Rose (24 page)

Kase removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He wiped his palms on his thighs and then scratched on the tipi near the entrance. When the shaman bade him enter, Kase drew aside the door flap and stooped to step into the dim interior of the tipi. Once inside, he paused, trying to recall all Caleb had taught him about Sioux etiquette. He stepped to the right, the way a man should do when entering a tipi, and then sat down before the old shaman. The place smelted of smoke I and sweat, of hides and close, warm air.

The man’s skin was as creased as an eroded hillside. When he hunched over a small fire, Kase saw that his face was not only lined but still faintly streaked with grime. The old man clutched a blanket about his shoulders. His hair was as white as snow, parted into two braids that hung past his shoulders. He was thin to the point of emaciation, but his eyes shone like the coals burning in the fire ring in the center of the tipi.

“Sit down, my son,” he said, his strong voice at odds with his frail appearance.

Kase sat, laid his hat beside him, and waited for the old one to speak. He did not have to wait long.

“So, you have come.”

“You
know
me?” Kase swallowed. For the first time in his life he felt afraid enough to run.

“I know you.” The old one stared and waited for Kase to speak again.

“How? And what was wrong with that woman? Did she knowjne?”

“She thought you were a ghost—the ghost of her husband. She saw his face in yours.”

Kase frowned. Could it be? “Who was her husband?”

The old man’s gaze was hooded. “Why have you come?”

“I am Kase Storm. I want to know of a man of the Oglala, a man who once traveled into the Iowa land.”
A man who raped my mother.

“Many men have traveled past the edges of the reservation, but none for many years.”

“This would have been over twenty-one years ago.”

The shaman closed his eyes and nodded. He was silent for so long Kase was certain he had fallen asleep. Then, without opening his eyes, Running Elk said, “Why do you seek the name of such a man?”

Angry, certain the old man was toying with him, Kase answered sullenly, “I think you know why. And I think you know the man I speak of.”

“You are angry because you are afraid. What is it you fear?”

Startled, Kase dropped his gaze and stared into the fire. He did feel fear. Heart-stopping fear that had pervaded his being since the woman outside had fallen at his feet. He sensed that before he left Pine Ridge he would know all he had come to learn.

He spoke slowly, piecing the story together for the shaman. “The man and his band attacked a family of immigrants traveling through Iowa. They carried off my mother’s younger brother and sister. They killed everyone but an old man, and after raping my mother, they left her for dead.”

Running Elk stared hard at Kase. “I see many things in your eyes besides fear. Anger and hatred are there, too.”

“He raped my mother.”

“The man left his seed in Her.”

Kase nodded. “I am his son.”

The old man said nothing.

Kase gave him more information. “My mother’s brother and sister were taken during the raid. The sister chose to remain with the Sioux after she married a man called Swift Otter. The boy, Pieter, we have received no word of in many years.”

Running Elk took a deep breath and mumbled a prayer chant that Kase could not hear. Then he spoke. “I know of the woman who is Swift Otter’s first wife, just as I know of the men who brought her to live among us. You now claim as your father the man named Caleb Storm who is known among the People as Raven’s Shadow, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“He is the agent who brought Red Dog’s band back to the reservation. He was at the fort, Sully, many years ago.”

“Yes.”

“Why has he not told you of your father? Why has your mother remained silent?”

“My mother remembers nothing of the attack, and so she could not identify the man. Caleb told me what happened, but nothing about the man except that he was a murderer and a rapist.” Ashamed, Kase looked away.

“The man who gave you life was named Red Dog. He was a subchief, a leader of a small band of Oglala that refused to accept reservation life. His ways were wild. As a youth of only sixteen summers, Red Dog went with eight others to raid the settled Iowa lands. They returned with the captives. Years later, he left the reservation again. His followers deserted him. He died a broken man, killed in a minor skirmish with the white soldiers.”

Kase tried to digest all Running Elk told him. Nothing he heard surprised him, except that the man who had fathered him had been so young. The rest was much as he expected. His true father had been a renegade, a rapist, a man who rebelled until the end of his life.

“You have the look of Red Dog about you,” the shaman said. “To his wife, you are his ghost.”

The thought did little to ease Kase’s mind. Not only did the man’s blood run through his veins, but Red Dog’s image was mirrored in his own features. He thanked God that Analisa did not remember the man’s face.

The shaman was studying him intently. “Now that you know who fathered you, tell me what it is that you still fear, and why you have come so far.”

Kase struggled with himself, with the very fear the old man could easily see. He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. Interlacing his fingers, he stared at his hands and slowly put his fears into words.

“I’m scared I am like him. I had to learn about this man, to know whether he might have led a good life later on. I don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of and it scares the hell out of me.”

“And so you strike out at others. Who you are, Kase Storm, is within your own heart. You are not your father, nor are you your mother. You are an individual, a soul unto yourself. Look to the sacred center of yourself and you will have the answers you seek. Do not look to the past or to the future.”

“And just how am I to find this sacred center of myself?” He could not keep the sarcasm from his tone.

A frown further creased Running Elk’s brow. “Have you never experienced
hanbleceya,
never cried for a vision?”

“Vision quests aren’t all that popular in Boston right now.”

“It is time you sought the truth that lies within.”

“Perhaps it’s too late,” Kase admitted. “I thought only young boys went on vision quests.”

“Hanbleceya
can be undertaken at any age. I will help you to prepare.”

“Dio
!
”
Rosa cried out and released the pan handle she had unthinkingly grabbed without a pot holder. She shook her stinging fingers andthen inspected them. They did not appear about to blister, so she contented herself with dipping them in the dishwater.

Nothing seemed to be going right. The fire she kept burning in the stove had gone out sometime in the middle of the night. She had arisen with a neck stiff from sleeping on her narrow cot in the cold kitchen. Chin Yee had arrived late, tearfully apologetic, but late nonetheless. A farmer and his wife, in town to buy supplies, were waiting impatiently in the dining room for their midday meal.

She heard the front door open and close. Wiping her hands on a dish towel hanging from the waistband of her apron, Rosa went out to greet her customers. Two men in dark woolen suits and brown bowler hats seated themselves near the window. She was arrested by their appearance. Although their clothing was of fine materials cut in the latest style, the shirts they wore beneath the suits were wrinkled, not to mention soiled with grease stains and frayed at the collar; Both men wore holstered guns strapped to their thighs. They appeared to be near the same age, and from the likeness of their features, she guessed they were related.

They smiled and nodded, ordered complete meals, and then, stretching out in their chairs, they alternately leered in her direction and stared out the window.

“Miss Rosa, we got to get back out to the ranch,” the farmer seated with his frowning wife reminded her.

“I’m sorry, Signor Shaw. I will bring your plates out.”

She hurried into the kitchen where she dished up generous portions of noodles and roast beef, then sent Chin scurrying into the dining room with the orders while she boiled more noodles for the newcomers.

When the Yee girl reentered the kitchen, Rosa noted bright tears sparkling in her dark almond-shaped eyes. “Chin? What’s the matter?”

Chin shook her head.

“What?” Rosa demanded.

“Nothing,” the young girl whispered.

“You tell Rosa what’s the matter or I’m lose my temper.” Rosa reached out and put her hands on Chin’s shoulders, forcing the girl to meet her stare.

“The man pulled my hair.” She drew her queue over her shoulder. The long single braid hung past her waist.

“Basta
!
”
Rosa stormed into the dining room and faced the two strangers at the window table. “How come you tease the girl?” she demanded. Her usual attempts to perfect her English were forgotten in her anger.

Without bothering to straighten himself up, the heavier of the two men indolently stared up at her. A smirk curled his lips. The younger spoke. “Didn’t mean any harm, ma’am.” His tone was far from apologetic.

“I been wonderin’,” the other said, “what else you serve besides food?”

“Wine,” Rosa said.

“Well.” He rubbed his hand across his jaw and slowly stared her up and down. His eyes returned to her breasts. “I was thinkin’ of somethin’ a little tastier. Something imported.”

Slowly becoming aware that he was insulting her, Rosa felt the flush rise to her cheeks. The younger of two men watched the exchange and then spit into the corner.

Rosa’s temper snapped.

“Get out,” she said, fighting to keep her voice low so as not to disturb the farmer and his wife.

“Out? I don’t think you mean that, spitfire. Do you think she means it, Bart?” The heavyset man looked to the younger for confirmation.

“Hell no, Bert. I hear tell when most women say no, what they mean is yes.”

“I heard that somewheres, too, now that I think on it.” Bert stood up and took a step toward her.

“I said get out,” Rosa repeated. “Nobody spits on my floor.”

The second man stood. Rosa held her breath.

“I’m not plannin’ on going anyplace,” Bert said before he reached out and grabbed Rosa by the shoulders. She tried to pull out of his grasp and heard the shoulder seam of her white blouse give way.

“Look here, mister.” The farmer attempted to push away from the table and come to Rosa’s aid.

“Don’t move, old man,” Bart said. His hand flicked to his side and whisked his gun out of his holster.

Rosa heard the kitchen door slam.

Bert pulled her up against him. “Now, tell me,” he said, leering down into Rosa’s face, “what’s for dinner?”

“Let me go.” She refused to cry. Nor would she scream. Fully aware of the farmer held at gunpoint, conscious of the soft sobbing of his wife, Rosa fought to remain calm.

“I don’t think so,” Bert said. “I kinda like the feel of this hot little Italian in my arms. Watch the door, Bart.” He turned, pressed Rosa against him, and began to back out of the dining room toward the kitchen.

“Watch the door, Bart. Watch the door, Bart. That’s all I ever hear,” Bart complained as his gaze moved swiftly away from the subdued fanner who stood with his napkin hanging over the front of his overalls.

“This won’t take long at all, Bart. Just keep lookin’ out that door,” Bert warned.

Suddenly Rosa felt the man stiffen. He halted just outside the kitchen doorway. She heard Zach Elliot’s voice behind him.

“That’s the cold barrel of a forty-four you feel pressin’ into your back, mister. Now, if I was you, I’d have your friend drop his gun and I’d let go of the girl.”

Bert let go of Rosa, and she stepped away from him. When Zach stepped out into the dining room, his gun trained on Bert, she moved past them and into the kitchen. Chin Yee stood beside the stove trembling, but trying to smile. Rosa quickly slipped an arm about the girl.

“Put your gun back, Bart,” Bert warned.