Starfish (12 page)

THE FIRST
thing that Avery John Hawkins and the boy noticed when they returned to the lodge in the meadow was the garden. It was thick and looked as if it was about to burst from the original rectangular patch that the children and their grandfather plotted. Fat green tomatoes sagged on their vines. Watermelon, cucumbers, and squash crept forward, spilling into the tall grass of the meadow. The pole beans stood well over the straw man's head, leaving the ghostly figure to stand in his silk dress, idly watching as the beanstalks slowly strangled the sunflowers.

Hawkins stepped up to the straw man and ran a thick finger over the tight weave and the feathers that fluttered around its head in the late afternoon breeze. He looked around at the trampled grass between him and the unearthed smokehouse.

“Maybe you should wait up in the woods while I have a look around,” he said to the boy. “I know that I ain't seen no one here for two days, but it still don't feel right.”

Avery John Hawkins pulled a rifle wrapped in beaded buckskin from the side of his horse and turned the boy toward the woods.

“Now, you keep your eyes open, and if it comes to it, don't be afraid to flash your Winchester like I taught ya.”

The boy turned his horse and the pack mule and headed toward the stream and the far side of the woods. Hawkins crossed the meadow and stood in front of the crooked lodge, staring at the sagging door.

He looked around the meadow again, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. Hawkins had grown accustomed to returning to the lodge to find it in some state of disarray no matter what improvements he and the boy had made during their brief stays there. Animals of some sort seemed to always find their way in, leaving their mark as they saw fit. In particular, Hawkins thought of the wolverine that he often found inside and had yet to figure out its point of entry. Hawkins proceeded with caution, half expecting the creature to jump out at him with every step.

The lodge was now neatly stocked with a variety of provisions. In a far corner, arrows and bows stood in various stages of completion, and there were hides adorned with beadwork and bundles of feathers. Vegetables, some fresher than others, hung from the rafters, leading Hawkins's eye to the support beams which now stood under the lodge's sagging roof.

Avery John Hawkins shifted the heavy rifle in his hand and thought about how long it had been since he and the boy had been able to stay in one place longer than a couple of days. He knew that if they could, this is where he would like to settle, but he quickly dismissed the thought and checked to see how well the boy was hiding himself in the woods.

He stood at the thick glass window near the fireplace, running his eyes across the tree line and the garden, thinking that he had taught the boy well. The boy was nowhere to be seen. He leaned closer to the window and his heavy breathing steamed the glass, revealing a handprint. A print that was no bigger than the boy's.

A flash of movement caught the corner of Avery John Hawkins's eye. He stepped back from the window and peered deep into the woods.

C
ORN
P
OE
D
ROPS THE
R
EINS
• A S
CUFFLE
•
S
HOTS
F
IRED
• G
REETINGS
• J
UNEBUG
• T
HE
L
ODGE

LIONEL STRAINED
his eyes as best he could, but no matter how hard he tried, he could no longer see Beatrice. He knew that she was somewhere toward the edge of the woods, not twenty paces or so ahead, but to the eye, she was gone.

“You can't spot her, huh?” Corn Poe whispered.

“Shhh. Beatrice said not to say nothing,” Lionel insisted.

“Oh, I can still see her,” Corn Poe went on. “I got what they call the eagle eye.”

Corn Poe's eyes darted from side to side, tree-to-tree. Lionel didn't believe him. He was sure that Corn Poe had lost sight of her about the same time as he had, if not sooner. If Beatrice didn't want to be seen, she would not be seen.

“We should just stay here with Ulysses like Beatrice said,” Lionel whispered, turning back to the horse—but Ulysses was gone.

Lionel whipped around to see that Ulysses was wandering toward the meadow and the strange horse that stood grazing in front of their lodge.

“The reins,” Lionel stammered to Corn Poe. “You were supposed to hold the reins.”

Corn Poe spun around. “Where the hell does he think he's off to?”

“Beatrice told you to hold the reins. where are you going?” Lionel asked.

“To get Ulysses.”

“But she told us not to move.”

“Well, which is it? were we supposed to watch the horse or not move? 'Cause the horse, he's movin'!” Corn Poe took off, trailing Ulysses, who was getting closer and closer to the tree line at the edge of the meadow. Lionel followed.

Ulysses made his way through the low brush and across the meadow. He stopped and nudged the strange horse with his long nose. The strange horse did the same, and then the two horses took to standing next to each other, calmly ripping up the grass.

Lionel and Corn Poe crouched at the edge of the Great wood, watching the horses.

“What in the hell are they doing?” Corn Poe whispered.

“I suppose they're bein' social,” Lionel offered, “but Ulysses shouldn't be out there in the first place. You were supposed to hold him.”

“Well, what do you want me to do now?” Corn Poe pleaded through clenched teeth.

“We'll wait,” Lionel told the older boy with authority.

They crawled on their bellies through the scrub, following a series of broken and decaying timber to where the tree line came closest to the lodge. That's when they saw Beatrice.

She appeared from the far side of the meadow and in a crouched run was soon standing at Ulysses's side. The big warhorse nuzzled her with his long head and let out a loud whinny. when the other horse responded, the shadow of a man appeared, ducking under the crooked doorframe of the lodge. Beatrice slipped behind Ulysses and the man's horse, but there was nowhere good for her to hide.

The man scanned the perimeter of the Great wood and then stepped back into the darkness of the lodge. Beatrice took the opportunity to swing up onto Ulysses's back, but before she could turn the horse, the man sprang from the shadows of the lodge and in two running steps had Ulysses by the harness. The man's horse spun violently from the commotion.

Beatrice pulled back on the reins, trying in vain to free Ulysses, who instead sidestepped, mimicking the other horse, dragging the man and throwing Beatrice from his back: a sight that Lionel had never before seen. Beatrice and the man tumbled into each other as Ulysses and the other horse bolted from the lodge toward the edge of the woods. The man rolled over and in a flurry of movement was on top of Beatrice.

Lionel froze at the edge of the wood until Corn Poe broke him from his stupor.

“That sonuvabitch is fixin' to kill your sister!” Corn Poe proclaimed, and then burst forward from their cover and ran screaming toward the man and Beatrice, who struggled in the high grass.

Without thinking, Lionel followed; and before he knew it, had joined Corn Poe on the man's back. The man tried to shake the two boys with a series of bucking motions, but did not find success until he reached around and grabbed hold of first Corn Poe and then Lionel. He yanked the two screaming boys from his back and threw them to the side, where they rolled toward the sag of the crooked doorframe.

Corn Poe scrambled to his feet, brandishing the small wooden stool that Grandpa had sat on while making the straw man. He raised it high over his head as though he aimed to bring it down, if possible, through the man's skull.

“Now, hold on!” the man shouted, still pinning Beatrice to the ground but craning his neck sideways to keep an eye on Corn Poe and Lionel.

Corn Poe lifted the stool higher but was interrupted by a shot that rang like thunder across the small valley. The four of them froze and looked toward the woods and the cloud of black, burning gunpowder that rose from the barrel of a large rifle held by a small boy on horseback.

“Let's all just hold on,” the man repeated, trying to catch his breath and loosening his grip on Beatrice.

The small boy rode across the meadow, his gun pointed directly at Corn Poe.

“Now why don't you put that there stool down and we can talk, okay?” said the man.

The boy reached the front of the lodge and pulled his horse to a stop, the rifle still trained on Corn Poe.

“Everyone agree? Then, if you still want to put that stool through my head, you're more than welcome to try it. what'a say? we can talk, huh?” the man repeated.

Beatrice motioned to Corn Poe, who answered by lowering the stool.

“Now, for starters, some names. My name is Hawkins, Avery John Hawkins, and that there is my boy Joshua, but he goes by the name of Junebug.”

“Junebug Hawkins? what the hell kinda name is that?” Corn Poe eyed the boy on the horse. “Sounds made up if you ask me.”

“Made up? well, all names are made up at some point and be that as it may, that's his name.” Avery John Hawkins stood and extended his hand.

Lionel looked up at him for the first time and realized that he was different from the men at the outpost. To start, his skin was dark like his and Beatrice's, darker, actually, and his hair at its peak sat about six inches from the top of his head. It wasn't straight like his or Beatrice's, either, but clung wildly in dry, tight curls, reminding Lionel of the tuft of hair on the mounted buffalo head that hung in the captain's office.

Lionel took Mr. Hawkins's big hand. “I'm Lionel. That's my sister, Beatrice, and that there is Corn Poe, Corn Poe Boss Ribs.”

“And Junebug Hawkins sounds made up?” Hawkins said, smiling. “Nice to meet you, Corn Poe.”

“My name ain't made up. It's what my paps calls me,” Corn Poe said, still eyeing Junebug and the rifle with suspicion.

“Why, come on down, son, and put the rifle away,” Mr. Hawkins said to the boy he called Junebug. Then, turning to Beatrice, he extended his hand once again, which Beatrice reluctantly took hold of, and Hawkins pulled her to her feet.

“Sorry about that, Beatrice, right? I thought you were fixin' to take old Mr. Hawkins's horse or worse.”

Beatrice stood, collecting herself. Lionel watched her, amazed at how small she looked next to Mr.

Hawkins. He was a big man, almost the same size as Corn Poe's father, but not as wide.

“Now, it's gettin' late. If we can agree to be friends, maybe we could get some supper goin'.” Mr. Hawkins rested a hand on his son's shoulder. “Then we'll figure out what we're all doin' in each other's lodge.”

H
AWKINS'S
B
ISCUITS
• E
LK
D
OG
• T
RUST

AVERY JOHN HAWKINS
crouched beside a small fire pounding dough in his large hands. He dropped the dough as biscuits into the bacon grease that popped and hissed in the blackened skillet.

“I tell ya. During these summer months I do prefer to stay out of doors as long as the weather permits,” Mr. Hawkins said, dropping another biscuit into the pan. “It helps during them long winter months, when that cold got you froze clear to the bone.”

Mr. Hawkins looked at the sprawl of stars that spread across the inky black night.

“You stop and think to yourself, It sure is cold now, but I do remember a warm summer evening not too long ago, and that does what it can to stove off the night,” Hawkins continued. “Even just for the moment, it surely does.”

There was something to Mr. Hawkins's voice that Lionel had never heard before. Something foreign that didn't sound like any of the Blackfeet or government people that occupied the outpost.

“Say, there, Corn Poe. You mind keepin' an eye on them biscuits for a minute? I want to check on the corn.” Hawkins smiled. “I wanna check on the
corn
, Corn Poe.”

Mr. Hawkins reached barehanded into the fire and rotated the five ears of corn that lay in their blackened husks at the edge of the glowing ash. “I usually like to soak the corn for a day or so before roasting. Helps lock in some of that flavor.” Then Mr. Hawkins turned his attention to the brook trout that he'd instructed Junebug to pull from the stream earlier. There were five good-sized fish, stuffed with wild onions from the banks of the stream, skewered and hanging over the dancing flames. “That should be enough, well, with maybe some melon for dessert—that is, if you don't mind gettin' one from the garden there, Lionel.”

Lionel looked to Beatrice before leaving the circle of firelight. He wasn't sure what to make of their new guests. Beatrice nodded, but did not take her eyes from the man and his son.

Lionel walked toward the garden. The cool grass was wet with the night and felt good on his bare feet. The smells from the Hawkinses' cook fire urged him to move quickly.

“Joint guests is what we are.” Mr. Hawkins's voice carried across the meadow. “We're enjoying the fruits of your labor and what you done to the place, and y'all gettin' ready to sample the culinary wiles of the Hawkinses, firsthand.”

Lionel paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness before stepping from the grass into the turned earth of the garden. He looked up at the countless stars and listened to the crashing movement of the stream in the distance.

“How come this fellow over here,
Junebug
as you call him, never says nothin'?” Lionel heard Corn Poe ask. “I seem to notice that you're the one doin' all the talkin'.”

“Oh, Junebug will say plenty if you listen,” Hawkins said without turning from the flames, “but he don't have the words that you or I have. He's a mute.”

“Mute. well, I suppose that would explain it,” Corn Poe said, looking to Junebug and then suddenly raising his voice. “I just thought you was rude or somethin'!”

Mr. Hawkins let out a long, bellowing laugh that was soon accompanied by a strange but similar version of the same laugh from Junebug. It was the first sound that any of them had heard from the boy since they had met him at gunpoint late that afternoon.

“Why, he's mute. He can't talk. That don't mean he's
deaf
,” Mr. Hawkins said through his laughter. “I don't mean to chuckle, but we've seen it done before. The few people we see, always raisin' their voices when they hear that he don't speak like we do, when there's no need. He hears better than any of us do, but people always want to raise their voices when they talk to him. Ain't that right, Junebug?”

Junebug nodded his head in agreement, his strange laugh bubbling into a slight giggle. As Lionel returned from the darkness with a large melon, he noticed that Beatrice's face had slipped into a smile, and that even Corn Poe couldn't help but laugh, despite the laughter being somewhat at his own expense. Lionel figured that Corn Poe may have become accustomed to this position.

“And Mr. Lionel with the melon. That sure looks like a good one. Here, boy, let's set it over there.” Hawkins took the melon and laid it next to his saddle by the fire and then, raising his voice to thunderous proportions: “or should I say over there!”

They all settled around the fire to eat, but continued to giggle and take turns speaking in the loud manner in which Corn Poe had addressed Junebug. The tension that had occupied the afternoon and early evening seemed to erode, and even Beatrice took a turn, asking, rather loudly at one point, for Lionel to pass her another piece of freshly cut melon. This brought relieved laughter from Mr. Hawkins most of all, and after they had all finished, they settled back in the grass around the fire and looked up at the endless sea of stars.

“Oh, man, that was some good eatin' there, Mr. Hawkins,” Corn Poe announced. “I was as hungry as a horse, but now I feel like a swolled-up tick a-fixin' to pop.”

“Yes, it was, and I'd like to thank all of y'all for havin' me and the boy,” Mr. Hawkins added. “I didn't know what to think when I saw old Beatrice there sneaking up to my horse dressed the way y'all's dressed. I ain't seen no Indians in clothes like that in some time. You must be from the Blackfeet rez down below, huh?”

“Yes, sir, we are. But we're renegades, on account of them trying to force the Blackfeet outta us,” Corn Poe declared.

“I do know that feelin',” Mr. Hawkins answered, reaching for a small leather bag and pulling from it a pipe that he packed with tobacco.

“Hey, our grandpa smokes a pipe like that,” Lionel observed, then looked to Beatrice for approval.

“Is that right?” Mr. Hawkins asked, lighting the pipe. The big man sat smoking, his knees fixed to the insides of his elbows, staring off, lost in the fire.

It was quiet for some time, and Lionel thought that he might have dozed off for a minute. It had been a long day, and one that was not to be forgotten. Lionel was startled by a soft whinny that he recognized to be Ulysses, who was resting somewhere in the darkness of the meadow surrounding them. The Hawkinses' horses answered, and then they all seemed to settle back down around the fire.

“That's a helluva horse,” Mr. Hawkins said, breaking what passed for silence in the meadow with the distant sound of the stream, the wind in the Great wood, and the crickets that sang softly in the high grass.

“That there is Ulysses, the fastest horse in all of Montana,” Corn Poe said, drawing a heavy glare from Beatrice. “What? He is!”

“You don't say,” Mr. Hawkins continued, noticing Beatrice's scowl. “I suppose it ain't none of my business how y'all came by a horse like that, but it sure is good lookin'.”

Mr. Hawkins leaned forward and took a drink of cool stream water from a tin cup and spat in the fire. “You said y'all was Blackfeet? Piegan, eh? Niitsítapi—the original people. The real people.”

“That's right,” Corn Poe said, with perhaps more to prove on the subject than Beatrice or Lionel.

“You know I was down there for a while. Back when I was with the army, Tenth Cavalry.” Mr. Hawkins threw another piece of wood on the fire. “Why, I've been told that it was you Blackfeet that first domesticated the horse. Called 'em
‘po-no-kah
mita.'
You know what that means?”

“No, can't say that I do,” Corn Poe answered for the group, careful to avert his eyes from Beatrice's close and cautious glare.

“Y'all don't speak it, eh? well,
po-no-kah-mita
is Blackfeet for ‘elk-dog.' Big as an elk, but you're able to work 'em, carrying loads, like dogs.”

Mr. Hawkins leaned back against his saddle and took a long draw on his pipe, his dark face streaked with dancing firelight.

“Yep, the Blackfeet are known as some of the greatest horsemen the plains have ever seen—that much is true.”

“Some?” Corn Poe spat, once again looking to Beatrice for support.

Ulysses and the Hawkinses' horses appeared out of the darkness as though they had been listening all along.

“
Nioomítaa
…A great horse,” Mr. Hawkins concluded, looking up at the horses.

Lionel rolled over onto his side and studied Beatrice. She was the best horseman he had ever seen, and today he had seen that even she could get thrown off by the “elk-dog.” A jumpy elk-dog named Ulysses.