Chapter 9
Tom sat across from Connie at the breakfast table the next morning with Mr. and Mrs. Browning on either side of him. He was relieved that Singleton hadn’t joined them. The agent irritated him. He wasn’t happy with the way Clint Singleton seemed to shower Connie with attention. This morning the agent had stopped by, bringing her a large basket of oranges that had just arrived from California. Connie sat, thoroughly delighted, peeling an orange and commenting on how touched she was that he remembered she loved oranges. It was clear to Tom that Clint was trying to woo her. Mercy Browning had invited Singleton to stay for breakfast, but he declined, explaining he had things he needed to see to.
Tom was also relieved that, after reading the short chapter of Psalm 28, Mr. Browning paused only long enough to pray over the food and then set his Bible aside. Tom wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to join the morning devotions. He wasn’t going to change his mind about God. That much he felt sure of.
“Tom and I will go around with you later this morning,” Connie declared as her mother passed a plate of hotcakes.
“That will be just fine. I’m excited to reintroduce you to old friends,” her father said, smiling.
Tom realized he’d missed most of the conversation. He forced himself to focus on what was being said.
Connie took a couple of hotcakes, then passed the plate to her father. “I’m really anxious to get started. Tom and I had plenty of time on the trip out here to talk about what we would do and how we would approach dealing with the people. Rosy promised to talk to some of her friends and help get the word out.”
“We’ve been telling people about it ever since we knew you were coming,” Mrs. Browning said. She handed Connie a pitcher of warm maple syrup. “Some of the people are apprehensive. They think anything the government does is suspect. We’ve had so many problems over the years.”
Connie soaked her hotcakes and then passed the syrup to her father. “I know. They have every reason to be suspicious. That’s why Tom and I thought that at first we would just spend time with them and explain what we’re doing and how it might benefit them in the long run.” She lowered her voice. “It might also help us overhear anything strange that’s going on—that might lead us to discover who has been bringing the Indians whiskey.”
“Clint mentioned something that I hoped you might explain.” Tom hoped his introduction of a new topic wouldn’t offend anyone.
“Go on. What are you wondering about?” Mr. Browning asked.
“Well, he told me there was some issue with the Indian inheritance situation, especially as it related to property.”
“Yes. There has been some trouble. You see, when they established the reservation land, the government set things up so that the Indians could only transfer their property to other Indians, preferably relatives. However, in the case of death, only immediate family could inherit. This created a problem, because in many cases tribal members have chosen to live together under one roof—especially as their people have died off. When they came to live together, they would take on the name of the landowner, so it muddies the water as to who is related and who isn’t. Clint has had his hands full trying to figure these things out and make sure that the right people inherit the land. It’s just one of many new problems we have to deal with besides the worries of an uprising.”
“Since all of the men who headed up their household were entitled to land, why would they give up their property to live with other family members?” Tom asked.
Mr. Browning shrugged. “I suppose because so many tribes have died off. There were thousands of people here at one time, and now only a few hundred remain. As you will learn, many of the tribes are no longer represented. They’re all gone.”
“Then we will endeavor to speak to those who remember those people and record what we can about their lives. We also intend to make sketches of the Indian heirlooms. Tom is a phenomenal artist,” Connie said, smiling at Tom.
When she looked at him with such admiration, Tom felt as if there were nothing he couldn’t do. She was always praising him to one person or another, yet she couldn’t see how he adored her.
“That’s wonderful, Tom,” Mrs. Browning said, smiling. “I’m sure that will be a most helpful talent.”
“Yes, but don’t get your hopes up about seeing too many heirlooms,” Connie’s father said, shaking his head. “Certain people have come to the reservation with men of power and bartered for or taken what they wanted. You would be appalled at what we’ve seen over the years. One man in particular, the Reverend Robert Summers, makes frequent visits to the reservation and has for years. He comes and demands the Indians take his money for artifacts and heirlooms. He gives them no choice.”
“I can’t abide him,” Mrs. Browning murmured.
“He treats the Indians with reserved indifference. He sees something he wants and asks how much. When they tell him it’s not for sale, he ignores them, thinking this is a game they play in bartering, while in fact the Indians do not wish to part with the things their family has passed down. There’s so little left to them after the forced march. What little they have, they hide, and then Summers just comes in and searches until he finds what he wants,” Mr. Browning continued.
“That’s terrible,” Connie said, putting her fork down. “Why is that allowed?”
“It’s not against any law, and he makes the trades very lucrative. I believe that, besides being a collector in his own right, he sells off the surplus and nets a tidy sum,” Connie’s father answered.
“Worse still is the selling of Indian bones,” her mother added.
“What are you talking about?” Connie asked. Her expression betrayed her disgust.
“Back in 1868, the US Army Surgeon General instructed the military officers to collect Indian crania. Apparently museums and schools were paying great sums of money for them. Some even wanted full skeletons to study to prove how Indians differed from white people. This spread like wildfire, and soon people all over the world had a morbid fascination with Indian heads and skeletons,” Mr. Browning replied.
“That is appalling. I remember your uncle telling our class something about it.” It seemed like an eternity since Tom had been in school, but he remembered it as if it were yesterday.
“I’m sure he did,” Adam Browning replied. “He was deeply offended as well. People were digging up graves, and with the interest in all things Indians, many people snuck onto the reservations to steal from gravesites and homes. We even dealt with the wife of the agent at the time, who was attempting to fill regular orders for Native pieces. The Indians wised up about her ploys and started telling her they had nothing more. She quickly lost interest. The Reverend Summers, however, forces his way into homes and looks for himself to see what is available.”
Tom was ashamed that people thought this was perfectly acceptable behavior. It was terrible to imagine someone forcing their way into homes to take all that was left to these people of their history.
“I remember hearing the story of one Indian chief who had the power of a three-legged coyote,” Browning continued.
Connie turned to Tom. “The power of a coyote makes a person mean, but also cunning.”
“That’s right,” her father replied, smiling. “I’m surprised you remember that.”
She smiled and pushed back her plate. “I remember plenty.”
Browning seemed pleased by her response. “A professor at Willamette University got the body of this particular Indian chief and, shortly after that, became ill with a terrible disease. The Indians said it was the chief’s curse.”
Tom smiled. “And do you believe in curses?”
Browning nodded. “I do. The Bible says that Jesus became a curse for us. You see, taking on the sins of the world and being nailed to a tree left him cursed, but God resurrecting Him from the dead was a sure sign that God’s power was greater than any curse. Believe me when I say that I’ve seen things happen over the years that leave me little doubt that the evil one has power to cause any number of problems. However, I don’t believe God’s children have to worry about those kinds of things. Jesus took that on Himself to save us from it. Therefore, I don’t believe we can be cursed.”
“I just don’t believe in curses,” Tom said. “It seems like a bunch of superstitious nonsense.” He toyed with the last of his flapjacks. He decided to remind Mr. Browning of the tour he’d promised. “Are you still able to take me around your farm and show me your operation?”
Mr. Browning finished his coffee and nodded. “I’d be happy to. Then we’ll head over to the store. I can introduce you to whoever is hanging around there. That might give you a leg up when you start your interviews.” He got up from the table, then bent to kiss the top of his wife’s head. “I’ll see you ladies later this afternoon. Are you still having your sewing class this morning?”
“Yes. Same as usual,” Mrs. Browning replied, then looked at Tom. “I teach the women and girls to sew our fashions. I show them how to make patterns and cut the materials. They learn very quickly. I’ve even done some quilting with them. They really like making the more intricate blocks—they’re quite talented.”
“I’m sure they are.” Tom could imagine the women gathered around the table. “Connie, will you join us?”
“No. I’m going to help Mama clean up so she’ll have no delay with her class.” She rose and began gathering plates.
Tom watched her for a moment while Mr. Browning went to get his hat. She was so pretty, with the morning sun shining through the window. It made a circling glow around her like a halo. Not only that, but something had changed about her since coming home. She seemed happier, more peaceful.
“You ready, son?” Mr. Browning held his hat in one hand and Tom’s hat in the other. He held out the hat with a smile.
“Yes, sir,” Tom murmured, wondering if Mr. Browning had any idea how much Tom thought of his daughter.
“It’s a beautiful morning,” Mr. Browning declared. “I cherish days like this.”
Tom gazed out across the open field and a line of trees. The river was just beyond. “I do too. I love the fresh air. The city gets so full of coal soot. I weary of the stench at times.”
“I can well imagine. I once lived in a city too. Boston, to be exact.”
Tom wondered where they were going but said nothing as Browning walked toward the trees. As silence fell between them, Tom began to feel a little uncomfortable. He’d never been the kind of person who hated silence and had to fill it with conversation, but today he was exactly that person.
“What do you think of the upcoming election?” he asked out of desperation.
“Oh, not much. I’ve never met either man, so I can’t even be sure they actually exist,” Browning answered. “We hear very little out here at Grand Ronde and certainly never see the men involved. They could be raving lunatics, for all I know.”
“I’ve met them—both James Garfield and Winfield Hancock. I’ve heard them speak and know what they are for and against. I’d be happy to bear witness to their platforms for you.”
“No offense, son, but why should I believe you?” Browning stopped and looked at Tom with a smile. “I don’t know you either. Now, Connie vouches for you, and I’ve learned a great deal about you through her, so that gives you an edge. When someone I know well passes along information, I feel that I can believe it. Unless, of course, that person is proven to speak falsely.”
Tom felt confused by this response. He had asked a simple question about the election, and now Mr. Browning had him questioning his own thoughts.
Browning chuckled. “I’m sorry if I confused you. I just think we can both agree that a lot of the stuff we believe, we’ve learned from someone we respected. Someone we knew we could trust.”
“Of course. And if we choose to believe someone we don’t know, it’s usually based on the word of other people or personal observation and experience.”
“Exactly.” Browning began to walk again. “I think the same can be said of God.”
Tom cast him a side glance. “God? How did we get from politics to God?”
“Tom, I respect you. Your refusal to believe in God is troubling to me, because I see you as a highly intelligent young man.”
“Thank you. I think.”
Adam Browning laughed. “I will hang on to the right to change my opinion as we continue our discourse on the Bible and God, but for now, you hold a high place in my esteem.”
Tom didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
Browning continued, “You see, I was taught by people I trusted that the Bible was the Word of God—that it was true and that it was good for teaching others. I read and studied that book from cover to cover, and as I did, I also paid attention to who was reporting the things I was reading. I didn’t just take it as truth because my mother and father and grandparents believed it. I worked to prove the validity for myself.”
“Yes, but you only spoke to people who believed as you believed.”
“Did I? What a presumptive thing to say.”
“I apologize, sir. It was indeed presumptive.” Tom put his gaze on the far horizon.
“I did talk to people who believed as I believed, but I also spoke to people who didn’t believe what I believed. I wanted to know why they thought the way they did. You told me that you weighed your belief on the actions of your father. You decided if God did exist and those actions were sanctioned by Him, then you wanted no part of Him. But you couldn’t believe someone to be so cruel, and so you chose to believe He didn’t exist at all. Never mind that hundreds of thousands of witnesses come down through the ages to tell you that what was written in the Bible was true—that God not only existed, but came in human form as a babe, grew up and shared His truth, and then died to bring man a way to eternal life. An ultimate sacrifice to meet the blood offering required by God. You easily dismissed the witnesses.”
He paused only a moment. “Yet you are about to embark on creating a record of the people on this reservation. You’re quite willing to believe what they tell you about their old chiefs and medicine men without ever having met them. You will base your facts solely on the testimony of one man or woman who believes the stories passed down to them. On occasion you will meet someone who actually met the person in question, but those will be few.”
“So you think I should believe in the existence of God because of the hundreds of thousands of witnesses who have gone before me to produce the Bible and continue its existence from generation to generation.”
“I do. Tom, what are the odds that such a book could be handed down and continue to influence people to this day? There are so few books that can boast that claim, and all of those that have been revered and passed on are books that people chose to believe in with such a passion that they were willing to die for those beliefs. They were willing to give up everything to ensure that others could have a chance to believe as well.”
“But the Bible isn’t the only book that has that kind of history.” Tom felt like he had the upper hand now. “There are others, especially amongst religions.”
“That is true. And those people cling to their books, just as I cling to mine. I don’t want to make our conversation about those other books, however. I have studied them, and I believe that those people hold faith in their books, just as I hold faith in what the Bible says. However, I can go beyond that and beyond the witnesses from thousands of years before and speak to my own experiences. I can tell you what God has done in my own life. I can tell you how that book came alive for me and strengthened my convictions. I can point to the prophecies, both fulfilled and yet to be fulfilled, whereas those other books have failed miserably. I only ask that you keep an open mind to what I share with you.”
Tom had never heard anyone speak with such zeal regarding the Bible. A chill ran down his spine, and while he wanted to say that he’d changed his mind about discussing the Bible and God, he found himself agreeing to keep an open mind and listen to Adam Browning share about his encounters with God. What had he gotten himself into?
“So tell me about you and Tom,” Connie’s mother said once the men were gone from the house.
“What do you mean?” Connie brought the last of the breakfast dishes into the kitchen so she could help wash up.
“I just wondered about the two of you. It’s obvious you care a great deal about each other.”
“We do. We’ve been good friends almost from my first moments in Washington. He was attending college at Georgetown and had one of Uncle Dean’s classes. Uncle was always having his ‘boys,’ as he called them, home for dinner or an afternoon of additional teaching. Tom loved Uncle Dean’s class and would come over all the time, and I got to know him.”
“What is his family like?”
“Well, Tom’s the youngest of five. His brothers and sister are all married with families and live in various places. His folks have passed on—his grandparents too. Tom is twenty-eight and very smart. I could talk to him for hours about books and politics or history. He’s amazing.”
Mama looked at her oddly for a moment, then smiled. “I appreciate that he’s trying to help us.”
“I do too. I’d never have gotten this job if not for Tom. He came for supper one evening and told us about the job and being posted in Oregon. I’d just had a letter from you regarding the strange things happening around here, including”—she lowered her voice—“that some people think you and Papa are doing underhanded things.”
Her mother shook her head. “I just never knew it was as bad as it’s turned out to be. I didn’t think anyone seriously thought we were involved. Clint brought us the first news of what was being said, but nothing like what you’ve told us. I still can’t believe there are people trying to gather enough evidence to put us on trial. It hurts me deeply. I’ve spent all of my adult life working for the betterment of the Indians.” She shook her head. “Your father and I are both thinking about moving away.”
“No, don’t do that. Don’t you see that if you do, then they win? We’ll prove them wrong, Mama. I promise.”
“I didn’t mean for our conversation to turn back to our problems. Tell me more about you and Tom.”
Connie shrugged. “There’s nothing really to tell. I feel like we’ve known each other forever. There’s nothing I can’t tell him. Well, maybe one thing. I’m not sure about discussing Clint with him.”
“Clint? What about him?” Her mother’s brows knitted. “You aren’t still in love with him, are you?”
“I don’t know what I feel for him. It’s really the strangest thing.” Connie put the dishes in the soapy water her mother had prepared. “Do you want me to wash or dry?”
“Whichever you like.”
Connie picked up a dish towel. “I’ll dry, then.”
Mama nodded and went to the sink. She poured hot water from the stove into the sink and then began washing the dishes. “What makes it the strangest thing?”
“Well, when I left here, I was heartbroken over Clint. I was so sure we were destined to be together. In leaving, however, I was determined to forget him. He’d made it clear he didn’t care about me at all. So anytime he came to mind, I forced those thoughts away. I was happier when I didn’t think about him, so I knew I must be on the right path. I prayed and prayed for God’s insight.”
Her mother smiled. “And what did God tell you?”
“About Clint? Very little. But about Himself—quite a bit. I learned so much at seminary regarding the truth of who God is and what we are to Him. I swear I could sit in classes the rest of my life, learning about the Bible and God, and I would never weary of it.”
A chuckle escaped her mother. “I’ve said as much to your father, even though I’ve never sat in formal Bible classes. Your father, however, is so good to teach me. We have always devoted time every week to study like that.”
“Maybe you’ll let me join in.”
“Of course.” She handed Connie a wet plate. “But please continue. How were you able to get over your feelings for Clint?”
“I’m not sure I did. Coming here has confused the issue. I was determined not to care about him. In fact, I’ve treated him quite poorly just to prove to myself that I don’t have romantic feelings for him. But I don’t know what I feel. Especially now.”
“Why especially now?”
“The way he keeps looking at me makes me wonder if . . . oh, never mind.”
“I hope you’ll be careful. I’ve always liked Clint well enough but have never been convinced he was meant for you.”
“You never told me that.” Connie paused and looked at her mother. “Why, if you felt that way, didn’t you say something?”
“I’ve always been a firm believer in letting love find its own way. I prayed plenty when you were younger and so infatuated with Clint, but I feared that if I spoke negatively, it would only drive you into his arms. And then, if it turned out to be a good thing, you’d always remember that I didn’t want you with him.”
“Did you actually feel that way? You didn’t want us together?”
Her mother went back to washing the dishes. “I prayed so much about it, but it just never felt right. It still doesn’t. You and Clint are worlds apart.”
“I’m back now to work with the Indians and don’t have any intention of leaving again—not even after this job is done. I don’t know exactly what God has planned for me, but I know the Indians will be a part of it.”
“I’m happy to think of you being close by, but I still feel no better about the idea of you and Clint being a couple. Maybe you should talk to your father about it. He always has sound counsel.”
Just then her father and Tom returned from their tour of the farm.
“A good number of the Indian houses collapsed in the high winds in January,” Papa was explaining. “They were never well-built. The government sent men to just slap them together. We’ve been trying to get each family at least some place to live, but they deserve so much better.”
Connie grabbed another plate and dried it quickly. She was still thinking about her mother’s comments. Mama had always been wise. She didn’t jump quickly to any conclusion but gathered the facts and reviewed them with care. Perhaps if Connie were more like Mama, she wouldn’t get into these confusing situations.
“We’ve saddled the horses, Connie,” her father said, smiling. “I thought you and Tom could go with me on my rounds. This way the people will get to know you both.”
“I hope many of them remember me.”
“I’m sure they will.” Her mother bumped her with her hip. “You just go on with your father. I’ll get these dishes finished up, and then I’ll have my sewing class. I’ll be busy until noon.”
Connie put the dried dish aside and pulled off her apron. “Let me get my hat, and I’ll be ready.”
“We’ll be waiting for you out front,” Papa replied.
She joined them in a matter of minutes. Her broad-brimmed straw hat was good for tucking up her hair. She was just tying it on as she came from the house and nearly tripped. Fortunately, Tom was there to keep her upright.
“You’re going to end up on your face if you aren’t careful.” He helped her mount the horse, folding his hands together for her to step into. Connie grabbed the horn as Tom lifted her upward. She took her seat in the saddle no worse for the wear.
It looked to be a beautiful day. In the east, the sun hung in a cloudless sky, and already its warmth was spreading across the valley. For several hours they rode leisurely through the reservation. Papa stopped from time to time to introduce Tom and Connie. Most remembered Connie and greeted her fondly.
Connie explained from time to time what they’d be doing. She spoke in Chinook Wawa, hoping to put the Indians at ease. Even though the government demanded they speak English, Father Croquet allowed this common Indian language that was spoken among the many tribes.
At one particularly ramshackle home, Papa dismounted as a half-dozen children came running. “Tell us a story!” they squealed. “Tell us about baby Jesus.”
Connie was barely dismounted when her father sat down in the dirt, and the children followed suit. She smiled as they began to fish in his pockets and produced peppermint sticks.
“Oh my, how did those get in there?” he said, as if caught by surprise.
The children giggled and again pressed for a story.
“You know Jesus didn’t remain a baby. He grew up to be a strong man.”
Connie joined her father and the children on the ground. The children looked over at her, and she smiled. She greeted them in Chinook Wawa. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”
One little boy, his dark eyes wide, gave her a nod.
“Children, do you know who this is?” Papa asked.
Connie knew they wouldn’t. She’d been gone longer than they’d been alive. Tom sat on the ground beside her.
“This is my daughter, Connie, and her friend Tom,” her father said. The children gave her brief shy smiles and held their peppermint sticks a little closer. Connie might have laughed if not for the very serious way they regarded her. “They have come to learn about you and how your people lived. But first, we’re going to talk about Jesus and how He lived.”
Connie listened as her father told the story of Jesus feeding the five thousand. The children were mesmerized. They questioned her father as to how this could be. They were used to the fish their parents served. There weren’t any fish big enough to feed that many people. Her father explained that Jesus could make the fish big enough that by the time the disciples gave fish and bread to everyone, there were still basketfuls left over.
When he finished, he prayed and blessed the children. Connie felt tears in her eyes and quickly wiped them away while the children still had their heads bowed. She didn’t want to upset them by crying, but it touched her so much to see her father sitting there, loving them as if they were family. Of course, in so many ways, they were.
As the noon hour approached, Papa headed them back toward their house. They were all getting hungry, and although several of the Indians had invited them to share their table, her father declined. He told them he would come another time when he could bring something to share, and that Tom and Connie had to attend to important things.
Connie was impressed how Papa knew just the right things to say to keep from insulting the people willing to share their meager fare. Papa was a great diplomat when it came to working with the Indians. If the government would only pay attention to that, they’d know he could never do anything to harm the people.
They stopped at the small sutler’s store. Most of the soldiers had been removed from the immediate area, but the store remained and served the reservation. Here the Indian men could get tobacco, and the women purchased sugar. The Indians had developed quite a sweet tooth, and sugar was one of the most-sought-out commodities. Connie remembered how her mother would lay in a supply just before Christmas and make candy for each of the families. It wasn’t an easy feat, but she was determined to bless each home with her offering. After a while, Mama’s sisters learned of this and started sending big packages of their own homemade treats to share. The Indians looked forward to them each year.
“I’ll wait with the horses,” Connie told her father and Tom. The men nodded and went into the building.
Connie had seen a group of Indian men gathered beside the store near the well pump. They were speaking quite intently, and she wondered if there were plans afoot. She pretended to water the horses and strained to hear their conversation.
“They will come tonight. We’ll be there at the bend to meet them.”
She frowned when another of the men replied. She couldn’t make out any of his words. She drew closer to the corner of the store.
“Are they bringing whiskey?” one of the other men asked.
“. . . and the . . . too much now.” The man gave a low laugh. “We will dance.”
Connie frowned. That made no sense. She sighed and tried to move closer. At the very end of the building, she leaned back against the wall, trying to look nonchalant. If anyone saw her, Connie wanted them to think she was just resting rather than spying.
“Be there at midnight,” the first man instructed.
She heard whiskey mentioned again but didn’t know if it had anything to do with their meeting. He might have just been offering to share what he had with his friends, but there was also a possibility they were discussing a contraband shipment. Of course, one of the other men spoke of dancing. She strained to hear more, but the men moved off toward the road.
Not entirely sure what the men had planned, Connie decided not to say anything to her father or Tom. She’d slip out that evening and go to the location they had described. With any luck, she’d learn something valuable. Of course, it could just be that the men wanted to gather and do some sort of power dance. The tribes here believed in the powers that certain spirits could give a person. Some claimed the power of the coyote, which made a man mean and deadly, while others claimed the power of being able to talk to the dead. Some powers entailed mimicking animals or insects for varying purposes. Even the Indians who had accepted Jesus as their Savior still respected the powers that people claimed. They had seen too many things over the years and felt it was important to respect the traditions of their ancestors, so Connie knew it was very possible these men could simply be gathering to do a power dance.
“You ready to head home?” her father asked when they returned with a few things in hand for the house.
“I am.” Connie smiled. “I was just enjoying the shade and letting the horses get some water.”
Papa nodded and Tom untied their mounts. Once again, he helped Connie mount. “Today would be perfect for a picnic down by the river,” Tom said with a grin.
“And a swim,” Papa added. “But I know we’re all too busy for that. Maybe in a few days.”
A swim sounded quite enjoyable, but for the moment, the men’s meeting at midnight was all Connie could think of. She prayed her spying would further their cause and help her clear her mother and father of wrongdoing. The sooner they could do that, the sooner she could refocus her attention on the job at hand.