The High Divide (9 page)

“Twenty-five dollars for the load,” he said. “Not one penny less.”

“I'll give you fifteen.” Adams poured himself another whiskey.

“Thirty, then, or you start reloading my wagon. Or listen”—he pointed out the rippled window at the front, where the men were still gathered, chewing on the jerked beef—“I'll call your friends over to help. Thirty.”

“Twenty-five then,” Adams said.

“Now it's thirty. You lost your chance at twenty-five.”

“Piss on you.” Adams sighed and poured himself a third big glassful and put it to his red lips. After a long swallow he set it down, lifted a finger as if to say
Give me a minute,
then stood wearily and hauled himself grumbling into the back room.

Without thinking, Ulysses reached into his pocket where his fingers grazed the small agate Eli had found along the riverbank when he was three. It was red, with three white spots on it, two large and one small. “Look—it's Mother, and you, and me,” Eli had said that day, pointing at each spot in turn. Ulysses had drilled a hole through it, strung it on a small circle of buckskin lacing, and had carried it with him ever since, devoted as he was to tokens and keepsakes—like the broken watch he carried, and the green tin turtle, given to him by a priest at Fort Dodge. Drawing the agate from his pocket and holding it up to the window light, he experienced a paralyzing clutch in his chest at the thought of his wife and sons back home. It was going to be hard to explain everything, he knew that. And especially to himself.

Twice in Bismarck—before the widow, then after—he'd walked into the telegraph office meaning to send a message home. On both occasions he failed to do it. In Miles City he made one more attempt, but he might as well have been trying to speak in Chinese for what it cost him to stand like a fool before the telegraph man, shaking his head, lips frozen, paralyzed by competing aches: shame for who he was, and a palpable love for his wife. It wasn't so different from what happened when he'd tried telling Gretta that he needed to leave, that there was something he had to do. Several times during the months leading up to that last day, he stood up from the supper table, kissed her good-bye, and walked off toward Fargo with no intention of coming back. Once he'd made it ten miles down the road, clear to Glyndon, not returning home till long after midnight and with no explanation for Gretta, who didn't ask for one. She could be timid like that, afraid to confront him—likely aware that the truth, if she let him tell it, would complicate her life in ways she wasn't ready to cope with. And so her habit had been to accept him back wordlessly, finding a place for his body against hers and insisting in this manner that all was forgiven. Of course she could be a whirlwind, too, like when she'd learned about the note he'd arranged with Fogarty, letting him have it good, telling him that a man as stupid as he was couldn't be of any possible use to her.

Adams returned from the backroom and dropped into the chair opposite Ulysses, a clutch of bills in one hand, silver dollars in the other. “You're a bloody gypsy,” he said, laying out the money on the table. “I hope you're satisfied.”

“I'm not.”

Adams let out a groan.

“I'm looking for somebody.”

“Ah. Who's the lucky bastard?”

“His name's Magpie.”

“A Indian. What do you want with a Indian?”

“Do you know him?”

Adams leaned back and frowned at the ceiling. Folded his hands and rested them on his belly. Closed his eyes. “This Magpie, is he Cheyenne or Crow?”

“Cheyenne. Southern Cheyenne.”

“This here's the northern reserve. You know that.” He looked at Ulysses straight on. “Don't you?”

“I do. And I've got reason to believe he's up here someplace.”

“Reason to believe.”

“I've been told.”

The fat man shrugged. “A few southern bucks come up this way in seventy-six for that little party Sitting Bull had. Got themselves a few scalps, too. Some stayed on. Of those that went back a few hightailed it up here again a few years later, complaining about the heat down there in the territories. I reckon your Magpie could be one of them.”

“So, what can you tell me?”

Adams, sighing, poured himself more whiskey. He took a swallow then made a show of thinking for a while before he said, “I don't make it my business to know every Indian on the reservation, is what I can tell you. My advice is, ask around.”

Ulysses tidied up the pile of bills and coins on the table and tucked them into his money pouch, which he returned to the inner pocket of his jacket. “All right then, I thank you for your time.”

Adams lifted his glass the full length of his short right arm, as if in a toast, and smiled bleary-eyed. Ulysses took out the red agate again, held it up to what little light the dirty window allowed, and he stroked his finger along its spots, trying to bring their faces to mind.

A Pair of Ghosts

A
fter helping Reverend Pearl with another service in the oak-strewn park, they'd slept once more in the river camp. This morning, waking with frost in their hair, they'd tied up their bedrolls and followed the reverend to the depot, where he bought a ticket to Jamestown for himself and tickets to Bismarck for the two of them. Then he'd led them straight to the dining car, where he showed them how to rap the side of a boiled egg with a single swat of his table knife, remove the top, and spoon out the tender whites and runny yolk.

“I'm happy in a boxcar,” he told them, dabbing his lips with a pressed, white napkin. “But happier in first class.”

The prairie was brown, flat, and mostly treeless, the sun cool and white as it climbed toward the west. In every direction, endless, wavering Vs of geese aloft. Sentinel hawks on telegraph poles. Reverend Pearl had gotten off at Jamestown, bedroll under his arm, a pair of socks poking out from his coat pocket. He had smiled as the train pulled away, walking along the platform beneath the boys' window. “Say hello to your father when you see him, won't you? And tell him I said God is there waiting for him, wherever he's going.”

Now it was late afternoon and the boys were standing in the dirt street, in front of a big four-square house, white with green shutters. To find the place, they'd walked about half a mile north from the rail station. Before they could go up and knock, the door swung open and a woman appeared, carrying a watering can. Seeing her made Eli's heart sink. She was both prettier and younger than he'd allowed himself to think she might be, maple-colored hair falling in waves past her shoulders, good color in her face, a full mouth, and a jawline that ended in a fine, pointed chin, which lifted now as she tried to make out who these boys were, standing in the street, watching her. She was tall and slim like their mother, wearing a yellow dress tailored close to her body. She tipped the can to sprinkle a pot of red flowers on the stoop.

Danny gripped Eli's arm, pulled down, and whispered into his brother's ear: “You think he's here?” It was the question Eli had tried to push out of his head all day long.

“Course not. Quiet.”

“Hello,” she said.

“Ma'am.”

“Is there something I can do for you boys?” She was still smiling, but Eli could see her lips tighten, he was sure of it.

He put a hand at the center of his brother's back and together they moved forward, Eli at the same time retrieving the letter from the inner pocket of his coat and holding it out to her. She blinked at it for a moment, then took it and scanned down the page. Eli could tell that she wasn't as young as he'd first thought. She had worry lines on her forehead and crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, which were large and light green and tired. She took a breath and handed the letter back. “Well I guess you know who I am,” she said. “You boys had better come in.”

Eli steeled himself, half-expecting to see his father at her kitchen table—but there was no one here, and the tightness in his belly eased. She pointed them into chairs and poured out glasses of milk from a pitcher she took from the icebox. Although Eli was thirsty, he paced himself, unwilling to seem too grateful. He looked straight at her as he sipped the cool milk, asking her in his mind,
Where is he? What lies are you going to tell us?

Danny quickly emptied his glass.

“More?” she asked him, then refilled his glass and watched him drink that down as fast as he did the first. He didn't even pause to breathe.

“You've been traveling hard.”

Danny nodded, wiping his mouth. Eli said nothing. Her gentle elegance and comforting voice made him nervous. She seemed like a woman able to accomplish whatever she set her mind to.

“I'd imagined he was home by now,” she said, and pushed the letter across the table.

“He never came home,” Eli said. “We haven't seen him since he left in July. He hasn't sent a letter or a telegram, nothing. We thought you might be able to help us.”

Arms crossed in front of her, Mrs. Powers lowered herself into one of the ladder-back kitchen chairs and leaned forward. She looked briefly at Danny then back at Eli. “He never received it then,” she said, nodding at the letter still open on the table.

“That's right.”

“My brother got it straight from the postman,” Danny said.

She waited, her head moving in a subtle nod.

“Didn't see any reason to show it to our mother,” Eli said.

She leaned back in her chair, laid her hands in her lap, and looked out the window that faced east, where the afternoon light was fading. “Does she know where you are?”

“Yes,” Eli said. “Of course.”

Beside him, Danny nodded emphatically. They'd talked about the questions she might ask, rehearsing the answers.

“Because if she doesn't know, first thing I have to do is walk downtown and have a telegram sent.”

“She asked us to go,” Eli said.

“But you told me she didn't see the letter.”

“She didn't see it, Ma'am. But all the same, we knew he was coming out this way. He talked about it.”

“He
told
you he was leaving?” She was still gazing out the window, the lines in her forehead sharpening.

“He talked about finding work, yes. On a rail crew. Or in the silver mines. Something anyway.” Eli was surprised at how easy it was, lying to her, and watched her face to see how she took it, how it jibed with her own account of things.

“We needed the money,” Danny said.

“I see.” She turned and looked at them now, her eyes bright and hard, and Eli knew there were two conversations going on here, one with words and the other inside their heads.

“Do you know where he is?” he asked her.

“No, I don't,” she responded, just that quick. “You have to understand, I never laid eyes on your father until he stopped by that day, the end of July, I believe it was. I knew
of
him, of course, from my husband—they served in the army together. Jim died a year ago, but your father hadn't heard about it. He didn't know until he got here.”

“I'm sorry, Ma'am.”

“He mentioned Jim, surely. Didn't he? He must have told you stories.”

Eli shook his head. “He never talks about the war.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Mrs. Powers smiled. “Men can be funny that way, can't they—what they say and don't say about things. Of course, your being men, it might not seem funny to you.” She stood abruptly from the table and put her palms together. She said, “What am I thinking? You must be starving, and I don't have supper even started yet. Let's get you situated. Come on, now”—and she gestured them up from the table. “I'll go out back and dress a nice big chicken, dig some red potatoes from the garden. Here—” and she ushered them into the sitting room and a pair of high-backed, upholstered chairs. “There's some books on the shelf there—Jim loved to read. Or maybe you want to just rest awhile. I won't be more than half an hour. We can talk once I've got supper going.”

As soon as she was gone, Eli and Danny climbed the stairs to the second floor and began searching, hunting through the dressers and closets of all three rooms, sifting fast through letters and papers, catalogs, magazines, books, men's shirts and trousers, women's dresses, blouses, stockings and even undergarments, some of these light and silky—lifting them up and then laying them back with care, so that nothing would appear disturbed. Yet they didn't find a thing to suggest that he'd been here, the men's clothes all smaller by far than what their father could wear. Back on the main floor, they searched the kitchen cupboard, the china hutch in the dining room, every nook and cranny, working as fast as they were able, and going at last through the massive oak secretary that took up the whole north wall of the sitting room. Every minute or so, Eli glanced out a window to check on Mrs. Powers—chopping off the head of a flapping bird, talking with a gray-haired neighbor lady at the far side of the yard, kneeling in a row of wilted potato plants, a spade lying beside her.

“What do you think she's going to tell us?” Danny asked.

“Less than she knows,” Eli said. “Keep your eyes open.”

By the time she came inside, the boys were back in their chairs, and through the archway they watched her move about the kitchen, peeling potatoes and putting the hen on to boil. Setting the table. Eli felt himself giving way to exhaustion, his arms and legs tingling, sand-filled. Danny's head hung forward and to one side, and he was blinking to stay awake.

“You look like a pair of ghosts,” Mrs. Powers said, joining them. Her face was flushed from her work. She pulled out an ottoman from between their two chairs and sat down, crossing her knees. “You've put me in a tight place, haven't you. Either I decide to believe what you've said about telling your mother, in which case I'm obligated to help you. Or else I
don't
believe you—and then I have little choice but to send you home.”

Eli says, “You can believe us, Ma'am—”

She lifted her hand, stopping him. “But whether I should or not, I have decided I will.” She smiled. “It must be those honest faces of yours. Now, you asked me where he is, and I told you the truth—I don't know. But I do know that when he left here, he was heading to Miles City, Montana Territory, to see if he could make some money in bones. Buffalo bones. Hearing him talk, there must be good profits in that. From there I expected he would be going back home.”

Eli kept his eyes on her, willing her to say more, holding her gaze with a hardness he feared might be impolite.

“He thought he could persuade Jim to go along with him, though I would never have allowed such a thing—I preferred to keep my husband close by. The way I saw it, Jim had gotten more than his fill of wandering by the time we married. Not to mention, I lost a husband when I was young and had no intention of losing another, not if I could help it. You see, I had three young children when I met Jimmy.”

“They're grown up?” Danny asked.

“One's in Denver, yes, and I'm lucky if I see her every other year. She's my oldest. Another's in Seattle, the older of the two boys. The third one's gone.” She swept a strand of hair from her forehead and stood to light an oil sconce on the wall behind them. She said, “I have something you boys should have a look at, just so you know I'm not making up stories here.” At the front of the oak secretary she opened a door Eli hadn't noticed in their search and lifted something out. It was a tintype in a gilt frame, and when she sat back down on the ottoman she tipped it up on her lap for the boys to see.

They leaned close, Eli feeling a sudden loose warmth in his chest, Danny reaching out to touch the image but catching himself and drawing his hand back. Eli had never seen a picture of their father as a young man, never seen what he looked like before his hair turned gray, before his eyes had retreated into the sockets of his skull. There was only the wedding picture their mother kept on the bureau in their bedroom, taken when he was past thirty, already old. Here, though, was someone else entirely: dark hair and eyebrows, a face without shadows or lines, both ears intact, and wide, sparkling eyes. And yet it was him: the same high forehead, long nose, and square-set shoulders. He looked like the sort of father Eli had often wished for, one who smiled for no reason and whistled when nobody was listening. He was in uniform and standing with another soldier, who was shorter, the two of them posing in front of a painted backdrop of Roman columns. In a show of casual deportment, they held their rifles propped on their shoulders, fists gripping the barrels, stocks sticking up behind them. The shorter one was blond-haired, with a square jaw and wide shoulders. He wore spectacles.

“Jimmy always told me how much fun they had, how your father was always playing pranks,” Mrs. Powers told them.

“He was?” Danny asked.

Eli looked more closely at the image. He touched the cool surface with his fingertips, trying to decide if it was a trick of some kind, or if the woman had confused their father with someone else, if the man her husband knew was another Ulysses Pope, not their father at all. Yet this was proof, wasn't it, right here?

“One time, Jimmy told me, they were marching through some godforsaken place in the heat of summer, men fainting right and left, and their C.O. wouldn't halt the march, not even when the trail brought them alongside this nice blue lake. And so your father, he got up close to one of the cannons and yanked the linchpin from the wheel. It spun off the axle and rolled down the hill, and that was that. The men got their rest and had themselves a swim in the lake besides.”

Eli tapped the top edge of the gilt frame. “Where was this made, do you know?”

“I'm not sure Jimmy ever told me. Likely some traveling man did it for them. Could have been anywhere, I suppose. I know they served together for quite a while.”

“Did they write letters back and forth? Afterwards?”

“No. Well, yes. In the early years they did, when Jimmy and I were first married. But I don't have them anymore. This would've been after your father left the army and Jimmy was still with the Seventh, at Fort Riley.”

“The Seventh?” Eli asked. He remembered the newspaper article in his father's lockbox that told about the Minnesota Ninth and its southern campaign—Tupelo, Brice's Crossing, the Battle of Nashville. The Ninth had been a regiment famous for having Chippewa Indians among its regulars.

Mrs. Powers got up and went again to the big secretary, opened the same door, and reached inside. “Here,” she said, extending a yellowed envelope. The letter was on Seventh Cavalry letterhead and written in a sloppy, forward-tilting hand. It was dated June 23, 1869.

Dear Jimmy and Laura,

Please accept the congratulations of Libby and myself on the joyous occasion of your wedding. We would have been there if we could, as you know, but have kept you much in mind and wish you every future happiness.