.





CHAPTER 9


Minnesota, 1906



The brougham stopped before a large, two-story building built of pale yellow stone. A clock tower topped its grand fa?ade. Farther down the road, brick barracks lined the street. Soldiers marched around the manicured grounds. The seasoned boys, back from the Philippines or Cuba, moved with confidence and efficiency. The others, newly recruited from farms or immigrant slums, blundered through their steps. To Alma, all of them looked young.

The drilling, the uniforms, the regimented order reminded her of Stover. Little brown boys and girls marched to and fro in her memory, their breath a visible cloud in the slanting light of dawn. She shuddered and pushed the thought from her mind.

The cab agreed to wait. She climbed the stairs to the administrative headquarters. In the foyer, she stopped a soldier and asked for directions to the holding cells. The young man’s eyes drifted downward from her face, then sprang back a moment later. His cheeks reddened when she repeated her question.

“Don’t reckon I know what you’re after, ma’am. Let me show you to the major’s office.”

In the presence of the major, the young soldier straightened. The blush disappeared from his cheeks. He hung back by the doorway, eyes fixed on the polished wood floor, offering nothing in the way of introductions. Alma sighed and approached the major’s desk. “I’m here to visit one of your prisoners.”

The man stood and smoothed his uniform. Bronze pins and embroidered insignia emblazoned the khaki-colored wool. “Prisoner?”

“Harry Muskrat. A Chippewa from the White Earth reservation.”

“Ah, the Indian.” He sat back down and motioned to the plain, straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “What’s your business with him?”

Alma sank into the chair and took a moment to arrange her skirt. “He’s an old acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance?” Like the younger man before him, his eyes rolled down her silk traveling dress, then up to the wide-brim hat pinned atop her hair. He leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Forgive me, ma’am, but you hardly seem the type to have history with the redskins. You from a church or one of those do-good ladies’ societies? I assure you, ma’am, this heathen’s soul is beyond saving.”

“I am not from any church or women’s organization, Major. As I said, I am a friend. Mr. Muskrat is a U.S. citizen. The army has no business holding him, let alone barring visitors.”

“He killed a federal agent.”

“Then it’s a federal issue, not a military one. He’s being tried in federal court, is he not?”

The major’s face hardened. “What makes you think he’s a citizen?”

“All Indians who claimed their land allotments and adopted civilized habits were granted citizenship.”

“This redskin’s no farmer. He’s landless, a vagabond. A drunk. That ain’t no civilized life.”

Alma’s fingers clenched around her corded purse strings. This man knew nothing of his prisoner. She’d heard that hardship had driven a few Indians to lease or sell the land they’d been given, but with his skills and intelligence, Asku was impervious to such hazards. “He’s a citizen and I would like to see him.”

Silence hung between them. The soldier behind her shifted his weight and the floorboards creaked. The major glared in his direction. “Sergeant Brooks, take Mrs. . . .”

“Mitchell.”

“Mrs. Mitchell here to the ordnance depot. I believe her Indian’s being kept in the round tower.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

“Thank you.” Alma rose and followed the sergeant from the room, hurrying to shut the door behind her before the major could change his mind.

They walked down a broad dirt lane bounded by barracks, warehouses, and artillery sheds on one side and open fields on the other. Trees stood at random intervals, casting a checkerboard of shade upon the lane.

The farther they walked, the fewer soldiers they passed. Alma shuffled to keep up. “Where are we going again?”

“The ordnance depot.” He turned and winked at her. “That’s officer speak for the old fort.”

“Old fort? Why keep prisoners there?”

Sergeant Brooks shrugged. “Don’t rustle up many Injuns these days. There was that uprising a few years back on the Leech Lake reservation, but don’t think they arrested any of them bucks.”

Alma fought back a scowl. “I see.”

“In sixty-two they held hundreds of them Sioux Indians on that there island.” He pointed to a lonely patch of land caught at the intersection of the Minnesota River and the Mississippi.