Between Earth and Sky(51)

“Boozhoo,” she said softly. “Zhawaeshk na gidizhinikaaz?”

He turned his head at her voice, blinked, and frowned. After a long drink from the jar he tried to stand, but his legs faltered. He collapsed onto one knee. Sharp-smelling liquor sloshed over the edge of the jar and onto the beaded cuff of his buckskin shirt.

Stewart frowned. He hesitated a moment, pulled fast his gloves, and then hauled the man to his feet. “Are you Mr. Zhawaeshk?”

The man shrugged free of Stewart’s hold, planted a steadying hand atop the grave house, and took another swig. “Who is wanting to know?”

Stewart brushed off his coat, his frown deepening into a sneer. His father had drunk. He’d mentioned this to her only once, in a breezy, offhanded way, but she saw now the admixture of pain and revulsion in his eyes. She walked over and squeezed his arm, then laid a hand on the man’s back. “Whose grave is this?”

He cast her a scowl over his shoulder, then took another drink. “Niwiiw. My wife.”

Alma felt Stewart’s arm tighten around her waist. His gaze softened. “When did she die?”

“What care you?”

“The paint around your eyes. It must have been recent,” she said.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Berry-picking season.”

“I wish her well on the Path of Souls,” Alma said.

The man choked on his drink and turned to her with leery eyes. “How do you know of jiibay-miikana?”

“My friend Askuwheteau told me.”

He snickered. “Askuwheteau have no friends.”

That couldn’t be true. Everyone at Stover had loved Asku. “You must be thinking of another man.”

“Son of Odinigun, of the Gull Lakes Band.” Another bitter laugh. “I know who you speak of.”

“Whom,” Alma said, as much from habit as from spite.

“You thinks I care of white man’s words?” He thrust out his arms. His loose shirtsleeves fell back to his elbows, revealing several raised scars on the underside of his forearms. “I didn’t care when the sisters did this and I don’t care now.”

Alma gaped. She’d heard of teachers striking students’ forearms with switches; had seen Miss Wells do it once or twice with her vile ruler. But this? It must have taken dozens of strikes to leave such scars.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” She turned her face away, but he pressed closer, shaking his bare arms before her.

Alma shuffled back, bumping hard into the eaves of one of the grave houses. The weathered boards whined and shuddered. The entire grave house swayed. She gasped and tried to steady herself. Her wheeling arm struck the roof boards, splintering the wood and knocking loose the nails that held one of the boards in place. It swung free with a rusty cry. Sunlight spilled into the opening. As she teetered backward she caught a glimpse inside, horrified she might see skull and bones or decaying flesh, but unable to look away.

Dirt. Only dirt.

Stewart caught her just before she fell and toppled the entire house. She covered her wide mouth with her hands. “Oh God.”

The man’s dark eyes went wild. “Awas! You don’t belong in our sacred place.” His fingers clenched around the jar like talons, sending a shiver through the amber liquid. His other hand closed into a fist.

Stewart stepped between them and squared his shoulders. “Now, see here. We meant no disrespect. We only wanted to ask you some questions.”

“I will speak no answers. Awas! Go!”

Stewart’s hands twitched at his sides. “I can get a subpoena for your testimony.”

Zhawaeshk cleared his throat and spit. Wet mucus sprayed across Stewart’s shiny leather shoes.

Alma had never seen her husband’s face color so quickly. His jaw tightened. His nostrils flared. “Apologize, sir.”

Zhawaeshk shook his head.

Stewart yanked off his gloves, stuffed them in his hat, and thrust them at Alma. Had he gone mad? Boyhood fisticuffs aside, he’d never actually fought a man—not that she knew of. True, Zhawaeshk was drunk. Even as he set his jar aside and tied back his hair, he swayed and fumbled. But he stood just as tall as Stewart and looked at least a decade younger. Where Stewart’s hands were smooth and groomed, Zhawaeshk’s were scarred and calloused. His mouth twisted with a sneer. He raised his fists. Stewart did likewise.

“Wait!” Alma pushed between them. “Stop. This is no place for such madness.”

Zhawaeshk stood so close she could smell his sour breath, feel its heat on her cheek. The veins of his neck showed like cords beneath his skin. How slow they pulsed compared to her own frenzied heart. How calm and sinister he appeared—a man with nothing to lose.

Stewart’s arm roped her waist, pulling her sideways, away from the fight. “Alma, please—”

Before he could finish, Zhawaeshk leaned in and jabbed Stewart in the mouth.

Her husband blinked and brought a hand to his lips. Blood smeared onto his fingertips. For a moment, he just stood there, eyes glassy, as if the whole scene were too absurd for his analytical mind to process. Then he pushed her farther aside and swung his fist at the Indian, striking him in the eye. Black paint smeared across his knuckles. The force of the blow seemed to surprise all three of them. Zhawaeshk stumbled back. Stewart shook out his hand. Alma sucked back a yelp.