The Savage

Nine

"Jaynie." Her whisper woke me early the next day. It was Saturday, and unusual for Mamma to be up so early. "Wake up honey. Frank wants to see you."

"Why?" rubbing my eyes hurt, for the lids were swollen and puffy. Yesterday felt like a horrible dream, though I knew it was all too real. I had stayed home from school, alternating weeping and exhausted sleeping.

"Get dressed. Your clothes are by the fire after you wash."

"Yes Mamma."

I climbed down the ladder, blinking in the soft glow from the fireplace. My buckskin dress hung across the rocking chair, near a large bowl of water and a soft cloth. Edging closer, I ran my fingers over the cured hide, glancing sideways at my mother for confirmation. The bone ornaments clinked gently together, small sounds of music to my ears. Mamma moved around the kitchen, deliberately not looking my way, and I smiled a little. She would allow me to wear it, this day.

Stripping swiftly, I soaked the cotton in the water, scrubbing vigorously with it until my skin was tingling and wet. Finished, I attacked my hair, small rivers of water washing a trail across my scalp. Waiting to dry, I huddled near the flames, running my fingers through my hair, pulling it free of tangles, letting the waves of hot air swallow the moisture. My stomach ached a little, from sorrow and anxiety, uncertain what was going to happen.

Once dressed, Mamma merely nodded toward the door, not even asking me to brush my hair, and I understood at last. It was a day of grief, of farewell, a day of acceptance and release. This was my last day with my father.

"Ee'nah?"

"Go, sweetheart. Frank is waiting."

"You will not come, Ee'nah?"

"No. This day is for you." Her lips tightened a little, and I realized she did not mourn the death of Napayshni. It would be many years before I would understand how she felt, but that was the first time I knew that she had never loved my father. It did not hurt me, and I did not resent her for it, instead feeling a swell of pity for her rise inside me. Mamma had known Napayshni in a way that I never would, yet she had not known him as I had, had not seen him for the man he was. To her, he would forever be an Indian, a savage.

I found Frank outside waiting for me. Next to him was his pinto, and once I was up, he climbed up behind me. We rode bareback, leaving the yard behind us as he headed the pony into the light of the rising sun. It was a quiet morning, only the birds awake yet. The soft beat of the pony's hooves drummed a soothing rhythm into my heart, and the muscles I had not realized were stiff began to relax.

There was an unspoken agreement between Frank Colter and I, neither of us speaking as we travelled farther from home. The lush, open land of the prairie swallowed our passage, long grass waving gently in an unseen breeze. The scent of sage, dust, grass, and blooming flowers perfumed the air. Golden rays of sunlight touched the exposed skin of my cheeks, my neck, and arms, and closing my eyes I tilted my head back drinking it in. Though I had never performed a mourning ritual before, I recalled with clarity the way it was done. Death had been a part of life since before the oldest memories of my People.

As we rode along, my eyes drifted over the land that Frank had purchased, admiring the wide spaces, the gentle rolling hills, sparse trees, and herds of horses. His fortune had been bad, lightning strikes killing two herd stallions, bears and wolves feeding off free range stock, wild stallions slipping in and stealing mares. Replacing the stock was eating through his money and credit, and I wondered what other plans he had should a horse ranch fail. I saw our destination at last, a simple pole structure, loosely covered with buffalo skins, stood solitary at the top of a gentle knoll.