Between Earth and Sky(75)
Clothes flapped on a laundry line at the back of a nearby house. Beyond the drying shirts and trousers, vines crawled across the yard. Yellow and green squash sat fat on the ground. Cornstalks rustled, their ears long since harvested, their leaves dry, brown, dead.
Peel back the husk and we’re empty, hollowed out.
She turned from Frederick’s workshop and marched toward the agency. The whine of the saw blade faded behind her. He was wrong. She remembered how he’d smiled on graduation day, how dapper he’d looked in his new suit, how he’d sat enrapt listening to Asku’s speech. Something had been taken from them, yes, but something greater replaced it. A way to survive and thrive in the changing times. She’d lived that tenet her entire life, heard the echo of those words since her earliest days: her father’s pontificating, Miss Wells’s lectures, the rhymes they’d been made to memorize about Senator Dawes and his liberating legislation. It couldn’t all be wrong.
The wind gusted again, stronger now, catching on the brim of her hat and yanking it free from her hair. She held it fast against her head and leaned into the gale. She forced Frederick’s words from her mind, beat back thoughts of the depressing annuity line, and focused on the clapboard houses standing at intervals along the drive. Calico curtains fringed their windows. The scent of baking bread and roasting meat wafted toward her on the wind.
Laughter drew her eyes to a nearby schoolyard. Children ran about with sticks and balls, impervious to the wind, their faces lit with carefree smiles. Alma’s step lightened. The quaint houses, the bustling school—White Earth Village was just like any other country town. A far cry from the sparse cabins and lone trading post her Chippewa friends had described to her a quarter century before. There might be problems, but the Indians were thriving here.
Inside the agency, the cheer she’d mustered quickly flagged. Stewart sat in one corner, all but the top of his head concealed behind teetering stacks of papers and ledgers. She’d feared Agent Taylor would try to hide or withhold documents despite the subpoena. It appeared now he’d chosen the opposite attack and provided every file and scrap on hand for them to sift through.
She hesitated before crossing the room, dreading more strained conversation, more tiptoeing around last night’s argument. But when he looked up over the wall of paperwork, the flint was gone from his eyes. He grabbed a chair from the corner, brushed off the seat, and set it beside his own.
“Have you found anything?” she asked.
“Not as yet, I’m afraid.” He gestured to the piles. Still more surrounded them on the floor. “Staggering really, the disorder of it all. I’ve managed to sort out most of the older documents. I shouldn’t think we’d need anything before 1890. What did you learn from the store clerk?”
She peeled off her gloves and tossed them onto the table. “Nothing of import.”
“You were gone quite some time.”
“The clerk directed me to another man.” For a moment, she could hear the ripsaw. “He hadn’t any answers either.”
Stewart sighed. “That’s a shame. Witness testimony would strengthen our case.”
“What about Zhawaeshk?”
Stewart nodded toward the ginger-haired agency worker they’d met on the road the night before. “He was right. When the jury learns Zhawaeshk’s a drunk, his credibility is lost.” He raked back his hair and smiled weakly, his bottom lip still red and slightly swollen. “Let’s hope we can find something here.”
Alma eyed the stacks and felt a stir of panic. Asku’s salvation lay here? In this mess? Stewart, however, seemed altogether placid. Scrounging for witnesses, scuffling among grave houses, settling lame horses—how trying yesterday must have been for him. Here, at last he was in his element. He needed only a housecoat and slippers, and the sight of him would be no different than a quiet, peaceful evening at home. His posture was straight as always, his notebook and pen arranged neatly, his attention already returned to the document at hand.
She pulled a thick file from atop one of the stacks. “What are we looking for?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he said without glancing up from his work.
Not sure? Dozens of piles and they weren’t even sure what they were looking for?
“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll know when I’ve found it. Just set aside anything related to Mr. Muskrat or anything else that strikes you as odd.”
The potbellied stove in the far corner hissed and crackled. The smoke smelled faintly of pinesap. She shrugged out of her duster and opened the folder. Inside was a collection of citations: heathenish dancing, destruction of property, plural marriage, conjurer’s arts, improper gifting, lechery, and intoxication. Even offenses as trivial as long hair and infrequent school attendance had incurred a fine or reduction in rations. “This is ridiculous.”
Several employees looked over with narrowed eyes and pinched expressions. She met their stare, then turned to Stewart. “What harm is there in dancing or gift giving?”
“Did you see Mr. Muskrat’s name on any of those citations? Or anyone else cited multiple times?”
“No.” In truth, she hadn’t paid attention to the names, only the offenses. She’d danced those dances; helped her friends “conjure” medicines out of dogbane, wild peas, and snakeroot; taken their gifts and given gifts in return.