Between Earth and Sky(43)

“Just a merchant settling accounts.”

Alma startled. Sheriff Knudson had sidled up beside her and was staring in the family’s direction. “You looked worried is all, ma’am.”

Again something about him reminded her of Mr. Simms—the gravelly voice, the calloused hands, the scent of stale sweat. She couldn’t quite place it. For all his rancor, Mr. Simms had been harmless. But Sheriff Knudson? A shiver spread through her limbs, but she didn’t slink back, didn’t shy away when his watery gaze turned upon her. Harmless. Still she was glad when Stewart stepped between them and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

“Shouldn’t Agent Taylor oversee such transactions?” he said. “Dollar to your dime your merchant is violating anti-usury laws.”

“You don’t strike me a bettin’ man, Mr. Mitchell.”

“This, Sheriff, is not a gamble.”

He chuckled. “You gonna get a subpoena for thems records, too?”

Alma felt Stewart’s muscles tighten, but when he spoke, his voice was even. “Excuse us. We’ve a botched investigation to attend to.” He tugged lightly on her arm. Reluctantly, she followed, glancing back over her shoulder as the merchant’s box jingled with another deposit.

The field beyond the agency had the feeling of a county fair, and Alma’s step lightened. Wild rice simmered over cook fires, perfuming the air with its nutty aroma. Boys hurled sticks and squatted together with round stones in a game akin to marbles. Her gaze snagged on a troop of girls running to and fro. Each brandished two long sticks above her head. A loop of twine with two thumb-sized billets spun through the air from one girl’s stick to another. Alma paused, watching them scamper through the browning grass.

“Pupu’sikawe’win.”

“What, darling?”

“Oh, it’s a game. I used to play it when I was little.” Minowe had taught her, passed her the billets when no one else would, despite Alma’s dubious ability to catch them.

Alma turned away, but their laughter followed. Only after she reached the commotion of the merchants’ stalls did it finally subside. She welcomed the escape.

Indians crowded the tables, inspecting the wares. She stood on her tiptoes, craned her neck, and finally pushed into the crowd to see what lay for sale. Bolts of fleece and broadcloth. Checkered quilts and calico bonnets. Farther along, an assortment of beads. She lost Stewart, but went on. The arms merchant must be here. Fry pans, buckets, shovels, candles, oil lamps, soap, buttons. Hunks of salt pork surrounded by a swarm of flies. Someone stepped on the hem of her dress. Another elbowed good-naturedly past. More bolts of cloth. Saddles and harnesses. Plow blades and seeders. Nuns handing out wooden rosaries. A few stalls down, the Episcopals peddling prayer books.

Alma disentangled herself from the mob and watched from the periphery. Some bartered in English. Too much. Too high. Others pointed and shook their heads. They traded not only in coin, but also with animal pelts and jugs of maple syrup. She caught glimpses of other deals too—those conducted furtively beneath the tabletops. Flashes of silver exchanged for jars of tawny-brown liquid.

But no guns.

Perhaps the man who claimed to have sold to Asku wasn’t here.

A hand clasped about her arm. Alma jumped.

“Just me, darling,” Stewart said.

“I don’t see anyone selling firearms.”

“Technically, it’s illegal to sell guns to Indians living on the reservation. But I think I’ve found him.” Stewart nodded to a nearby table. Steadying herself against him, she rose onto her toes again and scanned the booth. A hodgepodge of hunting knives rested atop a worn velvet drape. Stacks of lead bars teetered beside a pyramid of cans. DUPONT GUNPOWDER, their labels read. The man behind the counter wore a collared shirt, yellowed from too many washes, under a buckskin jacket. A graying beard covered his face.

When the Indian in front of them stepped away, Stewart shouldered forward with unexpected pluck, pulling her along.

“You two stand out like bacon in beans,” the merchant said. “How can I help ya?”

“Are you Lawrence Filkins?” Stewart asked.

“That’s the name my mother gave me. Most people call me Larry.” He stuck out a grease-stained hand.

To her wonderment, Stewart didn’t hesitate, but took the man’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Pleasure to meet you, Larry. Did I see you here at the June fourteenth celebration?”

“I come out for all the gatherings.”

“To sell your wares?”

“Yep, don’t recall seeing you, though.”

Alma looked down, hiding her flushing cheeks beneath the wide brim of her hat. They hadn’t been here in June. What was Stewart playing at? A row of steel arrowheads caught her eye. How long since she’d shot a bow? It seemed like another lifetime altogether. The newly polished metal shone like snowflakes against the dark velvet coverlet. She reached out and stroked the cold steel.

“Careful, ma’am. Thems sharp.”

Alma pulled her hand away and forced her gaze back to the man’s weather-chapped face. “I know.”

“You . . . er . . . looking to buy arrowheads?”

“No,” said Stewart. “I’d like to buy a pistol.”

Alma feigned a cough to cover her surprise. Was this Stewart’s plan? He’d never told a lie in his life. Why not just come out and ask the man about Asku and the gun?