Between Earth and Sky(57)

“What Mr. Zhawaeshk said is privileged information,” Stewart answered for her.

The red-haired man swung his gaze back to Stewart. “That’s right. You’re here on official business.” He tugged with exaggeration on his grimy bow tie. More chuckles from the other men. “They put a lot of stock in that down there in the capital? The testimony of a piss-drunk Indian?”

“Men of all color and station drink.” Stewart looked down, rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced at Alma. “It does not entirely negate their worth or their testimony.”

“Guess we’ll see about that.” The man readied his reins. “Best you continue on now, before the sun sets. You’ve a whip, doncha?”

Stewart hesitated. “Yes.”

“Give ’im a good whacking and he’ll get you back. Let the farrier in Detroit Lakes handle him tomorrow.” He tipped his hat to Alma and spurred his horse, leaving a swell of dust behind him. The others followed.

All save one. James, the light-skinned Indian, hesitated, his eyes flickering between their wagon and his departing companions. The other riders disappeared behind a bend in the road, and James dismounted, cussing under his breath. “Merde.”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Stewart said.

James gritted his teeth and shook his head. “You whip this horse back to Detroit Lakes and he’ll never walk again.” He stroked the horse’s neck and whispered in its ear. “Steady, boy.”

The beast’s swishing tail stilled. Its ears relaxed downward and its breathing slowed. The Indian squatted and ran his hand down the horse’s leg. When he tapped the back, the horse raised his hoof. “It’s not a thrown shoe. Get me a stick.”

Stewart gaped down at him.

“A stick,” he said again, and let the horse’s hoof fall.

“Ah . . . right.” Stewart hurried to the edge of the road and pried a low-lying branch off a tree.

The Indian took the stick, snapped it in half over his knee, and whittled one end with a knife from his belt.

“I appreciate your help.” Stewart raked back his hair, leaving the slick locks rumpled. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about horses.”

Alma watched the young man shape the wood into a small, narrow hook. His nails were neatly trimmed, but his fingers strong and calloused.

“You work for the agency, don’t you?” Stewart asked.

He nodded, keeping his light-brown eyes trained on his work.

“What do you do there?”

“I’m editor of the Tomahawk, our weekly paper. And I translate from time to time for the agent.”

“You’re Chippewa, then?”

James raised an eyebrow in Stewart’s direction, then turned his attention back to the horse. He peeled away a few more layers of wood and closed his knife. “Métis—mixed-blood. My grandfather was a French trapper.”

“Did you know Harry Muskrat?”

To this, James said nothing. With one hand again bracing the horse’s hoof, he scraped away clumps of mud from around the shoe. “Here’s your problem.” He held up a jagged stone. “Don’t think it punctured or bruised the sole. Soak the hoof in warm water when you get back and he ought to be fine.”

Stewart extended his hand. “Thank you.”

“Yes,” Alma said. “Miigwech.”

James ignored Stewart’s hand and tossed the stone far away into the prairie. Then he turned for the first time to Alma. His eyes narrowed. “You should go home.”

Her skin burned. Was it the intensity of his gaze or the nagging feeling he might be right? “I can’t.”

He turned his back on both of them and mounted his horse. “There’s more than Agent Taylor who don’t want you snooping about here.”

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” Stewart said.

James smirked. “That’s what all you white men say.”

“I beg your pardon.” Without heed to his dirty hands, Stewart yanked down his shirtsleeves and fastened his silk knot cuff links. “We’re here helping one of your own race.”

“Helping? They say that too.”

“And what?” Alma’s hands clenched at her sides. “We should leave Askuwheteau to hang?”

Again, James’s eyes narrowed over her. “Go home. You’re chasing ghosts.”

“Why did you help us, then?”

He shrugged. “Pity.”

Stewart straightened his suit coat and donned his hat. “We don’t need your pity.”

“Not for you. For the horse.” He rode off, his shadow long and spindly in the waning sunlight.

“Don’t let him spook you, darling.” Stewart climbed back in the wagon and took up the reins. “We’ll show them all we have no intention of backing down.”

She nodded, but could not shake the half-breed’s words. Memories of her father’s grave had surfaced today. But his was not the only grave, not the only cemetery whose white slab headstones haunted her.

Chasing ghosts. If he only knew.





CHAPTER 25


Wisconsin, 1890



Days passed with their accustomed rhythm—morning lessons, afternoons of sewing, piano, and the occasional social call in La Crosse—but Alma stumbled through them like an unpolished dancer, languid and off tempo.