Cherokee America, page 18
Lickings
The night was new, the air refreshed by rain, the water high. The river was a loud, fast torrent, transporting tree limbs and debris further downstream. But the cove was protected. Cricket and frog calls ricocheted across the air. Bert and Ame dangled their legs off the ferry. Ripples of varying heat eddied around their feet and made them tingle. It was the first night since their arrival that Bert felt real peace. He clamped down on an urge to hug his brother. He’d told Ame that the man with the body was Jenny’s father. That Jenny’s brother, Coop, had visited all afternoon. That Coop had offered to teach them to fish like Indians.
Ame didn’t know what fishing like Indians meant. Neither, really, did Bert. But both felt certain Indians knew more about fishing than white people did. And they were excited, and looking forward to it. To pull the fishing nearer, they bragged about big ones they would catch. Got into a disagreement about whether a grandfather catfish was larger and meaner than a grandfather carp.
When the dispute petered out, Bert said, “I met the sheriff. He’s gonna look fer our family.” He felt Ame’s breath on his shoulder. It didn’t waver. But Ame didn’t say anything. After a long wait, Bert added, “Didja hear me?”
Ame’s breath went away.
“Aren’t ya happy ’bout that?”
“Sure. Jist thinking.”
“’Bout what? It’s what we come fer. Now we’re here. We need to git on it.” Bert pulled his feet out of the water, lay back on the boards, and cradled his head in his palms. He stared at the moon. The crickets carried a tune. Waves slapped the side of the ferry. Eventually, Ame said, “Can’t really feature a family. Guess they’re Cherokee.”
“Probably. Or Choctaw. You was too little to remember. Mama was dark. Yer ’bout the color of a walnut yerself.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Course ya are.”
“I’m colored like a pecan.”
“I’m like a pecan. Yer a walnut. Or maybe a turd.”
The boys kept on until they ran out of insults. Bert sat up, and they resorted to punching each other’s arms until Ame said, “Ouch! That hurt.”
Bert felt a pang of remorse. But instead of saying “I’m sorry, he said, “The sheriff said he had business to tend, but he’d be back around.”
“Ya think he’ll do it?” Ame rubbed his arm.
“He’s the sheriff. I don’t see why he’d lie.”
“Hard to tell what people’ll do.” Ame was young, but had seen real meanness. And no matter how he tried to shake it, it stayed around like the shadow of a giant oak thrown on the ground. Bert had seen meanness, too. But was more cheerful by nature, and wanted to make up with his brother for hurting his arm. He said, “Look at the moon. See the rabbit in it? Ask fer something and you’ll git it.”
Ame lay back on the boards. He thought about making a wish, but didn’t know what to ask for. He had an inside place to sleep, food three times a day. He had men around; one or two who’d seemed like a father once or twice. So he had more than he’d ever imagined even a year in the past.
The white people who had taken them in had been pretty mean. Bert had excused them, said they were tired and worn out, were grieving their boys, killed in the War. Ame reckoned that was true. But he didn’t like the curl on the man’s lip when he was wrapping his whip around his fist. And he hated the lickings. The woman wasn’t much better. She cooked cabbage every day, and on cold winter nights spat tobacco juice into the fire. So Ame didn’t make a wish. He was away from all that. There wasn’t anything more he could wish for.
But Bert made a wish. He was worried about not having a shack for shelter when the weather turned. He wished for one. But didn’t tell his wish for fear of not getting it. So both boys were silent. Bert lay back, too. They listened to frogs and crickets. An occasional jumping fish made a slapping sound. Bert was almost asleep when Ame said, “Saw something strange in the barn today.”
“What?”
“Waz in the loft sleeping during the rain. Woked up by a crack. I thought it were lightning. But somebody waz down below. Then I heared another crack, and another.”
“What waz it?”
“Well, there’s this sawhorse in the barn with a saddle on it. Somebody waz whacking that saddle with a whip.”
“You see ’im?”
“No. I waz peeking through a crack in the floor. I could jist see the saddle. But it waz taking a hell of a beating.”
“I reckon somebody waz having a fit. It’s good you stayed put. You don’t wanta git in the way of a whip.”
Ame said, “No. I’m tired of them lickings.”
As that conversation proceeded, Puny, restless from having been confined inside, was on the post office’s front porch. The night there was also still, the air also cricket-filled. Puny was leaning against a post, smoking his pipe, watching the shadows of the trees on the lawn. He was beginning to feel sleepy when he heard a scraping sound. He heard another. And others. They were coming from the direction of the Bushyheads’ house.
Puny put his pipe down. Listened carefully. The sounds definitely were scraping. But there was another noise, too. He couldn’t quite make it out. He got up slowly, slipped to the wall of the trot, crept along its shadow to the back. At the edge, he stepped to the ground. He crossed the lawn bent over until he got to one of Alabama’s flowerbeds. There, he stubbed his toe on a rock. He dropped to his hands and froze. The noise grew louder. Puny moved forward again, crouched low to the ground, creeping (he thought) like a panther. And, in truth, he was quiet. So quiet he was able to slip up unheard on the man with the shovel. When he was about five feet away, Puny pounced and yelled, “Ya sneaky bastard!”
If Puny had jumped Sam as he’d intended, he would’ve won that fight fast. Or had he been able to grab the shovel, maybe, he could’ve gotten the upper hand. But neither of those things happened. Instead, the smack across Puny’s face was delivered with the back of a spade wielded by Dennis, a much larger man than Sam. And the single whack knocked Puny down and completely out.
New Alliances
The next morning, Connell came into town. He first went to Nash Taylor’s store, looking for Florence. She wasn’t around. So he bought supplies and settled the family’s tab, and from there swung by the Taylors’ house. He was told by their help that Mrs. Taylor and the girls were gone visiting. So he drove back through town to the fort and post office. He secured his mules to the rail, hopped onto the trot, and found the door closed and locked. A sign in both Cherokee and English said, MAIL AT THE BUSHYHEADS.
Connell stepped out of the trot and walked towards the Bushyheads’ front porch. A man in a turban was seated on the steps. At first glance, Connell thought he was an important Indian. Cherokee men had worn turbans in the past, a fashion he was thankful had gone out of style. But on ceremonial occasions, chiefs, senators, and councilors still sometimes donned the colorful cloths. And Dennis did run with high mucketymucks. However, the man seemed too dark to be a Cherokee. Connell thought he must be Choctaw or Creek. But he couldn’t recall if those tribes ever wore turbans. He was puzzling on that, coming closer, when he realized that the man was Puny and the turban was a bandage. Connell said, “What the hell happened?”
“Had a little accident.” Puny’s jaw was swollen on one side. He couldn’t talk clearly. Connell said, “What?” Puny repeated himself.
Connell ran a thumb across his eyebrow, propped a boot on a step, and crossed his arms on his leg. “Well, at least you’re out of jail.”
Puny tried to smile, but that hurt his face.
“Mama’s been worried about you. Sheriff Rogers told her he was letting you out, but we hadn’t heard anything more. Thought maybe you’d gone back to the bawdy house.”
Puny shook his head. He held up a letter.
“You’ve written a letter?”
Puny shook his head again. He pointed to the post office.
“You’re the postmaster?”
Puny nodded.
Connell sat down on the step next to Puny. “Well, that’s a good thing, I guess.”
Puny said, “How’s Ezell?” His locution was garbled, but Connell caught the meaning.
“Well, she and Lizzie have taken to each other. Every time you see one, you see the other. It’s sort of mysterious. I don’t understand women.” Connell’s mind flashed on Florence. He looked down at his crotch.
Puny nodded. “Hugh?”
A cloud came over Connell’s face. The thought of Hugh made him angry to his core. He shook his head. “Don’t understand him, either. Cowboy told me what happened. Hugh oughta have his head under the covers and never come out. But instead he’s sitting in the middle of the family like he’s the prodigal son.” Connell waved a hand in the air. His voice rose in pitch. “He’s always got that leg propped up, and Paul on his lap. I’d like to horsewhip him for embarrassing Mama and Papa.” He turned red in the face.
Puny thought of Connell and Hugh like salt and pepper: different in taste, but good when sprinkled together. He’d seen them squabble all their lives; figured someday that would smooth out. He understood Connell was the straighter arrow. Could only be humiliated by Hugh’s predicament. So instead of trying to defend Hugh, he said, “How’s yer papa?”
Connell gripped the edge of the step with both hands. “Not doing any good. Getting weaker and weaker. But Hugh sits in the bed with him like they’re just resting together.” He spat onto the lawn.
Puny’s head and face hurt. And he didn’t know how to comfort Connell. He wasn’t that good with words, even when his jaw was working. And he didn’t want to have to answer questions about the night at the bawdy house. He tried to spit, to show agreement with Connell. But his mouth was swollen. His spittle dribbled onto his chin. He swiped it with his hand and slung it into the yard.
Dennis hadn’t gotten much sleep after he’d hit Puny, and had been napping in the room over the porch until voices awakened him. Instead of continuing his nap, he stared at a knothole in the ceiling. He was a man with a conscience, raised by a preacher who truly believed in the word of the Lord. He felt bad about giving a shovel-smacking to someone who, in his wife’s opinion, was trying to protect his property. But he tried not to dwell on that. Instead, he turned his mind to his future.
A feeling of destiny was calling Dennis. He’d had that feeling for months. Now the voice was getting stronger. It called him to reorganize the faltering Ross Party into a new one. He envisioned himself speaking to the greatness of the Cherokee people. Saw himself as chief, unifying the factions, leading the tribe into the future. He realized that some would be cynical, would point to his years in California, say he was merely ambitious. But he could rise above that. And he would—with enough money, and without having to waste his time and energy earning it. That’s why he’d been digging under the foundation of his own house. And that’s how he planned to make the best of the recent unfortunate mistake with the shovel.
So as soon as Dennis heard Connell leave, he crept downstairs. He found Alabama in her back flowerbed, and said to her it seemed that Puny was able to carry on a conversation. She said, “I don’t think he’s ready to talk to you yet,” picked a clod of dirt off her trowel, and dropped it. Dennis thought about questioning her remark. But decided he might not like her answer. It might be better to wait until later to talk to Puny about what he’d thought up. He let it rest. He left the house on business, and managed to stay away all day.
The next morning, after breakfast, coffee, and grooming, Dennis approached Alabama again in her back flowerbed. He said, “How’s he doing?”
Alabama had her trowel in hand again, a row of newly dug holes at her feet. She didn’t have her bonnet on, as the sun wasn’t yet high and the air was still cool. But she was feeling flushed. “Well enough to go back over to the post office.” She wiped her brow with her empty hand.
“Did he say anything?”
“You mean did I ask him how he got himself into a position to be viciously attacked?”
Dennis felt like his wife would eventually see his side. She knew he wasn’t violent. He let that remark ride. “Well, yes, more or less. That’s what I was wondering.”
“I told you. He thought you were Sam Garrett sneaking back to dig up gold. I was right.”
“That’s what I figured, too.” Dennis looked serious.
“Too bad you didn’t figure it a little sooner.”
“That couldn’t be helped. It was dark.” Dennis waved a hand to shoo away the subject.
“Dennis, we’ve got enough money. Why don’t you attend to the affairs of the Nation? So much remains to be rebuilt.” Alabama believed in public service, and the Nation was still in shambles from the War.
“I’m going to do that, Bamy. Don’t you worry. I promise.” Dennis puckered his lips like a carp.
Alabama squinted at her husband. Smacked her palm with the trowel. She knew he was ambitious, and she liked that about him. But he did have an impractical side that rubbed on her nerves. She guessed he got that from his daddy. She looked up into the trees. A breeze was blowing, but she felt hot.
Dennis saw he wasn’t going to get any sympathy. He turned back into the house. He grabbed a box of cigars from the chest in his study, and went out the front door to avoid his wife. He walked over to the post office with the cigars in hand. He found Puny behind the counter, slotting letters into boxes.
When he saw who came in, Puny took a step back. Dennis said, “I made a mistake. Here, have some cigars.” Puny eyed him with the same squint Alabama had used. His head was bare of the bandage, but a swollen knot and a scab were above his right eyebrow, and the side of his jaw was puffy. Dennis said, “Come on. It was dark. You were sneaking up on me.”
“Thought ya was Sam Garrett.” Puny’s speech was some better.
Dennis put the cigar box on the counter and opened the top. “Mrs. Bushyhead told me that.”
“Guess I scared ya,” Puny mumbled.
“Well, it’s over. Let’s forgive and forget. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
Puny picked up a cigar and sniffed it. He tried to smile, but his face hurt.
“Let’s you and me go into business together. I’ve got a lot of things that need tending.”
“What about my post office job?” Puny jerked a thumb towards the boxes, in case Mr. Bushyhead couldn’t understand him.
“That’s not a problem. The work I have for you is mostly after hours. Bell Rogers told me you’re in a female situation. Can’t go back to the Singers. But Mr. and Mrs. Singer think the world of you. They wouldn’t be high on you if you weren’t honest. Obviously, you already know I think there’s a stash around here. I thought maybe it was under the house, because that’s where Sam kept digging. But I’m not sure about that. What if we go in together, and I pay you a salary? Then, if we find anything, I’ll give you a quarter of it. If we don’t find anything, you’ll still make money.” Dennis, of course, wasn’t thinking about doing much digging himself.
Puny knew who’d be doing the digging. Mr. Bushyhead was a man without calluses on his hands. But Puny wanted the extra money, and a chance to find the gold. He sort of garbled, “Ya gotcha a deal, Mr. Bushyhead.”
So that evening, the Princeton-educated national treasurer and the Negro railroad man from Ohio smoked cigars together on the porch overlooking the river. Since Dennis didn’t keep whiskey, they sipped buttermilk. It was a strange alliance, but in both of their estimations, perfect for the situation. Every Negro in the Nation needed a powerful Indian protector. And Dennis needed a confidant and strong-arm who could never be his rival. Beyond that, they were both smart men and, basically, honest. Puny told Dennis what Sam had said about the well-witcher, and Dennis showed Puny his maps. They thought they had as good a chance as any of finding that gold. Probably better.
A Surprising Turn in the Investigation
On Friday, Bell walked over to the Bushyheads’ house. Dove, Alabama’s help, invited him in, and Alabama greeted him with a squeeze on the arm. She told him, “Dennis is over in Tahlequah. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”
“That’s fine. It’s you I’ve come to talk to.”
Alabama was surprised. Even men in the family usually didn’t sit and talk to women unless they were eating. She turned to the kitchen and asked Dove to bring cake and coffee to the front porch. Then an alarming thought crossed her mind. The color drained from her face. “Nothing’s happened to Mary, has it?”
Bell shook his head. “Not that I know of. Yer sister’s made of granite.”
Alabama put a hand to her chest. She blushed. They both smiled. At the start of the War, with her husband off fighting, Federal soldiers descended on Mary and Clem Rogers’ farm. They started shooting cattle. Set fire to the house. Mary was inside. Alone, except for her infant. She fled out the back door. Ran to the barn, grabbed a horse. She rode bareback, holding her baby, seventy-five miles, mostly in rain, to the farm of the widow of Bell’s double first cousin. The baby died the next night. But since that ride, Mary was considered indestructible.
Alabama and Bell settled on the front porch. Dove brought their refreshments, and, for Bell, a tin cup and a saucer. Bell said, “Thank ya. I’ll use the cup today,” and Dove took the saucer away. He picked up his cake, and, after complimenting its taste, he and Alabama swapped family news and a little town gossip. Then Bell said, “Spent most the week working on that bawdy house mess.”
“How’s Sanders doing?”
“He were totally wore out.”
Alabama shook her head. “That wasn’t just your routine kind of killing.”
“No. Twaz bad.”
Alabama didn’t want to sound critical. But she didn’t think the bawdy house needed reopening. She said, “I hope we won’t have to worry about that place for a while.”
Bell said, “I hope so, too.”
Alabama felt reassured. She leaned back in her rocker. Let her mind wander over her years growing up in the inn. She said, “That bawdy house has been there for a long time. Old Mrs. Mackey owned it when I was a little girl.”
