The storekeeper ignored Graver and fixed his gaze on the Indians. “I told you to get out and come through the back there. Now git.” He started to turn, but Graver grabbed his arm.
“You want the Bennett Ranch business, you fill this order right quick. These are Mrs. Bennett’s guests,” Graver spoke in a low voice, his lips near Smith’s ear. Then he picked up the man’s hand, shoved the paper into it, closed his fingers around it, and squeezed with his own until the man’s eyes watered, then released him. “Understand?”
Smith shrugged, glared at Rose’s family, and stomped away to fill the order. It took a few minutes, during which Graver lifted three candy sticks from the big jar and handed them to the little girl, receiving a shy smile as reward. When Smith returned he opened his mouth to protest, then glanced at Graver and thought better of it.
When the order was assembled and wrapped, the Indian reached for it, but Smith raised his finger and shook it like a schoolmaster at a child. “No no no.” He smiled. “You pay this time.” He swung his eyes to Graver and lifted his brow. “Unless your benefactor wishes to contribute something more. Sir?”
Graver had nothing, which he suspected Smith knew, and wanted to back away, but couldn’t now. He’d overstepped. He could try to put it on the ranch account and repay it working without wages. Before he could suggest it, Smith said, “Ah, I thought not,” and pulled the order back across the counter.
“I paid. I have credit here. That picture—” He tipped his head in the direction of the dusty penny postal picture cards that stood on the counter for travelers and hill folks.
Smith smiled, the lamplight reflection on his glasses hiding his eyes, and leaving two burning holes. “Only one left. No more credit unless you take another. And this time, I want your wife and little girl, too. Indians are real popular now. Especially in fancy regalia, so bring that with you next time.”
Graver pulled the postcard from the rack. The man was dressed as a chief with full eagle feather headdress. Over the front of his beaded shirt a bone bib hung from his neck past his waist, and around his hips a wide beaded belt with long streamers. He wore beaded leggings and moccasins, and a fine quill-trimmed blanket over one arm. At his neck he had tied a cowboy-style kerchief. The same determined face looked beyond the camera without a trace of embarrassment.
“This does not include my family,” the man said. “And I think I will not be posing for more of your pictures.” He leaned toward Rose slightly and said something in the quick, husky syllables of their language. She lifted the beautiful shawl from her shoulders, revealing the shabby, stained blue man’s shirt she wore tucked into her patched skirt, which was held by a belt decorated with red, black, and yellow beaded stars on a white background. She laid the shawl on the counter without looking up to see the storekeeper’s greedy expression as he eyed her belt.
“The belt, too, and we’ll call it even.”
Rose murmured to her husband, who shook his head. Reluctantly, she untied the piece and set it on the counter next to the shawl, but kept her eyes on it. The little girl solemnly placed her candy sticks on the counter, too.
“Get those dirty things off my counter.” Smith shoved them toward the child, who wouldn’t raise her eyes, and let them fall and shatter on the floor. The child’s chin quivered, but she remained quiet even as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Graver took a deep breath. “That’s enough.”
Smith was enjoying himself. “Oh, and what is it you need?”
Graver took the package and placed it in the Indian’s arms. Then he reached into the jar of candy and pulled out a handful of sticks and gave them to the child.
“I hope you can pay for—”
“That will do,” Graver said. “Put it on the Bennett account.” He placed Vera’s crumpled shopping list and the scented one on the counter. “And while you’re at it, fill these lists for Mrs. Bennett and load it into her buggy out front.”
Under his watchful eye, Smith left to gather the items, weaving in and out of the many customers with questions. Graver went to inspect the ready-made spectacles in the second aisle, figuring he could use a pair for reading in the dim light of the bunkhouse, before wandering over to examine the slightly used clothing along the back wall.
He caught sight of Rose’s family as they moved toward the back door. Graver shook his head, nodded toward the front, and led them out. For the first time, her husband gave a tiny smile. Outside on the boardwalk, a ranch couple split to walk around the little family, and the man spit into the street. Graver took a step after them, but the Indian touched his arm to stop him.
“Thank you,” he said, and turning to Rose, he said something in Lakota that brightened her face.
“Ry Graver.” He held out a hand and the man took it.
“Jerome Some Horses.” He held up a hand and nodded wryly. “I know, I know, but I like walking.” Both men laughed, and for the first time Rose smiled. The child detached one of her candy sticks and began licking it.
“I think you know my wife, Rose at Dawn, and this is my daughter, Lily.”
“Your English is good,” Graver said to Some Horses and removed his hat and bowed slightly, which made Rose snort.
“Boarding school in Mission. Jesuits. If it doesn’t kill you, you learn to read and write and do sums. Still doesn’t get you a job, though.” Jerome looked down the street where half the windows held signs that read NO INDIANS ALLOWED.
“I can ride pretty good,” he continued. “Used to break horses for my uncle on the reservation. Don’t much care for cattle. And I can keep books with my eyes closed. But nobody would hire an Indian for work like that around here. Rose said Mrs. Bennett needs help on her ranch, though.”
Graver nodded and let his gaze wander to the spotted pony tied to the railing, the family’s belongings hung cleverly from a pack fashioned of rawhide and bone. The horse seemed in good flesh, but Graver’s eye caught on a series of gashes on its front and hind legs. He frowned and stepped closer for a better look. The deeper cuts were sewn shut, the smaller ones coated with grease, and the horse didn’t appear to be in any pain as it dozed in the afternoon sun. He turned to Some Horses, his eyebrows raised.
“Tangled in barbed wire.”
“Did a good job doctoring it. What’s the greasy stuff on the cuts?”
“Ask Rose. She’s the horse doctor and everything else with those darn animals.” He laughed and shook his head. “She should be Some Horses, and I should be Not So Good With Horses.”
Graver looked at Rose with new respect, but when she smiled, he couldn’t be certain she wasn’t laughing at him. He’d been aware of her eyes on him at the ranch, and now realized she was someone he should keep an eye on, too.
“Mrs. Bennett needs help,” she said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Inside the lawyer’s tiny office two wooden chairs sat against the dingy plaster wall cut off by the temporary partition. Despite the attempt at privacy, Graver could hear the conversation between Mrs. J.B. and Percival Chance as he sat down. There was nothing to entertain, only the grimy window of the outside door that gave onto a blurry street. He looked down at the floor, its rough planks, hastily nailed in place, separating and warped. Soon be a hazard to see your lawyer, he noted with a wry smile.
“You see we were in correspondence over the years,” Dulcinea was saying, “as these letters prove. And J.B. deeded the ranch to me, as this document supports. It’s dated last year, drawn up by an Omaha attorney who came out here to deer hunt. It’s all clear in this letter. J.B. had second thoughts about his boys and their ability to handle such a large enterprise, and their grandfather’s nature. I had a lawyer in Chadron look them over already, but I’d feel more comfortable having someone local.” Graver could hear the worry threading her voice.