Chapter 8

Olive Augusta Peele, 1909

The case…is one, so far as the guardian was concerned, in which it appears that he was interested chiefly, if not solely, in the estate of the Indian ward…and that said child…died by reason of starvation and neglect.

—Rep. P. R. Ewing during the annual meeting of the Muskogee Creek Indian Baptist's Association, August 18, 1923.

Me and Nessa stand there watching the train chug away while the cats grab the last scraps off the ground. No need in us fighting them for it. We're holding a flour sack with ham and sausage in it, plus an empty Kellogg's Corn Flakes box with some fried corn pone biscuits inside and a tin can of water to drink. It wasn't hard to get those railroad men to hand over some of their foodstuff. After the story I told, they felt happy about it, even. One thing about people is they love a story that makes them feel like they did a good deed.

My daddy taught me that. Keyes Radley was better at stories than anybody. He could spin a tale that'd get a shopkeeper to throw in an extra yard of fabric for no charge, or give a kid a bag of penny candy, or get us moved up to the train car with the velvet seats, even though our passes were for regular coach. "Give me a minute," he'd tell Mama and me. Then he'd rub me on the head with his big, strong hand or kiss me on the hair. "Now, y'all stand here and look awful sad. Like you lost your favorite pup. Can you do that?"

"Sure we can," me and Mama would say. She'd pick me up and hold me, and I'd hang over her shoulder like I was sickly, while Daddy talked with whoever he needed. He was good at that, and a looker, too. Folks wanted to like him and he made it easy.

"Keyes Radley, you are a magic man," Mama would say.

"You do me too kindly, Sadie Jane," he'd answer. "You do me too kindly."

The Radley magic is still with me now. Those trainmen were glad to help out two mannerly girls who were headed to town, fetching medicines and supplies for a sick mama, when of a sudden their calico pony got spooked and bolted.

"We know the way," I promised the men. "Once we get to my uncle's farmstead near Tuskahoma, he can help us. It's just…the pony ran off with our packs and food. We had to spend the night in the woods, and we're awful hungry." I made big eyes at them while they studied on me. They could tell by our muddied clothes and scratched-up arms and legs that we had been through a fright. They frowned at Nessa, because she looked like the kids they'd just tossed coal rocks at, only Nessa's wearing good clothes, even if they are soiled. Makes a big difference in this world how you're dressed. Daddy never told me that. I figured it out on my own.

"She's a orphan," I said real quick. "My mama looks after her, on account of she's all alone in the world and barely six years old. She's a real sweet child, except she's hungry and cold just now, and that's from my mistake, letting the horse get away."

The men went to checking their watches because we'd already slowed them down. Quickest thing they could do was scrape together some food.

The engineer patted me on the head just the way my daddy used to. "You girls take care on the road. Heard there's been trouble with a gang of bad men up by the Arkansas line. Night raidin' and waylayin' travelers. They might run down this way next."

"I'll be mindful, and thank you kindly for the warnin'. We can get to my uncle's farm okay, even afoot. That rotten old calico pony, he's probably back in the home barn by now." I thumbed over my shoulder. "The rascal."

The man laughed, his belly bouncing. "If we was goin' that direction, I'd put you on the train. Be safer, with them bad men about. You hurry on to your uncle's place, now, y'hear? And watch out for them lil' flea pickers that was grabbin' after the cats' food while ago. They come near, you throw a rock or get a stick and swat at 'em."

"Oh, yes, sir. We scared them off once already." That part was true, but we thought they were elves who would eat our livers.

I hugged that Corn Flakes box and told him he was sure charitable as a saint. Even though I didn't mean to, big ol' tears rolled from my eyes. After almost two years of Tesco Peele, it felt good for somebody to be kindly like that. I was sorry to see him get on the train and roll away.

"There's even some corn flakes left in the bottom of the box," I tell Nessa, and the back of my mouth waters. I want those corn flakes bad. Somebody's chewed-on cigar butt is mixed in, plus a couple used train passes, so I guess a passenger left that box on a train. I'm too hungry to care. I toss out the cigar and stick the train passes in my dress pocket, even though they're used up. "It's a lucky day for us, Nessie. We'll eat for a while now."

"Yes'm!" Nessa's pink tongue swipes across her missing teeth. She looks over toward the cedar brush, nervous when it rustles.

"We best move off from these train tracks before we stop for breakfast." I put a hand on Nessa's shoulder to get us going. "We can eat a fry biscuit on the way to tide us a while."

The cedars shift again, and I can just make out some eyes and noses and matted hair. For a half second, I wonder if Nessa and Hazel looked like that when my daddy found them. Daddy never said. By the time he carried the girls home to my mama, they were cleaned up and fed, but they still looked nervous and scared.

The remembering is why I do the one thing Tesco would hate. I set three little fry biscuits on the grass before I take out two for me and Nessa. Then I stuff the Corn Flakes box down the front of my dress, stick the poke sack down Nessa's, and grab the tin can of water to take with us.

We start out, both Nessa and me biting into our biscuits, but we're barely round the bend when I look back and see three skinny kids and one big yellow tomcat following us.

"Y'all git!" I shoo a hand at them. "Go on now, before you wind up lost!"

They all four stop, three kids and the tomcat, and stand there looking at us. The old cat's been in so many fights he's got two bobbed ears and only half a tail. The kids are just as raggedy. Their hair is tangled with weeds and twigs, till it sticks out all around their heads. The oldest one, who's not much taller than Nessa, is trussed up in what's left of a too-big woman's dress that might've been pink once. It's tied on with twine to cinch up the waist. Her eyes are big and dark as a deer's, and her cheeks suck in under the bones. Her dress hem's all tore off, and her stick-thin legs end in dirty, scuffed-up feet.

The two littler kids are still in shirttails, their legs and feet bare, but the shirttails are just mill sacks with holes cut out for the arms and neck. All three have thready homespun blankets tied on their backs. That was what I thought were hoods when they scared us this morning—those blankets over their heads to keep warm.

The smallest one's a boy. His hair is as long as the girls', but he fists the front of his shirt, and I can see he's got boy parts like Mama and Tesco's baby that died. Rubbing his tummy, he looks at my dress where it bulges from the Kellogg's box, then he brings his fingers to his mouth, makes like he's chewing and calls out, "Halito!"

"Kil-impa!" the middle kid says. I'm pretty sure she's a girl. Her front teeth are missing like Nessa's, but she's skinny and small.

"Yakoke!" the biggest one says. She's got her grown-up front teeth.

I only know a few words of Choctaw, but I pick out Howdy, and something about eating, and that last one from the big girl is thanks.

I nod and grab Nessa's hand to get gone, but before I can, Nessa rattles out Choctaw talk faster than I can keep up with, and here those kids come. All three, and the tomcat.

"Nessa!" I snap. "We don't need them tailin' us."

But they're already talking, and Nessa's chattering back. She's got more to say than in the whole time I knew her. Tesco Peele would knock her into next week if he heard.

"Tell them…tell them we'll give them three…no…two more corn pone biscuits if they'll let us alone." I squeeze Nessa's arm a bit. "Tell them that, and then quit all this talking. We ain't friends. We've got to move on and get away from these tracks before another train comes by. The next one might have passengers looking through the windows."

Nessa squirms out of my grip and reaches down her dress for that sack of salt pork and ham.

"Don't you pull that out." I grab for it, but that spills the water can down my dress and stocking. Growling, I try to brush drops away before they get into my shoe. When I look up, the tomcat is gone, and those three kids are running for the trees. Nessa takes right off after them.

"Nessa!" What's she doing? "Nes-sa! You come back here!"

She only stops long enough to give me a quick look, then she grins, and away she scampers, dodging blackberry bushes and last year's dry thistles.

"Nessa, stop!" I kick into a run. What choice have I got? There's one of her and three of them. They might do anything to her so they can get at that food.

They all disappear through the brush and brambles, heading toward a rocky slope that goes up into the big trees. Just before we get there, the way opens onto a creek where the water gurgles through big flat rocks. They're stacked so perfect, you'd think giants piled them up on purpose. The three kids go scrambling up the tower, and Nessa climbs after them.

"Nessa, you come down. Now." Fisting my hands on my hips, I stand at the bottom, red-faced mad.

"Ollie, come look," she pants while she's hiking her belly up to the flat place on top and shinnying over. Her and those kids walk around and chatter and point at things far-off distant. I hear a few more words I know in Choctaw, tree,bird,house, food.

"We ain't got time to play, Nessa. They could push you off of there, and you'll be broke-neck dead." I squint into the morning sun. The wild-haired boy leans over the edge and sticks his thumbs in his ears and makes monkey faces at me. Next thing, he smiles and stretches his arms out like he means to pull me up, then he squats and pats the rock. His boy parts show again. Nobody gives it a care, and he sure doesn't.

"Oh, hang." Grabbing my skirt, I bring it through my legs and loop it into my sash so I won't trip. I guess I do want to know what they can see from up there.

The rocks are moist from fog, and my boot soles slip, but I'm the biggest so the climb ain't hard. It's worth the trouble. Up on that rock, we're like pirates on the wide ocean. I can see over the cedar bushes, blackberry brambles, honeysuckles, way down to the Frisco water tower and past it. In the other direction, the tracks cross a wooden train trestle over the creek, and travel on down the Kiamichi River Valley. Along that way, I spot what might be a chimney.

"That a house?" I ask the oldest girl. Now that I look at her, I think she might be more my age, but she's so puny she's hardly taller than Nessa. "That where you live?"

Her eyes turn where I'm pointing, but I can't tell if she understands me. She looks at Nessa, and they talk in Choctaw.

"A house, but it ain't her place," Nessa says.

"Whose is it?"

Another answer. "Ohoyo achukma," and I make out achukma, which means good.

Nessa says, "A good woman."

"Where do they live?" I nod at the kids, and Nessa asks in Choctaw.

The girl turns a full circle, sweeping her thin fingers toward the valley, the sky, and the hills that round upward on either side like the ribs of a giant whale. "Al-l-l." She says the word so slow I can barely sort it out. If she's ever been to school, she ain't been much. The schoolteachers only let kids talk English. It's a rule. "Al-l-l."

"Where you sleep, though?" I make a pillow with my hands, lay my head on it, and close my eyes. "Where's your ma and pa?"

The little boy frowns at the pink-dress girl. The middle girl hugs her shoulders up, then lets them fall. The pink-dress girl stares off across the valley toward the hills, then up into the sky.

Nessa and me frown at each other. "Oh," I whisper, and we all go quiet. Now it figures why these three look so poor and why nobody sews them some clothes or combs their hair. Whoever is watching after them can't care enough about orphan kids to be bothered. "Where do you stay at night, though?" I make the sleeping sign again, because there's a plan working in my mind.

The big girl answers in Choctaw, and Nessa says, "She might could show us after we eat, okay, Ollie?"

Of course, that girl wants our food, and I don't like it, but I know it's a right thing. It's what my daddy did—help folks he came across in his travels. Be kindly. Not like Tesco Peele.

The rag kids sit down on the rock, and so does Nessa, and they look at me, waiting.

"Oh, all right," I say. "Guess this is a pretty good place." At least we can see anybody coming from a long way off, and the wind is fair, and the rock has warmed from the sun. I hand Nessa the tin can and say, "Get us some water to drink. Those fry biscuits go down dry as paste. Sure wish we had a cookfire to heat up the meat. It'd taste a whole lot better that way."

Nessa tells the big girl, and pretty quick, they all go to rustling around, and turns out we're not the only ones with goods stashed under our clothes. Those kids carry hollowed-out brown gourds on a neck string for water, and the big girl keeps a ladies' drawstring bag in her dress pocket. The little purse has been used so much the blue velvet is patchy as a mangy dog, but there's a tin of matches, a knife blade with no handle, a bent-up dinner spoon, and a saint's medal of Mother Mary on a broke necklace chain. I ain't surprised about that, since lots of the Choctaws are church folk, and hold their own gospel meetings at churches and brush arbors, and even have bibles and hymns written in Choctaw. I reckon these kids' parents must've been of the Catholic persuasion, but I don't ask.

The little kids scramble down to the creek and come back with the gourds and the tin can filled, plus a bunch of twigs. Right there on Ship Rock, which is what I name the place, we light a tiny fire. The big girl puts a hand on her chest and gives her name, Tula. Then she gathers some flat stones, and we wash them off for plates and set them up with a few wet leaves for napkins.

Looking over that long cedar-and-bramble sea, we have us a breakfast on Ship Rock. While we're eating, I find out that Tula's twelve years old, just one year more than me, and the two smaller ones, Pinti and Koi, are five and four, just shy of Nessa's age. They're sisters and a brother.

Tula watches while the little kids scramble down to play in the creek.

"That was a right nice breakfast," I tell her.

She smiles and nods, so I guess she understands. "Yeh." She rubs her belly, and I see that it sticks out like a muskmelon, even though her arms and legs are bony. The other kids are like that, too. I can tell because when they're down to the water, they strip off their sack shirttails and scamper around the stream naked as the day they were born, even though that water must be cold. I don't say anything about it, but I do wonder if those kids have worms. Skinny body, saggy belly, dried-up hair. At our school, Teacher would dose them with pumpkin seed and wormwood and hold their mouth till they swallowed it. The bully boys always said Teacher bought that from some Choctaw witch woman, and it was poison, but I never saw anybody die of it.

"What you got wrapped up there in your blanket?" I ask, because I see she's packing something in the low part where it hangs across her hip like a sling.

Her eyes sparkle, and she pulls out something black and smooth. I know it right off. I saw the train men throw it just a while back.

A laugh comes up my throat and busts past my lips. "You took their coal?"

Tula's grin stretches across her whole face. "Yeh."

I laugh again.

"Man," she says, and makes a motion like she's pitching a rock.

"Well, he did that." I nod and we laugh some more. "You're pretty smart. That'll make a right good fire later." Ain't the first time I've seen kids pick up spilled coal from the trains, but it's the first time I've seen kids trick railroad men into throwing it to them on purpose.

Tula nods, still grinning.

We have another giggle together over it. I like Tula. She's chummy and fun, not quiet and sad like Hazel was. If me and Tula met at school, we could be friends…if Tesco would let us, which he wouldn't.

While the other kids splash in the creek, Tula and me lie back and look at clouds and birds and the spring butterflies. We point at the pretty ones. It's nice up on Ship Rock, and for a minute I wish we could stay, but Nessa and me don't dare. "Guess you oughta show us where you live now." That matters for my plan.

Tula sits up and says, "Yeh. Come…see?"

We two clean up Ship Rock and have some fun stacking our pretend plates in the middle, but before we climb down, I pick up the whole batch and toss them off in the sand. Best not to leave any signs behind, in case Tesco didn't give us up for dead at the river.

We gather the little ones, and it's plain enough that pretend plates are the least of the worries. We've left boot tracks all over the mud along the creek, plus there's barefoot prints from the other kids. Anybody coming through here could read that trail sign.

The longer the day goes on, the more trail sign I see. Tula, Pinti, and Koi have got paths from hither to yonder, and they drag us all over the place, me all the while telling Tula she promised to take us to where they live. "Where y'all sleep at," I keep saying, but we end up climbing a sycamore tree to look for eggs in a bird nest, then getting a big mess of wild dewberries, and gathering up some dandelion greens. They don't eat any of it, so I guess they must mean to take it back to whoever looks after them.

Finally, I figure out we're headed toward that chimney I saw off down the way. Tula already said that wasn't their house, but I figure maybe some Choctaw folk live there, and I can work my plan with them in trade for the six nickels Nessa grabbed from Mama's cracker tin. I hate to let go of those nickels, but it can't be helped.

The house ain't fancy when we get there. Still, it looks good enough, and the animals are fat and tended. There's a chicken coop, a spotted milk cow, plus a kitchen garden, and some acres of field crops sprouting up.

Tula and the kids stop in the brush cover and squat down.

"You know these people here?" I ask.

Putting her fingers to her mouth, Tula quiets me.

I don't like the looks of that, and I start wondering if we're here to steal something.

I reach for Nessa because I don't need that kind of trouble, but Tula grabs my arm, then points through the branches as a woman comes out the back of the house to dump a wash basin. She's a tall lady with blond hair, not fancy dressed, but respectable in a blue chambray skirt, brown blouse, and button shoes. Her sun bonnet hangs down from the ties round her neck. She ain't young nor old, either.

Tula wraps her blanket around herself, then hoods her head and hurries across the yard like a shadow. Once she gets to the porch steps, she opens the bundle of our pickings, lays it out so the woman can see. The woman takes Tula's goods into the house, and Tula hides beside the steps till the woman comes back with something, hands it to Tula, then shoos her off. Once Tula's gone, the woman looks around like she's worried if anybody saw.

Soon as Tula gets back to our hiding hole, it's clear she got the best end of the deal. She's carrying three hard-boiled eggs, some cheese, and two heels of bread. That's a lot for a few handfuls of dewberries and dandelion greens.

At the house, the lady shades her eyes and stands looking toward our hiding spot.