Between Earth and Sky(44)

Larry’s eyes narrowed.

“You sell knives, percussion caps, lead for making bullets.” Stewart rattled a hand in his trouser pocket. Coins clinked and jangled. “Surely you sell guns.”

Several moments passed. Alma waited for Stewart to drop the ruse, but his earnest expression never cracked.

At last Larry said, “What type of pistol you looking to purchase?”

“What types do you have?”

Larry leaned forward to survey the surrounding crowd, then bent down and retrieved a bundle from beneath his stall. He unwrapped it atop the knives and arrowheads, revealing a small cache of revolvers.

“These here are pretty old. I’ve got a better store back in Bemidji—some of them new self-loaders. But you might like this .22 Rimfire or this Starr Single Action.”

Stewart picked up one of the guns. He spun the cylinder and squinted at the sight. The gray steel looked strange in his hands, at odds with the smooth kid leather of his gloves. Alma choked back nervous laughter. Had her husband ever even held a gun?

“What is this, a .44?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“What about a .38? I’m looking for a Colt Lightning model.”

Larry stroked his beard. “Had several of them a while back. Sold my last few over the summer. You don’t want that model nohow. Trigger mechanism’s a bit temperamental. How about this Colt Single Action?”

Stewart handed the gun butt-first back to him. “You do most of your business here on the reservation, Larry?”

He nodded. “Got my official trader’s license.”

“But you’re not licensed to sell guns.”

“Pardon?”

“Selling guns to Indians is illegal.” Stewart’s tone had changed from genial to icy.

Larry frowned and hastily bundled the revolvers. “I only sell to white folks like yourselves.”

“You told Sheriff Knudson you’d sold a Colt Lightning to Harry Muskrat at the June fourteenth celebration.”

“Can’t always tell if thems Indians or not. He spoke real slick English.”

“Yet you believe you could recognize him among a lineup of other Indians?”

“Course I could.”

Alma’s stomach fell, but Stewart pressed on. “And the other Colt Lightnings you sold over the summer? To whom did they go?”

Larry hid his cache back beneath the table. When he rose up, he squared his shoulders and glowered in their direction. “Just what are you getting at?”

Alma shuffled backward. Stewart did not move. “Nothing, Mr. Filkins. You’ve been most helpful. I’ll see you in St. Paul.”

Stewart clasped Alma’s elbow and steered her through the crowd. She fixed her face with a calm expression in case Mr. Filkins was eyeing their departure, but inside she felt gutted.

“That was dreadful,” she said, when they’d cleared the booths. “Do you think the prosecution will call him as a witness?”

“If they don’t, I will.”

“He can identify Harry,” she all but yelled.

Stewart faced her and took her hands. “He’s an illegal arms trader who just admitted he sold several guns of the same model that killed Agent Andrews on this reservation over the summer. Not only does that make him an unsympathetic witness, it widens the suspect pool.”

His step was jaunty as they continued on from the merchants while Alma’s feet were heavy, her insides entangled. She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Filkins. He was holding up a curved knife for a new customer, making skinning motions through the air. A knife made sense here on the reservation. A rifle, too. But a revolver? Why had Asku bought such a gun?





CHAPTER 20


Wisconsin, 1889



The wind blew unseasonably warm. An Indian summer, Alma had heard the townsfolk call it.

Hidden between rows of billowing sheets, she and her friends pushed back their sleeves and unbuttoned their tight collars. They hiked up their skirts, allowing the breeze to kiss their calves and ankles through their stockings. The earthy smell of browning grass and perishing leaves mingled with the crisp scent of soap. Calls and laughter rang from the yard beyond.

“Waú,” said. “How come the boys get to play their sports while we’re stuck doing chores?”

Alma let her head fall back and closed her eyes, relishing the sun’s warmth like a stolen gift. “Is it so different back home on the reservation?”

Minowe laughed. “Gaawesa. Not at all.”

Another rush of wind stole past. Alma’s dark silk dress drank in the heat, but this particular breeze, stealing over her sweat-dewed skin, hinted at the lurking autumn. A chill worked down her body. She opened her eyes and pulled a sheet down from the line.

and Minowe seemed in no hurry to return to their work. They pulled aside one of the hanging sheets and peered at the boys running about the yard.

said.

Minowe wrinkled her nose. “Handsome?”

“Ho. Frederick too,” said.

Minowe rose onto her tiptoes to see over shoulder. “Frederick looks like a spider, all arms and legs. Too . . . too . . . what do you call it, Azaadiins?”

“Gangly,” Alma said. Her friends laughed at the word.

“Gangly,” Minowe repeated.