child. Then he'd cradle the smooth red stone bowl in his palm, fit the wooden stem into place, and finally he'd look up at Ben. His dark eyes pierced the soul with an invitation to share the ancient beliefs and accept the hereditary commission.
Ben Pipestone made his living as a mechanic, for God's sake. All right, it was more like for his own sake, for his kid's sake, and if God needed a piece of that action, Ben could spare it. He'd gone to church with Clara, dropped some cash into the plate, even fixed the
Catholic Mission School's buses and jump-started the Mormon elders' van. God had no shortage of representatives on the rez.
Tunkasila, his father said, didn't need a car.
But Ben's wife was the one with the true Indian heart. The man had said so himself. She was dead serious about the stories, getting the history right, and honoring the artifacts in their glass cases.
Ben had an Indian face, a cowboy ass, and a cheatin' heart. Underneath all that he had no idea what kind of a soul the ol' man kept trying to chip away at with his hawk-faced looks. Whatever kind of soul it was, it was heavily tarnished. He'd all but sold it to the low bidder, and it hadn't shown much sign of being worth salvaging until just recently. Still undeveloped. Still needed a hell of a lot of work. But at least it was still his.
It had been fun to have Annie back with him for a couple of days. It griped him a little that he'd had to call Officer Turnbull before he took his daughter out of the state, but he'd switched on the cowboy charm anyway. The first thing he'd wanted to show Annie was his shop. Not that cars held any appeal for her, but he wanted her to see that her dad had a growing business, complete with employee.
After the "grand tour" of Pipestone Auto Repair, he'd taken her to the cafe for supper. Annie was just like her mother; she loved to eat out. Besides the fact that Ben wasn't much of a cook, he'd felt a little awkward about the shabbiness of his living arrangements. He did his cooking on a hotplate these days. Annie had never seen a hotplate. And he'd had to laugh when she'd marveled at his "antique" television set. "Wow, Dad, a real black-and-white."
He decided to let her sleep over at his sister Tara Jean's house, even though her family had plans to participate in the Big Foot Ride. The calculated risk turned out worse than he'd expected. By the time Ben came to pick Annie up mid Saturday morning, she and her fifteen-year-old cousin Billie had it all planned. For months Billie had been talking about being one of the runners who would start the event off with a relay, but now she wanted to ride instead. Because now "Uncle had to ride." Because now Annie was dead set on riding. And Billie had already spilled the beans about the little paint horse he was giving Annie for Christmas.
Damn, he really knew how to get his ass in a sling.
They'd spent much of the weekend visiting out to his dad's place, which was fifteen miles from Ben's little hole-in-the-wall apartment in McLaughlin. The three of them had swapped stories, shared meals, and they'd gone riding together. It all felt pretty good. It felt almost right. And when the one person they all missed finally showed up at Dewey's door, Ben told himself to forget, at least for another hour or so, that the three of them wouldn't be going home together.
"Hey, I'm glad you're here." An understatement if ever there was one. He was actually wishing for red carpet as he shut the door behind Clara. "I need an ally. They're gangin' up on me here."
She smiled. There sat the two conspirators, side by side near the table that divided the little kitchen from the all-purpose front room. A young head with memories to make and an old head with memories to preserve, both of one mind. Sometime over the weekend Anna's single long, thick, black braid had become two, like her grandfather's. But his were thinner. They were silver-gray, and the tight red cloth wrappings made them lie stiff
Ben Pipestone made his living as a mechanic, for God's sake. All right, it was more like for his own sake, for his kid's sake, and if God needed a piece of that action, Ben could spare it. He'd gone to church with Clara, dropped some cash into the plate, even fixed the
Catholic Mission School's buses and jump-started the Mormon elders' van. God had no shortage of representatives on the rez.
Tunkasila, his father said, didn't need a car.
But Ben's wife was the one with the true Indian heart. The man had said so himself. She was dead serious about the stories, getting the history right, and honoring the artifacts in their glass cases.
Ben had an Indian face, a cowboy ass, and a cheatin' heart. Underneath all that he had no idea what kind of a soul the ol' man kept trying to chip away at with his hawk-faced looks. Whatever kind of soul it was, it was heavily tarnished. He'd all but sold it to the low bidder, and it hadn't shown much sign of being worth salvaging until just recently. Still undeveloped. Still needed a hell of a lot of work. But at least it was still his.
It had been fun to have Annie back with him for a couple of days. It griped him a little that he'd had to call Officer Turnbull before he took his daughter out of the state, but he'd switched on the cowboy charm anyway. The first thing he'd wanted to show Annie was his shop. Not that cars held any appeal for her, but he wanted her to see that her dad had a growing business, complete with employee.
After the "grand tour" of Pipestone Auto Repair, he'd taken her to the cafe for supper. Annie was just like her mother; she loved to eat out. Besides the fact that Ben wasn't much of a cook, he'd felt a little awkward about the shabbiness of his living arrangements. He did his cooking on a hotplate these days. Annie had never seen a hotplate. And he'd had to laugh when she'd marveled at his "antique" television set. "Wow, Dad, a real black-and-white."
He decided to let her sleep over at his sister Tara Jean's house, even though her family had plans to participate in the Big Foot Ride. The calculated risk turned out worse than he'd expected. By the time Ben came to pick Annie up mid Saturday morning, she and her fifteen-year-old cousin Billie had it all planned. For months Billie had been talking about being one of the runners who would start the event off with a relay, but now she wanted to ride instead. Because now "Uncle had to ride." Because now Annie was dead set on riding. And Billie had already spilled the beans about the little paint horse he was giving Annie for Christmas.
Damn, he really knew how to get his ass in a sling.
They'd spent much of the weekend visiting out to his dad's place, which was fifteen miles from Ben's little hole-in-the-wall apartment in McLaughlin. The three of them had swapped stories, shared meals, and they'd gone riding together. It all felt pretty good. It felt almost right. And when the one person they all missed finally showed up at Dewey's door, Ben told himself to forget, at least for another hour or so, that the three of them wouldn't be going home together.
"Hey, I'm glad you're here." An understatement if ever there was one. He was actually wishing for red carpet as he shut the door behind Clara. "I need an ally. They're gangin' up on me here."
She smiled. There sat the two conspirators, side by side near the table that divided the little kitchen from the all-purpose front room. A young head with memories to make and an old head with memories to preserve, both of one mind. Sometime over the weekend Anna's single long, thick, black braid had become two, like her grandfather's. But his were thinner. They were silver-gray, and the tight red cloth wrappings made them lie stiff
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