The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [14]
“Mother.”
“He’s the kind of Negro man who’d make Mr. Booker T. Washington and President Lincoln proud. My son is more than a soldier. He works at the army hospital, side by side with the doctor.”
“Mother.”
“No need to be so modest, son.” Mrs. DuPree’s back was ramrod straight, she was that proud. She looked at the men. “Isaac’s father was a physician—Isaac grew up in a house of medicine. A few years ago the fort didn’t have a doctor, but they didn’t need one. Not with Isaac there.” She paused. “He even delivered a baby.”
“Baby?” Bill Miller said. “There’s women out there?”
Isaac shifted his attention from his mother to Bill Miller. “Sure. Some of the soldiers are married.”
“But what about Indians?” Robert Bailey said. “Seen any?”
“Hell, yes,” and then Isaac held up his hands. “Sorry, Mother.” The men all laughed, but not too loud. Mrs. DuPree did not abide swearing, and if she caught anybody doing it, she always had something sharp to say. This time, though, she only pressed her lips.
“You ever seen any scalping?” Robert Bailey said.
“No, those days were before my time.”
“But there’s still Indians out there?”
“Plenty, but not like before. They’re dying off. But they were everywhere when I first got to Fort Robinson the fall of ’90. A few years later we moved them up to Pine Ridge, but before that, you couldn’t turn around without tripping over one.” He gave a short laugh. “Warriors. That’s what they call themselves, and maybe that’s true for the old ones. But now they’re nothing but agency Indians.”
“What’s that?” Bill Miller said.
“Just about the lowest kind of Indian, that’s what. Worthless drunks with their hands out. Every month the U.S. government passes out free food to them. Barrels of flour, sugar, meat on the hoof. Free. Every bit of it free. Not to mention all that reservation land. Free food, free land. Can you believe that, men?”
They couldn’t. They shook their heads.
“Allotment day,” Isaac said. “Now that’s a sight to sour your stomach. That’s when the squaws line up at the agency door waiting for their handouts. But it’s the men, they’re useless. Most of them stink of whiskey and on the days when the government gives them their livestock, they sit on their horses outside the stockyard waiting for the cattle to get turned loose, greasepaint all over their faces like it’s some kind of buffalo hunt. Or like they’re a war party.” He shook his head. “Half the time they end up shooting each other.”
“Dear me,” Mrs. DuPree said.
“After the men shoot up the cattle, the squaws show up, bloodthirsty, just itching to get on with the butchering. Damn. The agency smells for days. But those Indians, especially the squaws, they like the stink of blood.” The slaughterhouse men eyed each other. The benches squeaked and cracked as they shifted in their seats.
“The only thing Indians like better than blood is liquor,” Isaac said.
Just then, a train two blocks over rattled through, the conductor riding the horn. I thought about old newspaper accounts that told of red savages what drank the blood of little white children. That was after they’d scalped them, after they’d driven hatchets into the hearts of their fathers and ruined the honor of their mothers.
The train’s racket dimmed into the distance. Mrs. DuPree scooted her chair a few inches away from the table. That was her way of saying dinner was over. But Isaac wasn’t finished. He said, “It doesn’t sit well, not with me, all that reservation land, thousands of acres going to waste. Agency Indians don’t know anything about ranching. But men, there’s still a few acres left for the rest of us.”
“What d’you mean?” Henry Ossian said.
“I mean the Homestead Act. You men know about that?”
They shook their heads. I went to get the coffeepot warming on the stove, hoping there was enough for another serving. When I got back to the dining room, Isaac was pulling a newspaper clipping from his breast pocket.
I picked up his plate, clearing his place. Isaac smiled his thanks, and my heart gave a