Authors: Dorothy Garlock
Jenny went out to stand beside Colleen and Ike as the men approached the house. Three of the riders stopped beside the corral. One took off his hat and approached Ike and the women.
“Mornin’, ladies. Howdy, Ike.”
“What’a ya wantin’ here, Armstrong?”
“I figured it fair to tell ya that we come out to put the dam back in—it bein’ agin the law and all fer water to come off Indian land for private use.”
“That is not true! Mr. Havelshell is interpreting the law as he wants it to read.” Jenny’s temper was rising by leaps and bounds.
“I ain’t knowin’ nothin’ ‘bout the law, ma’am, ‘cepts what Mr. Havelshell tells me. He says it’s in the book; ya can’t take water from the reservation.”
“The water has been flowing into Stoney Creek for years. Mr. Havelshell is the one who interfered with nature when he had the source diverted toward the river. He did it, of course, to inconvenience us here at the homestead.”
“I ain’t knowin’ none a that. He said put the dam back in. It’s what we’ll do.”
“I would expect no less from his paid lackeys. It isn’t what’s right or wrong that matters, is it? It’s the money he pays you. What a sad thing it is when a man will sacrifice a principle for the almighty dollar. As long as your principles are up for sale, Mr. Armstrong, I’ll pay half again whatever Havelshell is paying you to go about your business and leave Stoney Creek alone.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am.” Her scorn scorched him. He knew he was no match for her in an argument, so he tipped his hat to leave them.
Colleen’s shrill, angry voice stopped him.
“Hold on, ya murderin’ sonofabitch!” She slapped her hand on the gun that lay against her thigh. “Ya was one of ‘em who shot down my pa in cold blood. He wasn’t armed, but I am. Ya want to take yore chance with me, or do ya want it in the back?”
“Miss, I had nothin’ to do with the killin’ of yore pa.” Armstrong held his hands up and away from the gun at his side.
“I was hopin’ to God, I’d killed all of ya when ya come sneakin’ back in the dark of night.”
“We was sent to warn yore pa off and that’s all. I got plenty a sins to answer for, but shootin’ down a unarmed man ain’t one of ‘em.”
“Ya did nothin’ to stop it, ya slimy toad!”
“I never give a thought to what Hartog was goin’ to do. And that’s the God’s truth. I broke with him over it. He’s like a wild longhorn on loco weed. There ain’t no knowin’ what he’ll do from one minute to the other.”
“I’ll shoot ‘im when I see him. My pa was a good man who never did harm to anybody.”
“Let Hartog be, ma’am. Ya got him in the back that night. Didn’t do much damage to him, but ya or McCall—yeah I know it was him—damn near kilt the other feller.”
“I was doin’ my best to kill all of ya.”
“And I ain’t blamin’ ya. It’s what I’d a done. It might ease ya some to know that Hartog picked a fight with McCall in the saloon the other night and McCall whipped him. Laid him out cold.”
“I’m not askin’ McCall or anybody else to fight my fights.” Colleen shouted the words because Armstrong had motioned to the riders beside the corral and had turned his horse toward the reservation.
“Ike, they have no tools—”
“They ain’t needin’ any, Jenny. They’ll blast.”
“Blast? Use powder? Dynamite?”
“Probably packin’ sticks in their saddlebags.”
“Oh, my goodness! What’ll we do?”
Ike scratched his head. “I ain’t knowin’ if we can do anythin’. I’m thinkin’ it’s not up to us now.”
“No? Then who?”
“Shoshoni ain’t wantin’ ‘em to put the dam back in. Whit couldn’t a took it out ‘less’n the elders said he could. The chief’s up north in the Wind River leavin’ the runnin’ a thin’s to the elders. They know what’s goin’ on even if they don’t come this way hardly a’tall. They’d a took it out even if ya hadn’t come here. Looky yonder.”
Jenny looked toward the school. “Oh, my goodness!”
A group of Indian horsemen came galloping across the school yard, Whit among them, and passed out of sight into the woods.
“They’re goin’ to head Havelshell’s men off. Do you think there’ll be trouble?”
“Yeah, if the fools think they can stand off thirty warriors,” Ike said dryly. “If ya want, I’ll get on old Trouble and take a look-see.”
“I don’t want you hurt.”
“I ain’t gettin’ twix’ ‘em.” Ike threw a halter on his mule and climbed up onto the swayed back. “Ya’ll keep yore eyes peeled. Hear?”
Ike reached the site where Whit and the Indian called Head-Gone-Bad had pried loose the piled rocks that had dammed the small, slow rivulet that formed Stoney Creek.
The shaman in full headdress was offering his thanks to the Great Spirit for the gift of the waters. Ike watched as the shaman said his words and each of the Indians drank from a common gourd filled with water from Stoney Creek. The ceremony took the good part of a half an hour.
Armstrong and his men stood well back from the creek as did Ike. When the shaman, Whit, and all the warriors had drunk, they mounted their ponies and in a group moved to where Armstrong and his men waited. The shaman motioned for Whit to move up beside him. He spoke to him for several minutes. Then Whit translated for him.
“The shaman say go from here. A place where water divides is a sacred place. Do not disturb Mother’s land or Mother’s water or Mother be very angry.”
“What the hell’s he talkin’ ‘bout?” one of the men growled.
Armstrong ignored him.
“Tell him we have blasting sticks and were told by the Indian agent to shut off the water because it belongs to the reservation.”
Whit relayed the message to the shaman. The old man spoke at length in the language of the Shoshoni, and Whit summed up his words.
“He said that water belongs to no man. Many years ago, before the white man came, a brave warrior lay dying on the grassland. Mother caused the earth to rumble, and waters from this place were sent over a bed of stones to the warrior. He lived to lead his people for many years. It was not good that the agent sent men to disturb what Mother has made. Our chief, Washakie, will speak of it to the agent when he comes at the end of summer.”
“Who’s mother’s he blabberin’ ‘bout? One stick’d scatter that ragtail bunch.”
“Mother is the land, ya dumb ass,” another said after Whit finished translating. “This is their land. If they want Stoney Creek to have some of their water, it ain’t no skin off my butt. I had no likin’ fer doin’ this anyhow.”
“Do ya think they’ll fight us?”
“They ain’t carryin’ them weapons to hunt bear.”
“We got the sticks—”
“No! This little old pissin’ creek ain’t worth a body dyin’ for. Why Havelshell don’t forget about it, I ain’t knowin’.”
“I’m thinkin’ Havelshell’s got his sights on this ranch. He’s already got a thousand head a cattle on it.”
“The cattle is for the reservation.”
“Haw! Haw!”
“What’er we goin’ to do, Armstrong? Air we backin’ down?”
“It’s the sensible thin’, ‘less yo’re hell-bent on dyin’.”
“Jeez! We got the sticks, ain’t we? What’er they but a bunch a piss-poor Indians with a dozen rifles?”
“Goddammit! We ain’t usin’ no dynamite!”
“Boss ain’t goin’ to like it.”
“Then to hell with ‘im. He can do it hisself.”
Armstrong kneed his horse, and the animal moved closer to where Whit waited beside the shaman.
“Tell him that we’re leavin’. But more men may come. This will have to be settled with the agent.”
“I will tell him. It is good that you go. The shaman know some English and know that one of your men want to use the blasting sticks. It would not do for that man to come this way alone.”
“That bad, huh?”
Whit shrugged. “We have pride. We respect the Mother Earth and despise those who would destroy her.”
Jenny, waiting for the sound of the blast or rifle fire, was relieved to see Armstrong and his men riding across the meadow toward the trail that led to town. Shortly after, the Indians pulled their ponies to a halt in front of the school. She hurried to meet them. Whit sat proudly on his pony beside a handsomely dressed man in a beaded tunic. He had weathered features and gray-streaked hair.
“The shaman wish to see where you will teach the young.”
Jenny looked into the flat black eyes of the old man and smiled.
“Welcome.” She waved her hand toward the door.
He slid from the back of the pony and followed her inside the school. Whit trailed after them. Jenny was grateful for his presence. She was unsure what to say to the dignified old man until he spoke.
“What this?” He indicated the map she had hung on the wall.
“This is a picture of the world.” She spread her arms. “All the land, all the water. Our land is here.” She put her forefinger on the place that was America. “I will tell the children about other lands and their own wonderful land.”
He said nothing and she wondered if he understood. Desperate to make an impression, she picked up a slate and drew a letter W.
“I will teach them to read and write. I’ll teach them the good ways of the white man and warn them about the bad ways. I am not a missionary. I will not try to convert them to Christianity. My job is to teach, not preach.”
“That is good. We will send all the children.” To Jenny’s amazement, he spoke in perfect English.
Jenny looked quickly at Whit. His expression was stoic.
“
All
the children? I agree that all the children should learn, but it is difficult to teach many children at one time. It would be better if I start with this many.” She held up ten fingers. “Then these could help me teach the others.”
The shaman appeared to pay scant attention to what she said. He looked at everything in the room; from the table with the checked cloth to the glass jar filled with wild flowers she had picked along Stoney Creek. He paused at the picture of George Washington.
“Who this?”
“George Washington. The first president of our country.”
“Where he live?”
“He has been dead for a long time.”
“That is good.”
Jenny didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She also didn’t know if she should tell him about ciphering or geography. She waited for a signal from Whit, but none was forthcoming. When the shaman took a last look around and walked out the door, the only thing that had been settled was that he would send
all
the children. She had visions of two hundred children appearing on the doorstep.
After speaking with Whit, the shaman mounted and the Indians rode away. Whit tied his pony to a bush and came to where Jenny stood beside the door.
“Did he like the school? How many children will he send?”
“So many questions. He say you good teacher. Yes and ten.”
“What do you mean? Yes and ten?”
“Yes, he like school. He send ten children.”
“Counting you?”
“I am not children. I will come help teacher.”
“And learn, too. I want to start preparing you for college.”
“My father talked of it.”
“When will the children come?”
“He say soon. He say I watch school. Head-Gone-Bad watch to see if men with sticks come back.”
“That’s comforting to know.” Jenny smiled with relief. “We’ll bring you food from the house. I’ve sent a letter to the Bureau of Indian Affairs to complain about Mr. Havelshell and his strict orders that you or any other Shoshoni not leave the reservation land. I’m hoping that order will be modified or canceled altogether.”
“Sneaking Weasel no longer spy on school. He look for Moonrock who went back to her father.”
“The young girl who was at the store? Why did she leave?”
“She say Havelshell try to violate her chastity.”
“Why … why … she was only a child,” Jenny stammered.
The boy looked puzzled. “She’d had her bleeding time.”
Jenny felt the heat that flooded her face.
“Without chastity,” he explained, “she could never be first wife, only second or third wife.”
“Will her father send her back?”
“He angry. Havelshell’s woman angry.”
“I invited her to come to school. Will she come?”
“No. Her father send her north to her mother’s people.”
“Will another girl go to work at the store?”
“No Shoshoni girl … now.”
“The spy is not here. Come to the house for dinner.” Jenny smiled fondly at the boy.
“No.” He answered quickly. “My manners not good. It long since I sat at my father’s table. Girl-Who-Squawk sure to notice.”
“Cassandra would never mention your lack of table manners!”
“She would.” He folded his arms over his chest. He had never looked so … Indian as he did now.
“When I’m preparing you for college, I will also teach you how to present yourself in public. It would be a pity for you to have the finest education and fear dining in a restaurant because of your table manners.”
“Later I will come to your table,” he said, as if it were his last word on the subject.
After Armstrong and his men left, Colleen and Ike had spent the rest of the morning scrubbing and delousing the bunkhouse. Ike had not said flatly that he would stay on and work at Stoney Creek, but allowed that if he did drop by now and then, he wouldn’t mind having a
decent
place to stay. They had set up the bed from the Murphy wagon, a washstand and several chairs. Colleen seemed to be perfectly willing to use the furnishings from their burned-out cabin.
From the doorway of the bunkhouse, Jenny could view Stoney Creek homestead. A year’s growth of grass and brush had been cleared from around the house. The afternoon sun shone on the clean windows. The woodpile was beginning to take on some semblance of order. The pole corral had been strengthened, and a new bucket hung by the well.
Most important to Jenny, little Beatrice romped happily in the yard with Hiram, the puppy.
This was home. Jenny decided that she had a lot to be thankful for. She had coped far better than she had thought she could when she arrived—thanks to Trell for helping her put out the fire and for bringing the Murphys to stay with her. She had him to thank for the cow … and for fixing the well, and for a dozen other things. Thinking about that caused a lump to form in her throat that was difficult to swallow.