Between Earth and Sky(79)
At the second-floor landing, Alma grabbed hold of Minowe’s hand and squeezed before parting for her room. Her friend’s hand was cold and wrinkled from the sudsy dishwater. She squeezed back, but only weakly.
Inside her room, Alma waited and listened. Sneaking out tonight would be dangerous—the roof slick, the freshly fallen snow a canvas for her tracks. But after the angst she’d seen at dinner, she must go.
She paced her small room for over an hour until the downstairs lights no longer glistened upon the frozen yard. The stairs creaked; the hallway floorboards whined. Her parents’ door opened and closed. For good measure, she waited another half hour, then donned her housecoat, wrapped the quilt around her shoulders, and snuck out through the hallway window onto the snowy roof.
Her first few steps found purchase on the snow-covered shingles. Then her foot caught a patch of ice. She slid toward the edge of the roof, arms wheeling, heels digging into snow. She slowed to a stop just before she reached the brink. Her body swayed, first backward, then forward as she overcorrected and toppled from the roof.
A drift of powdery snow broke her fall. The air flew from her lungs, leaving her gasping. She rose onto her hands and knees and listened. The schoolhouse remained quiet, a sleeping giant in the wintery night. After she caught her breath, she pushed herself up with wobbly arms. Her right knee had sunk through the snow and struck the frozen ground, tearing through her nightgown. Warm blood trickled down her leg.
She looked around the yard and listened once more. Melted snow dampened her gown, stinging her skin when the brisk wind licked over it. Clouds shrouded the moon; the forest before her lay black and ominous. The warmth and safety behind Stover’s walls called to her, but she drew her quilt around her and trudged onward.
Though she had not visited the hillside dugout since she and had first discovered it last spring, her feet led her there without hesitation. The smell of smoke drifted among the snowflakes. Light flickered from behind the tattered window covering and beneath the crooked door. She paused momentarily before entering. Someone else might have come to occupy the hovel—tramps from the train yard, hunters in search of winter game—but by now her entire body shook with the cold. Her knee ached and her fingers were numb. She pushed aside the plank of wood propped over the doorway and hurried inside.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw squatting beside a small fire in the center of the room. He fed a few sticks and twigs to the blaze, then stood. Instead of moving to embrace her, he stalked the width of the dugout. “Do you know what they say in your newspapers?”
The tone of his words stung. They weren’t her newspapers just because a white man had written them. The crackling fire promised warmth, but she moved no closer. “I’ve read some of what they say. Not everyone believes—”
“Murderous red devils, savage butchers!” He pulled a sheet of folded newsprint from his waistband and brandished it in her direction. “Three hundred killed, their bodies left frozen in the snow, and we’re the ones spoken of as butchers.”
“Over two dozen cavalrymen were killed as well.”
froze. His eyes narrowed over her. “Is that what we are worth? A dozen Indians for every one white man?”
“No, of course not, I was just—”
“A war of extermination, they’re calling it.” He paced again. “Do they expect that we just hang our heads and die?”
He shook his head. His chest heaved. After a moment of silence, his voice rose in a whoop. He repeated the phrase four times, the first cry long, drawn-out, the second short, clipped.
“Stop it!” She stomped her heel on the packed dirt floor. “No one is calling for a war.”
He unfolded the paper, jammed his finger at a column of dark words, and began to read. “Our safety depends on the complete annihilation of the red man. To protect our civilization, we must wipe these untamable vermin from the earth.”
She crossed the small room, grabbed the paper from his hand, and looked at the column’s author. “It’s just an editorial. The hateful words of some ignorant man.”
“Words did not kill the Indian at Wounded Knee. White men’s bullets did.” His eyes darkened. “Well, we have bullets of our own.”
Alma threw the paper into the fire. Sparks flew up, popping and snapping in the air, echoing the sounds of war and gunfire of which he spoke. The heat of the flames steadied her nerves. “, mayhem and violence won’t bring about justice.”
“Not justice. Revenge.”
“Then more will die.” He turned his head away from her, but she clasped his face between her hands and forced his gaze upon her. “There’s no honor in that. Is that how you’d have your people remembered?”
Seconds passed, and his breathing slowed. He shut his eyes and leaned into her touch. “Your hands are so cold, .” His eyes opened and looked her over, as if seeing her for the first time.
She stepped back and smoothed down the locks of frazzled hair that had come loose from her braid. His gaze traveled from her face down her body, stopping at the bloody tear in her nightgown. “What happened of your knee?”
“I . . . er . . . I slipped from the roof.”
A sudden clip of laughter filled the dugout. Alma frowned and took another step back. “It’s hardly funny. I could have died.”
But her words only made him laugh harder.