Between Earth and Sky(42)
Something else unsettled her as well. Minowe. It was impossible not to think of her. She must be here. Alma scanned the swarm of faces. Would she even recognize her after all these years? The thought brought an unexpected surge of sadness. Would the laugh lines around Minowe’s mouth and eyes now be permanent fixtures? Would the luster have vanished from her skin the way Alma’s had? Would her gap-toothed smile give her away or be locked behind a scowl? Alma squared her shoulders and raised her chin. It didn’t matter. She had enough trouble beating back the past without thinking of such things.
At last they reached the livery. She and Stewart left the wagon and walked the short distance to the agency.
“Let’s start by finding the arms merchant,” Stewart said, scanning the crowd. “A white man will be easier to spot.”
He started toward the cluster of booths that had risen at the far corner of the field like the trading posts of old. Alma hesitated, pulling back on his arm, her attention captured by the goings-on before the office. “Just a moment, dearest.”
A long table had been set up with a muslin tarp stretched overhead to block the sun. Sheriff Knudson and his deputies hovered beside a heap of broadcloth-wrapped bundles. He looked in Alma’s direction and tipped his hat, his aspect smug and vaguely menacing despite his full-toothed grin. She ignored the prickle of hairs rising beneath her collar and nodded back.
Agent Taylor sat drumming his fingers atop the table. If he saw Alma and her husband, he made no show of it, even as she pulled Stewart forward to get a better view of the proceedings.
A line of Indians had formed—if one could call so lively and unruly a gathering a line—stretching deep into the adjacent field. People stepped in and out as they spotted friends and family. They hugged, laughed, cooed over the little ones strapped in cradleboards on their mothers’ backs. A young man had lured a cluster of blushing girls with his flute. Farther back in line, a rattle sounded. Above the songs, Alma heard fragments of jokes, stories, and gossip. Those who had food or tobacco shared it readily, and the fragrant scent wafted above the gathering.
Yet beneath the conviviality, Alma sensed the crackle of discord. Whispers, sidelong glances, even the occasional sneer. Those with lighter coloring or facial hair congregated together. Their collared shirts and calico dresses looked less worn than the beaded buckskin and broadcloth their counterparts wore. English and French peppered their speech. The divide, subtle as it was, surprised her. Had Asku or Minowe hinted at such things as children? Not that Alma could remember. It was her world—the white world—that cared about class and blood quanta.
“Next,” the agent hollered over the din, drawing her gaze forward.
An older man shuffled to the table. Crevasses, deep as dried riverbeds, furrowed his dark brown skin. Morning sunlight glinted off metal cones dangling from his ears. When asked his name, he replied, “Niski’gwun.” Ruffled feathers. The mixed-blood she’d seen yesterday, James, the agent called him, handed the man a fountain pen and pointed to an open ledger. Niski’gwun fisted the pen the way her classmates had when they first arrived at Stover, and scratched an X beside his name. Ink smudged onto his fingers. He wiped them on his weatherworn trousers before reaching for the silver Agent Taylor had counted out for him. Niski’gwun picked up the coins one at a time with a shaky hand—one, two, three, four, five—and stowed them in his jacket pocket.
Agent Taylor sighed. He shooed Niski’gwun toward the stacks of bundled goods and flagged the next Indian forward. This man approached with his wife and small son. Unlike the older Indian, whose long gray hair was bound in several braids, he kept his hair cropped and fashionably parted to the side. He gave Christian names for himself and his family and signed his name in clear script. Five coins to him, four to his wife, and two for the small boy.
“Only this?” the man asked.
“Now, now. You know y’all received more than your due back in the nineties. Won’t be paid back in full for a couple of years yet.”
“Your mistake, not ours.”
Agent Taylor kept one hand atop the metal cashbox. The other fell to his side, dangling next to the pistol holstered at his hip. “Get along now.”
The family collected the money and then their rations. Before walking away, the wife peeked inside her bundle, opening it just wide enough for Alma to spy its contents: a length of green calico, a spool of thread, a comb, a few packets of seeds, a sack of flour, and a tin plate and matching bowl.
The woman reached inside and rummaged through the goods, her face coloring with disappointment. Her son skipped beside her and held up the new blanket he’d received. “Look, nimaamaa.”
“It is good.” Her voice cracked. She smiled for the boy, even as tears built on her lashes.
Alma watched them go with growing unease.
“Come along, darling,” Stewart said. “The longer we tarry, the busier the merchants become.”
She knew he was right, but her feet refused to move, her eyes refused to waver.
The family stopped before another table just beyond the cover of the agency’s tarp. A man stepped from the shade. Though he was well dressed in a silk shirt and fur-lined coat, the gold tooth that flashed when he grinned hinted at meaner beginnings. He, too, had a cashbox and ledger, but Alma didn’t recognize him from the agency.
She watched as the father laid the family’s coins—all eleven dollars—on the table. The gold-toothed man consulted his ledger. After a quick count on his chubby fingers, he slid two coins back to the father. The rest he tossed into his cashbox. Alma’s stomach roiled—the clanking silver, the man’s glinting smile. What right did he have to this family’s money?