Between Earth and Sky(39)
“I grew up in the country,” she now said to the sheriff. “It’s black as perdition on a moonless night.”
“You accusing Deputy Johnson of lying?”
“No,” Stewart answered. “But if you didn’t question the others, how do you know they were even present at the time of the crime?”
“It happened right in front of the general store. Mr. Larson hadn’t closed up yet, so naturally he’s a witness.”
“And these others?”
“I’m sure you saw on your way over here, the way them Indians loiter about the shop front. Them there’s the names of the usual riffraff who hang about piss-drunk on turpentine and gin.”
“You never verified that they were actually there?”
Again the sheriff only shrugged.
Stewart’s jaw muscles tightened and his nostrils flared. Alma watched him wrestle back the uncustomary tide of anger. When he spoke, his voice was steady and controlled. “I’d like to interview them myself, then, if you don’t mind.”
“Best’a luck with that.”
“Excuse me?”
Agent Taylor laughed through his nose. “Won’t find them very willing. One, they don’t speak much English. Two, they’re mighty mistrusting, these Chippewas. Hell, they’ll probably think you a missionary, bringing the missus along and all.” He turned to Alma. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“Probably never seen a real red man before,” Sheriff Knudson said before she could answer. “If you were hopin’ for feathers and buckskin, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“Actually, I—”
“Is that why you came? To see the noble savage in his natural habitat?” Agent Taylor picked up a stamp from his desk and twirled the wooden handle between his fingers. Ink had stained the rubber seal black. “I’m afraid the sheriff is right. All we have here are would-be farmers and inebriates. Perhaps you’d—”
“Mr. Taylor, I’ve met and known dozens of Indians. Mr. Muskrat was my friend. I’ve come to see why the investigation against him was so grossly mismanaged.”
The smirk fell from the agent’s face. “I see.”
“To that end,” Stewart said, handing Mr. Taylor another sheet of paper, “it says here that numerous complaints had been filed against Mr. Andrews while he was agent here. I’ve a subpoena to examine all the agency’s records.”
Agent Taylor dropped the stamp. It landed on the papers Stewart handed him, leaving behind a messy streak of ink. The corner of his mouth twitched, making his neatly trimmed mustache look like a fuzzy caterpillar inching atop his lip. “The records won’t show you nothing. The Indians complain because they don’t want to work. They’re indolent, Mr. Mitchell, born and bred lazy as sin. They complain because they want everything handed to them without a drop of sweat on their part. They complain because they want to dance their heathen dances and practice their devil magic.” He slammed his hands down on the desk. “That’s why they file complaints, Mr. Mitchell. That’s why the old Muskrat shot and killed Agent Andrews. That’s the reality here.” He shoved the white pages Stewart had presented back across the desk. “You with your papers and your tailored suit can’t do nothing to change that.”
Alma leaned away, the wooden chair stiles digging into her back. Stewart didn’t move. “I’ll tell you what I can do, Agent Taylor.” He brushed an invisible fleck of dust from his sleeve, then neatly stacked the papers and returned them to his satchel. “Tomorrow when I return, if you or the sheriff bar me access to your files or impede my interviews with the witnesses, I’ll return to Detroit Lakes and telephone St. Paul. The judge will have you both arrested for delaying and impeding a federal trial.”
Agent Taylor gave a false chuckle. The color had leached away from his face, leaving his skin sallow. “You can kick up a fuss all you want, Mr. Mitchell, but tomorrow’s Annuity Day. The rolls and records you’re after will be in use. Official government business.”
Annuity Day. So that was the reason for all the tents and teepees, the reason the agency workers were in such a dither when she and Stewart arrived.
Stewart stood. He held his hand out for Alma, but his hazel eyes remained fixed on the agent. “We’ll conduct our interviews tomorrow, then. The day after, your records had better be on hand.” He buckled his satchel and tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Good day, gentlemen.”
CHAPTER 18
Wisconsin, 1888
Outside, the bugle sounded. Rhythmic footfalls marched over the icy crust of yesterday’s snow. Alma lifted the curtain shrouding her bedside window and peeked out. Down in the yard, the Indians’ cheeks were scarlet. Their breath hung in the air. Sweat trickled down their temples, even in the cold. Most kept perfect time and formation—march, half step, hold time—their lines wrapping and weaving throughout the yard. But the newer students stumbled. They slowed when they should quicken, stepped right instead of left.
George in particular stood out. His knees never rose as high as the others; his arms never swung as straight. His feet struck the ground off tempo. She watched Mr. Simms box him over the head, messing his already untidy hair. To this, George only smirked and quickened his pace a half beat too fast.