Between Earth and Sky(36)
George turned and stalked toward Frederick and a group of older boys a few paces off.
A solitary drum broke the uncomfortable silence, joined quickly by another. The flute and rattles caught the beat, breathing life back into the singers and dancers. Asku took hold of Alma’s hand and led her to a nearby log.
“Thanks for standing up for me.”
“Always, Azaadiins.”
The scuffle had made a briar of her insides. She wrapped her free arm around her stomach, nursing a faint nausea. Could what George said be true? Was she the outsider, the interloper he claimed her to be? Save for those few weeks when the Indians first arrived, she’d never felt like one. Their stories were her stories. Their language her language. She kept their secrets and they kept hers.
Why, then, had only Asku spoken up?
He squeezed Alma’s hand, pulling her from her reverie. His grip was soft, tentative. The same jolt she’d felt that day by the stream hummed through her. But the effect was short-lived and weaker than before. The heat that radiated from his hand reached no farther than her skin. She pulled free and looked away.
“What you say to make so angry?” Alice asked, coming toward them.
“Me? He began it.”
Alice flashed a sheepish smile and tossed her a few warm acorns. Minowe and joined them too. Alma rolled the acorns round and round in her palm. Where had the girls been a few moments before when she needed them? In their position, she would have stood beside them and spoken up.
Minowe inched closer to her on the log. She leaned her head on Alma’s shoulder and squeezed her hand. “It’s hard for . . . er . . . George, not having come here when he was young.”
Alma trained her gaze on a small fir tree across the clearing. She didn’t care about George’s reasoning or his real name. How could Minowe, of all people, have said nothing? They’d been the closest of friends for years. George wasn’t even of her tribe.
Minowe squeezed her hand again, a small, wordless token of apology, and Alma’s anger tottered. She remembered the way she ofttimes felt in town, the awkward pull between the white friends whose approval she so craved and her Indian friends whose company she truly enjoyed.
After a heavy moment, she laid her head on Minowe’s and returned the squeeze. The blistering loneliness she had felt standing alone before George slowly faded. Once again, the fire’s warmth embraced her. The lively music pulsed through her veins.
George was wrong. Indian or not, she did belong.
CHAPTER 17
Minnesota, 1906
Alma tried to sleep, but the stars whispered to her through the train window. The three hunters roamed the dark sky chasing after makwa, the bear. Jiibay-miikana, the Path of Souls, stretched like eyelet lace across the blankness. Her friends’ voices rang in her ears—Minowe’s melodious tone, giggles. Memories of the cold night air prickled her skin, and she could almost see the fog of their breath drifting up from their rooftop hideout to the inky heavens above.
Beside her on the train, Stewart slept. His hair, the color of a wet beach, had fallen across his forehead. The lines around his eyes and those cut across his brow had smoothed. She alone had carved them into his skin and was glad the damage was only transitory. She traced the outline of his handsome face with the tips of her fingers, gently so as not to wake him. He would forgive her this—the trouble of it all, her secrets. Wouldn’t he?
Just after dawn, they alighted at the tiny town of Detroit Lakes and hired a rickety wagon to take them to their hotel. Twice along the short ride down Main Street, Alma saw hand-painted signs in the storefront windows: NO INDIANS ALLOWED.
In their hotel room, Alma splashed some water on her face and pinned back the locks of hair that had fallen out of place during the sleepless night on the train. The lumpy bed in the center of the small room tempted her, but they hadn’t time to tarry. She lingered a moment more before the washstand, her hands clutching the sides of the chipped porcelain basin. The woman that stared back at her in the filmy mirror on the wall looked haggard—dry lips, bloodshot eyes, lackluster skin. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks until they colored. Better, yes, but fleeting. She looked away before the pallor returned.
At the front desk she and Stewart inquired after a horse and buggy to take to the reservation. The young clerk scratched his head. Dandruff showered down from his rumpled hair. Or were they nits? Alma shuffled backward, fighting back a grimace.
“We got a buggy you can rent, but it’s a long way to the reservation,” he said.
“Twenty-two miles. I know,” Stewart said. “Have you a good horse?”
“Good enough. ’Cept . . .” His eyes darted to Alma. “Wouldn’t linger there after dark. A man was kilt there not long back. Shot by one of them Injuns in cold blood.”
Alma clenched her teeth, barring passage to the sharp words readied on her tongue.
“I’m aware of that, thank you,” Stewart said. “Show us to the buggy and hitch the horse, if you please. As you say, we’ve a long ride ahead of us.”
“Ain’t got nothing against them Chippewas,” the clerk said as he led them to the barn. “Heck, we’ve even had some famous chiefs stay here. Hole-in-the-Day, Little Wolf, and the like.” He turned to Alma. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We boiled the sheets and scrubbed down the floors right after.”