Cherokee America, page 39
Rusk said, “What’s it to ya?” Bowden ducked his head.
Nash could feel sweat wetting his shirt. “Well, now, fellas, I think you’re making a mistake here. This man hasn’t done anything.”
“Maybe that’s true, and maybe it’s not. We don’t know. It’s a mysterious killing. And we haven’t got a chance to question him.” Rusk liked the sound of his authority.
“Well, hop to it,” Bell said. “You can use my office fer that. Ya don’t need to take him to Fort Smith for nothing ’cept yer double pay.”
Bowden felt embarrassed to be accused of greed. “What d’ya think about that, Tom? That seems fair. Let’s take the sheriff up on that.”
Rusk hesitated. He wanted the double money. But if he drew it for somebody who turned out to be innocent, Judge Parker would be mad. Rusk wanted to put his hand to his mouth, bite off more skin, and chew. But he’d look silly doing that while holding a gun on somebody. Besides, his best calluses were on his right hand. He said, “I better git some answers I like.”
Florence’s Planning Is Interrupted
Connell usually didn’t spark on Mondays. But he was in town anyway, and it’d been cloudy on Sunday. Florence wanted his opinion on where their wedding photographs should be taken. She was worried the afternoon light at the bottom of the staircase wouldn’t be of any help to the photographer. She was posed there, asking Connell what he thought, when Nash came in the front door. Florence said, “Daddy, thank goodness you’re home. I’m having a terrible time with this light. If I stand here, do you think it casts a shadow on my face?” She raised her chin. “Of course, I’ll have on white. That’ll give me more reflection.”
Nash loved his daughters. But on some days, three were too many. He said, “I don’t really give a damn, Florence.”
Florence blinked rapidly, flushed to the top of her head, and called for her mother.
Suzanne had stepped into the parlor. She came back to the hallway. “What’s wrong here?”
“The federal marshals have arrested Puny,” Nash said.
“Why?” Connell asked.
Suzanne looked to Connell. “It must be a mistake. Hasn’t he belonged to your family for years?”
“He’s never been owned. And we pay the fee on him. They can’t arrest him for no reason.”
“Well, they have. Claim they’re holding him for questioning about Jenny Cordery’s disappearance and Turtle Smith’s murder.”
Connell sucked in air. “Where’s Puny? And where’s my hat?”
Nash took his own hat off and smoothed his hair. “At Bell’s office now. But I think they’re jailing him at the fort.”
Florence stepped into the parlor for Connell’s hat. Connell asked Nash, “What’s Bell doing about it?”
“Apparently, there’s not much he can do. He’s kept ’em from taking Puny to Fort Smith. But I don’t know how long that’ll last. Probably only ’til morning.” Nash wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
Suzanne said, “Somebody needs to tell Will.” She was referring to Chief Ross, her cousin.
Nash said, “Dennis is headed to Tahlequah now.”
Connell put his hat on and walked out the door ahead of Nash without saying goodbye. Florence was surprised by that, but flicked it out of her mind. She said to her mother, “Connell will take care of this.”
Suzanne brushed a wisp of hair back from her face. She suddenly felt old. She recalled the beach at Staten Island. It had been cold. She recalled Fort Leavenworth. Roaches had crawled the walls at night. She said, “Don’t bet on it.”
Wolves in the Air
In midafternoon, Nannie came back from hauling water to the cows to find Jenny crumpled on her side in an unnatural position. Joe was crying and poking her thigh with his fingers. Nannie looked Jenny over quickly. Called Sanders in from the corn. He rode out to find Fox. By the time the sun nestled on the trees in the west, Jenny was in the cabin again, and the adults, Joe, and Coop were eating in front of the fire inside the foundation. Fox was sitting cross-legged, slowly chewing Tom Fuller, a hominy and pork stew favored by Creeks and Choctaws.
Fox said, “If you think that boy helped her, bring him back over.”
Sanders said, “He runs Check Singer’s ferry. He can’t jist walk off.”
Fox rested his spoon in his gourd. He’d examined Jenny closely. She was skinny, but had enough water in her body. Her shoulder was in a sling, but she’d been better the day before, and he hadn’t expected her to lose ground. He shook his head. “Maybe she misses him. Love is powerful medicine.” He dipped cornbread into his stew.
Coop said, “He’d come in a minute.”
“Ask Miz Singer.”
Sanders said, “Today it’s love. Last time it waz wolves. I wish you’d make up yer mind. I may have’ta ask the white doctor. You Creeks can’t be trusted.” He was teasing. But also frightened.
Fox said, “Try him. I don’t know what it is. I get only a picture of wolves in the air, up here.” He lifted his hand and cornbread a foot over his head. Some Tom Fuller dripped onto his thigh.
Sanders saw wolves over his head, too. And the image disturbed him. He wondered if feeding them Sam’s body was coming back on him. He’d thought the offering would satisfy the wolf spirit that haunted his daughter. And also be a practical solution to a problem. But he’d lived through awful times. He’d seen lying, stealing, war, people herded like animals. He’d been naked in the cold. The memories went on and on. He knew in his heart it was impossible to please spirits. They did what they wanted.
Bad Food and Irritation
Connell was late for supper. He ate at the study sideboard, complaining about his pork chop being tough, his beans being salty. Hugh hadn’t liked his meal either, and was washing the taste out of his mouth with brandy. Check was behind the desk, eating a perfectly good piece of pie, as Ezell couldn’t stand to ruin a pie. She said, “Puny was probably at the post office all that morning when Turtle was killed. A bunch of people would’ve seen him. You saw him yourself that afternoon.”
Connell said, “I told ’em that. Tomorrow morning, we need to go through town. Find somebody who remembers getting their mail that day.” Hugh had been mostly silent. Connell asked, “You agree?”
Hugh’s brow furrowed. “I think the best person to have remembered getting their mail that morning would be Aunt Alabama. She’s hard to contradict. And they won’t believe anybody dark. Another possibility is somebody like Cox.”
“I’m sure Cox is delighted to have the marshals in town.” Connell recalled his conversation with the saddler when he was looking for Jenny.
“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t tell the truth,” Check said.
“Doesn’t mean he’ll help, either. He could urge the marshals to stay, even if they release Puny. That’s the last thing we need.” Connell studied his cornbread. Hard to ruin on a piece-by-piece basis, it wasn’t too bad.
Check left her worries about Puny long enough to take some satisfaction in Connell’s abandoned pork chop and beans. Beyond her assumption from Bell’s remark that one of the killers had been food for the gars, she still didn’t know what’d really happened to either of them. Had that one been shot? Thrown in? Drowned running? She didn’t know. And she had no idea of the fate of the other one. If he’d gotten away, Sanders would have gone after him. That Sanders was at home was a sign both men were dead. But how? And who did the killing? She felt irritated. Her irritation was even more nagging than her curiosity. Her boys weren’t showing enough respect. And she was going to take that situation in hand. Just because Andrew was dead, they weren’t going to get away with whatever they pleased. She nearly said that.
But she did believe in more flies with honey—when she could remember that. So she said instead, “Of course, if everybody were filled in, perhaps we’d come up with a better story.” She tried to smile.
Hugh said, “Mama, you raised us not to go against our word.” He threw back his brandy. Connell swallowed too fast. Wound up coughing. Knocking his chest.
Check couldn’t think of a retort to Hugh. She broke off a piece of crust with her fingers. She said to Connell, “If you’d chew better, you wouldn’t choke.”
Another Irritated Woman
On his way home from Tahlequah, Dennis had spent the night at his mother-in-law’s inn and was taking breakfast in her kitchen the next morning. He was hunched over his plate, and Granny was at the sink in front of him. She’d sent her help upstairs to make beds so she could have Dennis to herself. She wasn’t happy with either him or his wife. But figured he had information on Turtle’s death, and she could put up with him to get that. But she had no intention of asking him a direct question. And he’d been cogitating on how to bring the delicate subject of Turtle up. So the breakfast had mostly been silent, and Dennis had developed indigestion. He was thankful he’d taken the buggy. Gas on a horse was pure torture. He said, “I appreciate the bed last night.”
Granny replied, “Warn’t taken.”
They were silent again. After a space, Dennis said, “The federal marshals are holding Puny Tower for Turtle’s murder. He’s Check Singer’s hand. He’s been running the post office. They know full well he didn’t do it. But he’s a Negro. So they can get away with pinning it on him.”
Granny poured him more coffee.
“I went to Tahlequah to talk to Will about it. But of course he wasn’t there.” The chief wasn’t yet home from Washington.
Granny said, “I could’ve told ya that.”
“Looks like he’d be back by now.” Dennis dipped his biscuit in egg yolk. He considered William Potter Ross an ineffective leader, and took any opportunity to complain about him.
“Stopped by Cincinnati on his way home,” Granny said.
“How’d’ya come by that?” Dennis asked with his mouth full.
“I run an inn.” Granny took her son-in-law’s plate and set it in the sink.
Dennis had wanted another biscuit for his indigestion. He said, “I guess I’ll get on home.”
Granny said, “Tell Bell and Sanders they’re welcome to free meals whenever they want ’em.”
The Women Prevail
Soon after the hands were fed, Check started out in her buggy. Ezell was seated beside her, her hair tied in a dark scarf, her dress her Sunday best. Connell and Hugh followed on horses. Where the road split, they galloped towards town, and Check drove straight ahead to the Bushyheads’ house. There, she, Alabama, and Ezell conferred on the front porch. They didn’t have any disagreement, and, with their strategy laid, walked towards Bell’s office with the intention of joining the men. On their way, they saw in the distance the two marshals sitting on the bench in front of the jail. The three women changed course and marched over, holding their skirts down against the wind.
Rusk and Bowden were complaining to each other about how long it was taking Bell to locate Puny’s horse when they saw the women coming. With their skirts wafting wide, they looked like three big turkeys. Rusk didn’t want to be pecked at, and felt like that fate could soon be his. He said, “We need to head ’em off at the pass.” He rose. Bowden followed.
They met the women several yards away from the jail. Check said, “I’m Mrs. Andrew Singer. This is my friend Mrs. Dennis Bushyhead. You met her husband, our national treasurer, yesterday. This woman is my employee, Mrs. Tower. You’ve mistakenly imprisoned her husband, who is also my employee. We’ve come to get him out.”
Rusk was just getting used to his new wife. And, in general, people of the female persuasion unnerved him. The woman who was speaking was small, but somehow sounded like a man. That made his eyelid twitch. He said, “Now, jist hold on a minute.”
Check said, “I beg your pardon.” She glared like Rusk was an egg-sucking snake.
He looked to the other two women. His eyelid twitched again.
Alabama said, “I was with Mr. Tower the morning Mr. Smith was murdered. He gave me my mail. And I spent the morning gardening next door to the post office. You’ve seen yourself how close those two buildings are. I saw him several times. Talking to several people.” Alabama held both men with a tilt to her head that implied she existed on a plane a few feet above where they stood on the ground.
Bowden had a wife at home who could look that superior, although maybe not that attractive. He tugged Rusk’s sleeve and jerked his head. Rusk said, “Excuse me. I need to confer with Marshal Bowden.” The two walked behind the jail.
Check, Alabama, and Ezell stepped to the cell. Ezell bent over and looked in the peephole. She whispered, “Puny?”
“Ezell? Lordy. How’d you git here? Is Miz Singer with ya?”
“Shore is. Miz Bushyhead, too. We’re gonna spring ya, or die trying.”
Puny and Ezell fell to whispering. Check and Alabama sat down on the bench in front of the jail. They tucked their skirts tight to keep them from billowing.
Rusk and Bowden rounded the corner about ten minutes later. Rusk said, “We’re interested in gitting to the bottom of this murder and kidnapping. If the nigger has an alibi, we’ll release him.” He started with his chest puffed out, but as he pulled the cell’s key out of his pocket, it began to cave in.
When Puny stepped into the light, he shaded his eyes with his hand. Then he stepped behind the jail to get a little relief. When he came back around, Rusk said, “You better be at the post office if we have more questions.”
Check said, “He won’t be there. He’ll be in the bottoms. You can come out there. Anybody can tell you the way.” She added, “Let’s go, Puny. I imagine you’re quite hungry.” She and Alabama turned and marched away. Puny and Ezell followed close behind.
By the time Dennis got home from the inn, the marshals had set themselves up in the post office and were sitting out on the trot. The place seemed like a good headquarters to them. Everybody came in there. That saved them the trouble of going out after people. And it gave them a free place to lodge. They would stay there, sleep in Puny’s bed, and cook on his stove until they found a criminal to make their trip profitable.
Check Is Tricked
Check didn’t see Hugh at breakfast the next morning. But thought nothing of that. He’d developed a habit of eating early with the hands, going to the fields, and staying. Connell had taken breakfast with her and the smaller boys, and had left for the potatoes rather quickly. If she squinted, Check could see him at a distance while tending her flowers. His head looked down like he was studying the plants. Puny was with him. Sometimes they disappeared and popped back up. That wasn’t unusual behavior for men talking about soil, weeds, or insects. Check could track them, even when they were hunkering; their hats seemed to sit on potato plants. She figured Puny was avoiding the post office until the marshals left town. She thought that made good sense.
Ezell and Lizzie cleaned up after breakfast and ran Clifford back and forth with errands. Midmorning, Ezell sent him to the Corderys’ with a pie. At noon, after the hands had eaten, Check popped into the kitchen and took her meal at the table. She asked if Hugh had gotten his. Neither Ezell nor Lizzie had fed him. She thought that was a little un-Hugh-like, but figured one of the hands had hauled his vittles to him. Both the men of the house and the hired ones ate dinner in the kitchen if they bothered to wash; if not, they ate outside in any shade they could locate. Hugh was probably into something dirty.
Shortly after the noon meal, rain came and forced everybody into the barn, kitchen, or house. Check spent time in the study, going over ledgers. After the storm abated, she went out the front door, studied the puddles to reckon how deeply the water had gone into the ground, and then walked to a rainwater barrel at a corner of the house. She had her head in it, checking the inches marked on the side, when Ezell softly came up beside her. She laid her fingers on the rim. Check jerked and raised up. Ezell said, “Come with me. Don’t say a word.”
Check was so surprised that she followed. Ezell led her to the tub in the little patch of trees behind her cabin. She turned and looked Check in the face. She was crying.
Check said, “Good Lord, what is it?”
“Puny’s done told me sompthing he weren’t s’pose to tell. It’s got him and me worried.”
A fist formed under Check’s stays. Her eyes narrowed. “About what?”
“’Fore dawn, Hugh rode off to the Benges’. To git one of them to take him to the marshals. Tell ’em he’s the feller who kilt Mr. Smith.”
“That’s ridiculous! Why would he do that?”
“Puny sez Hugh thinks it’s the only way to get the marshals outta the Nation. They want extra pay. Won’t go unless they take somebody with ’em. Hugh thinks, ’cause he’s a Cherokee, oncet they git to Fort Smith, they’ll let him go. But Puny says that they’re bound and determined to try somebody for Mr. Smith’s murder. And that y’all’s arrangement with the federal government don’t matter to ’em. They’ll do what they please. Puny heared ’em talking about that when he waz in jail.” Ezell stopped to let Check digest that information. It was a lot. And she couldn’t tell if it’d sunk in. She added, “They don’t care about y’all’s treaties. They don’t mean nothing to ’em.”
Check’s mind flashed on General Jackson, who’d refused to pay her father’s soldiers after they’d won his battle for him. After Chief Junaluska had personally saved Jackson from a tomahawking in the head. Her father had railed about that all of his life. She said, “Where’s Connell?”
“Puny sez he’s done slipped off to tell the sheriff.”
That statement didn’t jibe with what Check had seen with her own two eyes. “He was in the potatoes all morning. He didn’t ride out of here.”
“He went down by the river. So as not to arouse suspicions.”
Check’s mind flew back. Fluttered all over the morning. The last times she’d seen Connell, she’d seen just his hat. She suddenly realized that Puny had been creeping through the potatoes, probably holding the hat up with a stick. Her temper flared so high it nearly choked her. She hated being tricked. She was going to wear Puny and Connell out if she ever got her hands on that stick. She started to say so to Ezell. But Ezell was used to reading Check’s mind. She said, “Them men stick together. It’s an honor thing. But Puny, he’s scared. He knows what white people can do. He’s seen more of that than yer boys have.”
