Authors: Dorothy Garlock
He walked to a thick stand of sumac, stepped behind it, then reappeared leading the spotted pony.
“Will you come to the school?”
He shrugged and looked away from her. He seemed reluctant to leave.
“Thank you for cutting grass for the horses.”
“They must eat.”
“What are you called?”
“Woksois.”
“Your Shoshoni name? Do you have an English name?”
“My father called me … Little Whit. But I am no longer little.”
“You’re Walt Whitaker’s son?”
“He was proud to call me son,” the boy answered defiantly.
“I should think so. Any man should be proud to call you his son.”
“Any man? Ha! Ha!” He spit contemptuously on the grass. Eyes that had been so clearly expressionless were now dark with resentment and suppressed rebellion.
Jenny didn’t know what to say. She studied him closely. All her experience had been with girls. She was unsure how to handle a proud young boy.
“I am determined to stay. But there is much I need to know. Will you help me?”
His gaze left her face and he looked toward the house. When his eyes returned to her, they were hard, resentful.
“I am not to go there … to my father’s house.”
“Because it is not on the reservation. I was told that. I will write to the … Big Chief in Washington and tell him it is unfair that you should have to sneak onto your father’s homestead.”
“I am not considered real son by the whites.”
“Was your mother not legal wife to Mr. Whitaker?”
“In the eyes of the Shoshoni. He had two Shoshoni wives. One old, one young. My mother was the young one.”
“Will she come to the school so that I can meet her?”
“She is dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He frowned. “Why sorry? You not know my mother.”
“That’s true, but I know
you
… now. And I’m sorry you have no mother.”
“I have mother. My father’s second wife my mother now. She is old. I take care of her till she find other husband.” He leaped upon the pony and turned away.
“Whit,” Jenny called. “It will take me a while to get the school ready for classes. Will you come?”
“I will not be far away,” Whit called, and rode into the woods.
Jenny watched him leave, wishing she had asked him how far it was to his village and if the elders would come to see her about the school, or if she should go to them.
On the way back to the house her steps were eager, her petticoats swishing in the tall grass with each long, graceful stride. She stopped at the woodpile to gather an armful of small sticks and twigs.
“Use this bucket, Virginia. And you’d better wear gloves. I found this old pair in your trunk,” Cassandra said as she came from the house, dressed, and with her hair brushed and tied back.
“Thank you.” Jenny pulled on soft leather gloves, not at all suitable as work gloves but better than nothing. “I’ve already poked my finger with a splinter.”
“Tululla brought kindling in each night so she’d have something to start the morning fire. She always used a bucket.”
“Oh, honey. I didn’t realize that I was so ill equipped to cope with life out here.”
“We’ll manage.” Cassandra tossed her head. “We’re as smart as that Frank Wilson and twice as smart as that dumb clod that was here yesterday. We may not be as strong physically, Virginia, but we’re smarter. I’ll bank on smartness over strength.”
“You’re right, Cassandra. We’ll not let a few inconveniences discourage us.”
“These are major inconveniences, Virginia. Some of them are life-threatening.”
“I know, honey. I worry for you and Beatrice.”
“That’s as you should, for you are the adult in the family. But we’ll be all right once we get organized.” She picked up the bucket Jenny had filled. “Bring a couple of big pieces of wood. We’ve got to cook breakfast. Tululla said food is fuel for the body like wood is fuel for the stove. While we’re cooking you can tell me about that Indian boy you were talking to.”
The morning went quickly. Jenny was surprised at the amount of work four-year-old Beatrice could do willingly while working with Cassandra. The girls put the kitchen area in order, scrubbing the work counter and washing the dusty dishes beneath. Jenny swept the floor with a piece of broom she found propped in the corner behind the stove. After dragging her trunk into the room with the single bunk, she made up the bed and set her toilet articles out on a shelf.
Cassandra started a list of things they needed. Soap was the first item. They had washed the dishes using Jenny’s perfumed hand soap. High on the list were a decent broom and a washtub that they could also use for bathing.
“Jenny, I wonder why Mr. Havelshell sent chicken feed when there are no chickens.” Cassandra’s pale blue eyes never missed anything that was important.
“He said they may have been stolen.”
“There were never chickens here. Not for a long time anyway.”
“How do you know that, honey?”
“Because there’s not a feather or a dropping … anywhere. I looked yesterday and I looked again this morning. All I found were bird feathers and some splatters made by a blackbird or a bluejay who had been eating berries.”
“Well, forevermore.” Jenny brushed the hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Why in the world did he send two sacks of chicken feed when he knew there were no chickens?”
“Because he wants you to think the Indians steal … and heaven knows what else. It’s part of the campaign to discourage and frighten us so we’ll leave.” Cassandra spoke as if she were explaining something to a child. Then she asked Beatrice, who had come running in the back door, “Did you fill the bucket with chips?”
Beatrice ignored the question. “Jen … ny—” she gasped. “Indians out … there.”
Jenny went quickly out the door and looked toward the school.
“One of them is Whit, the boy I told you about. You needn’t be afraid of them.” She waved to the pair who sat on their ponies staring at the ranch house.
No response. Evidently waving was not one of their ways of communicating.
“Come along, girls. Let’s go talk to them.”
“Shouldn’t we take the gun?” Cassandra asked.
“I have the little one in my pocket. I don’t think we’ll need it.”
As they neared the two riders, Beatrice took shelter behind Jenny’s skirt. The man who waited with the boy was thick in shoulders and chest and had streaks of gray in his hair.
“The sun is halfway across the sky and you have not watered the horses.” Whit spoke in an accusing tone.
“Oh my goodness! I completely forgot the horses!” Jenny turned back to look at the corral where the three animals stood with their heads over the rail fence. “Will they come with me if I put a rope around their necks?”
“The pony will not.”
“Who does the pony belong to?”
“To me!”
“Then why do you leave him here?”
“Because Havelshell says I have no claim. The pony was not listed on the paper my father left.”
“For crying out loud! Couldn’t you have told him—”
“You do not tell agent. Agent tell you,” the boy said bitterly.
His dark eyes moved down to Cassandra, who stood apart from Jenny, her hands on her hips, her face tilted up toward him.
“I wonder why Mr. Whitaker preferred to carry water rather than build his corral over by the pond.”
Whit’s dark eyes moved back up to Jenny’s face.
“When he built the corral, water flowed in the ditch that runs through it. When he was gone, the
Wasicun
build dam like the beaver to stop water.”
“
Wasicun
?”
“White man.”
“Mr. Havelshell?” When the boy didn’t answer, she said, “Why would he do that?”
“He had reason.”
Jenny looked to the older man. He had not spoken. He was not as clean as Whit, nor did he have the boy’s fine features; his skin was several shades darker and his face pockmarked.
“He is not right in head and does not speak,” Whit exclaimed. “But his heart is good and his back is strong. If teacher say fix so water go to Whitaker land, we fix.”
“Could you do that? Heavenly days! That would be a great help. But … is the dam on the reservation land?”
“It is. Water come out of rock and make a small stream that flow into corral.
Wasicun
make water go to river.”
“If you take out the dam will it affect the pond?”
“That water come from mountain.”
“Then take out the dam.” She smiled to take off the edge as she spoke in a firm demanding tone. “I demand that you take out the dam and let the water fill the ditch so the horses can drink.”
“You will say that to agent?”
“I will tell him that I ordered you to do it. How long will it take?”
“Not long. Horses can wait. Why you look at me?” His dark eyes had settled again on Cassandra.
“Because I thought Indians said only ‘ugh’ and ‘how.’ You speak pretty good … for an Indian.”
“Ugh! How! Ugh! Ugh! How! How!” He spit the words. “I’m not stupid Indian. I know English. I read, too.”
“If you’re not a stupid Indian, why do you wear that silly feather in your hair?”
“So you know I savage who will come and take your scalp.” He placed his hand on the hilt of the knife in his belt.
“You just try it and I’ll … shoot your gizzard out!” Cassandra lifted her small pointed chin defiantly.
Jenny looked from one to the other in amazement. “That’s about enough of that kind of talk. Whit, these are my sisters, Cassandra, and Beatrice.”
“Cassandra. What that mean? Girl-Who-Squawk-Like-Jaybird?” Whit turned the pony and headed for the woods. The older man followed.
“It means prophetess,” Cassandra yelled. “But I doubt you know what that means, Boy-With-Chicken-Feather-Growing-Out-Of-Head!”
“I like him and I was hoping you would, too.” Jenny put her arm across Cassandra’s shoulder as they walked back to the house.
“He’s a smart-mouthed know-it-all. You’ll not be able to teach him anything.”
“I liked him.” Beatrice piped up in her childish voice. “He’s pretty. I wish I could ride on his pony.”
“You noticed, did you?” Jenny laughed. “Did you think he was pretty, Cass?”
“Pretty? Some people would think the back end of a mule was pretty!”
“He’s only a boy, but I feel better knowing he’s out there keeping an eye on us.”
“Will he come to school?”
“I don’t know. I hope he does. He seems mature and bright for his age. His father may have set up this program with him in mind.”
“Virginia,” Cassandra tilted her head to look up at her sister. “There’s something going on here that I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense that a boy can’t cross an imaginary line to come onto a place where his father lived, even if he is a … a … bas—”
“Bastard. You can say it. It’s a legitimate word that’s in Mr. Webster’s dictionary. Whit is one only in the eyes of some white people. Mr. Whitaker married Whit’s mother according to the Shoshoni tradition.”
“As I said”—Cassandra continued on toward the house—“there’s a lot here that I don’t understand.”
For three days after his trip to town Trell McCall worked from dawn to dark building a corral for the mares he wanted to breed to his best stallions. His hired hand, Joe Fiala, was in Forest City getting married. Trell and Joe had spent days making the room next to the bunkhouse into quarters for the newlyweds.
It would be nice, Trell mused as he wiped sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve, to have a woman on the place. Joe was young, but he was getting a woman who would be a helpmate. He had told Trell that she was the youngest of six children. After her parents died, she had been living first with one married sibling and then with another. A couple of her brothers’ wives were not pleased to be losing their unpaid help.
And Joe and his girl were in love. Trell thought about that a lot. He wondered how it would be to have a wife love him with all her heart as Mara Shannon loved his brother, Pack. Trell sometimes cursed the shyness that had kept him from having a serious relationship with a woman.
While Joe was away, Trell found himself thinking more and more about the slender, determined woman and the two little girls who had come to take over the Whitaker school for Indians. The possibility that the woman and the children might be over at Whitaker’s alone worried him. He had few qualms as far as the Shoshoni were concerned—they were peaceful enough. The drifters and outlaws who roamed the territory provided the danger to an unprotected woman on a homestead. Even though a man could get himself hanged for bothering a good woman more quickly than for killing a man or stealing a horse, the lure was too great for some to resist.
When Joe returned to the ranch, his bride sat beside him on the wagon seat. The new black serge suit he had bought for his wedding was dust-covered now. The freckle-faced, skinny, down-at-the-heels boy who had drifted in several years ago and asked for a job, now jumped down and reached for his bride. Amid squeals of laughter he swung her down. Once her feet were on the ground they held on to each other until they saw Trell watching them.
“Morning,” Trell called as he went toward them. “Do I get to kiss the bride?”
“Wal, now, I ain’t knowin’ ‘bout that.” Happiness was spread all over the young cowboy’s face. “Boss, this is Una May.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fiala.”
Una May, a small, round-faced girl with a sweet smile and two deep dimples in her cheeks, looked down at the ground, her face aflame. Trell had seen her once or twice in town, although never with Joe because the two men did not usually leave the ranch at the same time.
“Ah … shucks. Might as well give the man a treat, honey.” Joe put his arm around his bride, his broad grin showing his widely spaced front teeth. “Ya can stand it fer once. Won’t last long.”
Trell bent his tall frame and pecked the girl on the cheek.
“I don’t know how you’re going to put up with this old boy, ma’am. He’s so ugly he’d put a mud fence to shame.”
“I ain’t seein’ it that way, Mr. McCall.” She smiled shyly and looked adoringly at the grinning cowboy.
“Didn’t I tell ya she was smart, Trell? Didn’t I tell ya?”