Reason To Believe (23 page)

"The earth
does
give us tobacco," Toby pointed out.

It was midday when the riders approached the Cheyenne River Reservation town of Timber Lake. It was more of a slough than a lake that stood between the town and State Highway 20, which were linked by a paved causeway. The driver of a black Blazer figured he owned the blacktop. He barreled past, blasting his horn. Several of the horses shied. One bolted, but the rider quickly brought it under control.

"Redneck asshole," one of the riders muttered. Timber Lake was a "white town" situated smack-dab in the middle of two adjacent Indian reservations. With the approach of the Wounded Knee Memorial Ride, it was vintage
High Noon.
The town seemed all but deserted. A loudspeaker on the roof of the motel piped Christmas music down the asphalt canyon that was Main Street. The clomping of nearly a hundred hoofs blended with the strains of "I Saw Three Ships A-Sailing." Two cowboys emerged from the liquor store, each carting a case of Budweiser, which they loaded into the black Blazer. One of them ceremoniously tipped his hat as Anna and Billie rode past.

Say something cute, jackass, Ben thought. There were two more buddies in the backseat making no secret of the fact that they were all half-shot. Ben figured he could take all four, easy.
Just make some rude redneck remark to my daughter.

But the cowboys kept their remarks to themselves, and Ben had to give them credit for being able to count better than Custer.

Howard White Calf brought up the rear of the parade, his bronc trotting along with its ears laid back, saying it was ready to start bucking any time. Somebody stuck his head out the door of the bar and yelled, "You Indian! Get outta town!" then quickly ducked back inside.

Howard bounced along, smiling agreeably, clutching the reins as though they were handlebars. "Hell, I'd be glad to oblige," he muttered between his teeth.

A stretch of prairie grass at the end of the street provided a place for the riders to dismount and stretch their legs. Ben offered to stay with the horses while Clara and Anna went across the street to the gas station and convenience store. "Just be careful," he warned. "This is redneck heaven. While you're at it, bring me something cool and wet."

Clara headed straight for the bathroom and the closest of two stalls. Inside were toilet testimonials to several apparently devoted couples. Donita and Sly. Marilee and

Skip. Sam and Katie. And then the final word, the message from love betrayed, scrawled in red lipstick across the tableau of half a dozen sweetheart notes: "FUCK ALL OF YOU."

"Hey, Mom, guess what's written on the wall in here." Anna cleared her throat and read, "'Clara loves Ben.' Jeez, Mom. Naughty, naughty."

"Are you serious?" Clara always gave initial credence, then followed up with a mental no-way. "You're putting me on, right?"

"When were you in here last?"

"I've never been in here before. I don't even know anybody in Timber Lake." She tried to imagine how her name might look on a stall door. Hers and Ben's. "You're kidding, right?"

"You wanna know what it
really
says in here?"

"I don't think so." Nor did she want Anna to see what her wall said, or to feel, ever, the sentiments of the poor lipstick artist. A sentiment Clara had put behind her. Truly kiboshed it. But she remembered what it was like, for a very short time, to hate love and curse all lovers. There were certainly better ways to express it. It seemed patently inappropriate to write the word
fuck
in lipstick.

Then again, she had to admit that some of the ways she'd thought of expressing her anger a year or two ago were even less appropriate, in thought, word, and certainly in deed. Fortunately, Clara Pipestone was never impulsive.

But, oh, she'd had some evil thoughts.

"But you'd never put it on the bathroom wall, right, Mom?"

"What?"

"Your name." Anna looked up from washing her hands in the rusty sink. "I can't ever see you doing that."

"No. No, never."

Clara stood silently near the cooler, absently reading the handbills taped to the plate glass window behind the cash register. Church potluck next week. High school basketball schedule; be there to support our team. No loitering. She could hear Anna and Billie in the back of the store, still chattering and giggling, taking their time deciding what they wanted. Finally Clara set her purchases on the counter. Three bottles of orange drink.

"Will this do it for you?" the blond woman asked, hand poised near the cash register.

"Plus whatever my daughter wants."

The hand came down, resting on the counter. The gray eyes shifted from the window to the candy rack that hid all but the top of Anna's head. "Wonder what all those Indians are doing here. Kinda spooky, huh, them ridin' in here like that?"

Spooky?
"Actually, no. I rode in with them."

"Really? Powwow season's over, isn't it?" Clara's brow shot up, but the woman didn't seem to notice. She nodded toward the back of the store. "You know those two back there?"

"Yes." Pinning the woman with a cold stare, she shifted her shoulders and turned her head only slightly. "Anna, you and Billie find something quickly and let's go."

The girls brought candy, sunflower seeds, and gum to the counter.

The clerk eyed the pile of goodies as though the wrappers were grimy. "This is it?"

It pleased Ben that she remembered his preference for orange. She'd also brought one for Dewey, who nodded his thanks.

"It's going well for you?" her father-in-law asked. "Not going too fast for you, are we?"

Clara shook her head, letting the breeze take her hair away from her face. "I'm not about to let that hoop out of my sight." She eyed the gas station with growing distaste, then remembered her drink and took a quick sip, which helped. "It's nice when we're not following a road," she said, looking southward toward the unblemished blue horizon. "When we're out on the prairie, just following the hoop. Nobody else can get to us then. It's like a different world."

"No cameras and no rednecks." Ben tipped his head back, guzzled half the bottle of orange drink, then nodded, satisfied. "Different world, all right."

"Almost mystical," she said.

"I'd call it peaceful, and the sooner we get back to it, the better. Seems we're makin' the good citizens of Timber Lake a little nervous. The mayor's probably already put in a call to the governor, tellin' him he sees the makings of another Indian uprising right out here in his backyard."

"This is a reservation," Clara said. "You'd think these people hadn't seen Indians before."

"This is a white town on the rez, Clara-bow. The sad part is, they see you with us, you get less respect than we do."

She nodded. She remembered. She'd taught summer school in a town like this just before they were married. The people of Mcintosh had all but run her out on a rail when they'd heard about her plans to marry Ben, and they'd gladly released her from her contract when she'd realized she couldn't live there.

"Real mystical, huh?" Ben tapped his father's shoulder with an amiable fist. "What do you say we round up the hostiles and get outta Dodge before they confiscate the ponies?"

No announcement was made. When the hoop and the staff were up, the rest of the riders took to their horses, and the journalists had to scramble to line up their next shots.

"Wonder how long they're gonna keep this up." The dance of the shutterbugs amused Ben almost as much as their presence irked him. He wanted Clara to wonder, too, but she wouldn't oblige. She didn't mind having her picture taken. Why should she? They'd never be able to record her bad side and put it on display for her daughter to see. Mostly because Clara didn't have any really bad sides. Damn her.

A small, dark-haired man snatched up his tripod and trotted alongside Howard White Calf, muttering something in Japanese as he lost ground.

"What's that?" Howard asked, slowing down to wait for Ben and Clara.

"I said to myself, better hurry," the man shouted, still running, pointing to the high ground up ahead.

Ben leaned toward Howard. "He was really saying, better get my ass in gear if I'm gonna catch that hill. It's goin' fast."

The two men laughed.

"Oh, Ben," Clara said. "Give the man a break. It's a good vantage point for a picture."

"This ain't my best side." Howard laughed again when the man shot a picture of him on the run. "You sure must have a lot of film."

"Plenty, yes."

"He came all the way from Japan for this, hey. You think he's gonna forget to bring film?" Ben shook his head as the man sprinted across the road, dodging horses as he went. "Jesus, he can run."

Clara was grateful when the riders pulled over to a copse of trees later that afternoon. They'd been holding to a steady trot, and her legs were beginning to turn rubbery. She could really feel it when she dismounted, and she hoped she'd be able to get back into the saddle without asking for a leg up.

She was following the crowd out of habit now, even on foot, just tagging along without thinking.

Ben stepped in to cut her off. "They're, uh—" he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from the trees, chuckling in her ear from behind "—takin' a pause for the cause over there."

"Oh."

"Elliot was just sayin' they haven't had too many women along before. Makes it kinda different." He leaned closer to her ear. "You okay?"

He was standing behind her. She couldn't see his face, but she could just picture that concerned-for-the-awkward-moment look in his eye. In his way, Ben was a sensitive man. It was sometimes hard for her to remember, with so many other things in her mind's way. But in his way, naturally and inadvertently, he reminded her.

And it made her smile when he wasn't looking. "I don't have cause to pause for, if that's what you mean."

"Just let me know. I'll stand guard."

Not far behind them there was a lot of water running. She giggled and whispered, "Sounds like the paddocks at the racetrack."

"It's a man thing. A contest."

"Historical reenactment?"

"Now, this," he intoned, tour-guide fashion, "is the way the Indians took a leak in their natural environment." Then louder, "Where the hell is the press corps?"

"Taking the long way around, fortunately."

His hand left her shoulder. "Don't turn around, now. I wanna see how many points I can rack up before they get here."

It sounded as though someone had turned on the garden hose. Clara couldn't resist taking a quick peek.

And Ben had to hold his sides to keep from splitting a gut as he proclaimed his gelding "the winner and still champion."

"Males can be so disgusting," Clara told her mare, loud enough for all the world to hear. Spotting Tara Jean's pickup parked at the side of the road, she headed in that direction, leading Misty Too, seeking the pleasantries of woman things.

She discovered her sister-in-law behind the horse trailer, talking with an older man. He'd left his pickup running, parked on the other side of the road.

"What do you guys think you're doing?" Clara heard the man say. "Having a big forty-nine out here?"

"Forty-nine?" TJ turned as Clara approached. "This man wants to know if we're having a forty-nine. Do you know what he's talking about?"

"Powwow or something," the man said.

The forty-nine was a circle dance, as Clara remembered, but she knew the powwow announcer would call for it in Lakota.
"Hopo! Kahomni!
Everybody dance!" And she would feel welcome in the circle when the announcement was made. But she doubted the old rancher had ever been to a powwow.

"This is my land," he said. "I just wanna know what's goin' on."

"This is the Big Foot Memorial Ride." TJ folded her arms and squared her stance. "Maybe you read about it in the newspaper."

"Don't get the newspaper. Mail don't come but three times a week out here." He craned his neck, trying to peer past Misty Too's flanks. He wanted to take his look, but he was reluctant to be seen by anyone but the two women. "So what's it all about?"

"We're going to Wounded Knee," TJ told him.

"Oh, Christ, not another protest."

"No, this is a memorial," Clara explained. "A peaceful commemoration. It's the one hundredth anniversary of the assassination of Sitting Bull and the massacre of the people at Wounded Knee." She glanced down the road. A local news van had joined the cavalcade, making it look official. "Here come the reporters now. Reporters from all over the U.S., Canada, Japan, Germany. You just wouldn't believe what a story this is."

"Really?"

"And we
are
outside your fence," TJ pointed out. "We're on the right-of-way."

The man raised an appreciative eyebrow when he saw the cameras. "I didn't know it was such big news. Saw all these horses comin' down the road, thought maybe they was hunters or somethin'."