“I wonder what it’s like,” he said.
“Wonder about what?” Chess asked.
“What’s it like to be a half-breed kid? How do you think it feels to have a white mom or dad? It must be weird.”
“My grandmother was a little bit white,” Chess said.
“Really?” Thomas said. “What kind?”
“German, I guess. Achtung.”
“What was she like?”
“She hated to be Indian.” Chess said. “She didn’t look very Indian. That white blood really showed through. She left my grandfather, moved to Butte, and never told anybody she was Indian. She left her son on the reservation, too. Just left him, and they hardly ever heard from her again.”
Thomas shook his head, closed his eyes, and told a story:
“A long time ago, two boys lived on a reservation. One was an Indian named Beaver, and the other was a white boy named Wally. Both loved to fancydance, but the white boy danced a step fancier. When the white boy won contests, all the Indian boys beat him up. But Beaver never beat up on the white boy. No matter how many times he got beat up, that white boy kept dancing.”
Thomas opened his eyes, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.
“Wally and Beaver were half-brothers, enit?” Chess asked.
“You got it.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Don’t know. Maybe it means drums make everyone feel like an Indian.”
From The Wellpinit Rawhide Press:
Coyote Springs Home
Coyote Springs, our own little rock band, returned to the reservation late last night, with the addition of two Flathead Indians, Chess and Checkers Warm Water. The two sisters reportedly sing vocals and play piano.
Lester FallsApart saw the familiar blue van pull in about 3 A.M., Standard Indian Time.
“They was going the speed limit,” said FallsApart.
Father Arnold of the Catholic Church called early this morning to offer a prayer of thanks that the band returned safely.
According to an anonymous source, Michael White Hawk, recently released from Walla Walla State Penitentiary, is unhappy with Coyote Springs.
“They think they’re hot [manure],” White Hawk was rumored to have said. “They play a few shows and they think they’re [gosh darn] stars. [Forget] them.”
Coyote Springs could not be reached for comment.
After they arrived back at the Spokane Indian Reservation, Chess fell into an uneasy sleep in Thomas’s bed with Checkers, while he lay on the floor. Junior and Victor slept in the blue van even though there was plenty of room in the house. Chess dreamed of a small Indian man on a pale horse. With an unpainted body and un-braided brown hair, the small Indian looked unimposing. Even as she dreamed, Chess knew the unpainted Indian in her dream was not Spokane or Flathead, but she had no idea what kind of Indian he was. The unpainted one was unhappy as he rode into a cavalry fort. Many other Indians greeted him. Some with pride, others with anger.
Come along, an angry Indian shouted loudly at the unpainted one, who dismounted, and walked to an office. A dozen Indians stood in the office while hundreds of other Indians gathered outside. The white soldiers kept rifles at the ready, while the Indians and white civilians gossiped nervously. The unpainted one waited. Soon, a white officer appeared and told the unpainted one it was too late for talk. They all needed to rest.
Ho, the Indians called out and left the office. The unpainted one left last with the white officer in front of him, the angry Indian behind him, and two soldiers on either side. The unpainted one followed the officer without question. They led him to a small building, and the unpainted one quickly pulled a knife when he saw the barred windows and chains. The angry Indian grabbed the unpainted one from behind. In that way, both staggered into the open.
He’s got a knife!
In Chess’s dream, the soldiers trained their rifles on the Indians who might help the unpainted one. The angry Indian knocked the knife away from the unpainted one and pinned his arms behind his back.
Kill the Indian!
A soldier lunged forward with his bayonet and speared the unpainted one once, twice, three times. The Indians gasped as the unpainted one fell to the ground, critically wounded. The angry Indian trilled. Nobody stepped forward to help the unpainted one; he lay alone in the dust.
He’s dying!
Then a very tall Indian man stepped through the crowd and kneeled down beside the unpainted one.
My friend, the tall Indian said, picked up the unpainted one, and carried him to a lodge. Other Indians sang mourning songs; the soldiers shook their heads. Dogs yipped and chased each other.
In Chess’s dream, the tall Indian sat beside the unpainted one as he bled profusely. The white doctor came and left without song, as did the medicine woman. The unpainted one tried to sing but coughed blood instead.
My father? the unpainted one asked.
He’s coming, the tall one said.
The tall one greeted the father when he arrived, and both watched the unpainted one die.
Chess woke from her dream with a snap. Unsure of her surroundings, she called out her father’s name. Checkers stirred in her sleep. Chess held her breath until she remembered where she was.
“Thomas?” she asked but received no response. He’s dead, Chess thought but was not sure whom she meant. Then she heard music, so she crawled from bed and made her way to the kitchen. Thomas sat at the kitchen table and wrote songs. He hummed to himself and scribbled in his little notebook.
“Thomas?” Chess said and startled him.
“Jeez,” he said. “You about gave me a heart attack.”
Chess sat beside him.
“When you coming back to sleep?” Chess asked.
“Pretty soon,” he said. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“You didn’t wake me up. I had a bad dream.”
“It’s okay. You’re awake now.”
“Is it okay? Really?”
Chess smiled at Thomas, reached over and mussed his already messy hair. She took the guitar out of his hands and set it aside, then kissed him full and hard on the mouth.
“What was that for?” he asked.
She kissed him again. Harder. Put her hand on his crotch.
“Jeez,” he said and nearly fell over in his chair.
Their lovemaking was tender and awkward. Afterwards, in the dark, they held each other.
“We should’ve used some protection,” Chess said.
“Yeah. It was kind of stupid, enit?” Thomas asked. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
“I’m sure.”
“Next time.”
They lay there quietly for a long time. Chess thought Thomas fell asleep.
“Listen,” he said suddenly and surprised her.
“To what?” she asked.
“What do you hear?”
“The wind.”
“No,” Thomas said. “Beyond that.”
Chess listened. She heard the Spokane Reservation breathe. An owl hooted in a tree. Some animal scratched its way across the roof. A car drove by. A dog barked. Another dog barked its answer. She heard something else, too. Some faint something.
“Do you hear that?” Thomas asked.
“I hear something,” she said.
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “That’s what I mean. Do you hear it?”
“Sort of.”
Chess listened some more and wondered if it was her imagination. Did she hear something just because Thomas wanted her to hear something? She listened until she fell asleep.
Coyote Springs scheduled their first nonreservation gig in a cowboy bar in Ellensburg, Washington, of all places, and drove down I-90 to get there. The old blue van rapidly collected the miles.