Chapter 11

Tom spent the next few days meeting people either with Clint or Adam Browning. The people seemed apprehensive of him—even hostile at first—but once they’d spent a little time visiting, the Native people seemed more accepting of him. Two weeks after their arrival, he and Connie began their work together as a team. They started with the people who were on good terms with the Brownings. It was generally felt among the Native people that a friend of a friend was worthy of trust until proven unworthy. Of course, not everyone on the reservation considered the Brownings friends.

They started their official recording of Native culture and history with Rose Johnson. Rosy told many stories from her youth, while Tom and Connie took turns writing down every word. Around twelve thirty, Connie opened the basket she’d brought with her and pulled out leftovers from the previous evening’s meal. Rosy seemed grateful, especially for the generous slices of cake.

“Rosy, I remember you once told me about the bridewealth. It was a price paid for the bride, but it was also used to reckon certain crimes,” Connie commented.

“Yes.” Rosy smiled. “If someone murdered one of the wife’s family members, it required the killer or his family to make a full payment of restitution equal to the bridewealth—the money her father was originally paid by the groom. The bridewealth also determined what a woman’s children would inherit. This made it very important for her father to be paid a good price for his daughter so that the family would gain in importance and wealth.”

Tom looked up. “How was the bridewealth determined?” He had finished his meal and took out a journal to make notes.

“It was based on the woman’s beauty, moral character, and her rank. The common payment was made in dentalia shells and clamshell disk beads. Woodpecker feather scalps were also required, and one or two deerskins. The more that was paid, the more it increased the woman’s value and that of her children. My father received thirty-five long dentalia shells for me and forty woodpecker feather scalps. I don’t remember how many clamshell beads, but he was paid four deerskins. I was ranked very high, and my family was highly regarded.” Her voice betrayed her pride. “And I was once quite beautiful.” She laughed and touched her cheek. “But that beauty has been given to another who is young.”

“You are lovely in your old age,” Connie told her.

Rosy smiled. “You would have fetched a great price, Connie.”

Tom smiled and glanced down at his paper as he continued jotting notes. He thought about what it would be like to pay Connie’s father in shells and skins for the right to marry his daughter.

“Could we see your baskets, Rosy?” Connie turned to Tom. “Rosy makes the most beautiful baskets.”

Rosy went to her bed, which stood against the wall. She knelt down and pulled several baskets from underneath it. “I must keep them hidden or that awful Reverend Summers will force me to sell them. He once forced his way in here and took many of my old pieces—things my mother and father had given me. So now I keep a few things that do not matter on the shelves over there so that when he comes, he will be content.”

“That’s terrible, Rosy.”

“The government says it is all right, and so nobody cares to stop it. Our police try to stop him, but Reverend Summers always says that he paid for the pieces. And he does, but not all wanted to sell.”

She brought the tightly woven baskets to the small table. Connie had already removed the extra food and placed it on Rosy’s kitchen counter.

Rosy held up a basket that was about four inches across and the same in height. “This is the first basket that I made completely by myself. When my mother approved it, I was so excited that I ran through the village, declaring the news to anyone who would listen.”

Tom began to sketch it.

Rosy continued her explanation. “This shows the four important weaving methods for twining a basket. Here is the solid line. Then the rows that stack.” She pointed to the design. “And then you learn the weaving of rows that swirl to the right and then rows that swirl to the left. At the top we finish the basket with a simple weave that we do three times.”

“It looks braided,” Tom commented as he went back to drawing.

“Yes, but it is not.” Rosy put the little basket on the table, then picked up another. This one was bigger—about the size of a small dinner plate.

“I’ve always loved this one,” Connie declared. “Rosy’s mother made it for her when she married.”

Tom paused again. Where the other basket had been woven in dark and light tones of a dried grass, this one consisted of various dyed grasses in hues of black, red, and even blue. He finished his quick sketch of the first basket, then began drawing the second.

“What kind of grass are these made from?” Tom asked as he drew the basket.

“Bear grass. It’s rather wiry and very long,” Connie said before Rosy could reply.

“It was taller than me when my mother helped me gather it for the baskets.” Rosy laughed. “I sometimes got lost in it. We also used other things. Sometimes we would weave with tulle or cane, and we used all sorts of things for our dyes.”

“Tom, I can tell you about those later,” Connie interjected. “I helped make dyes when I was a girl. We used flowers and vegetables—fruits too.”

Tom enjoyed her excitement over the baskets. It was almost as if she’d forgotten her worries and was transported back in time to her childhood. He remembered the animated fifteen-year-old who had come to live with her aunt and uncle and wondered what she must have been like as a very young girl.

By the time they finished with Rosy, Tom felt he had a great overview of the history of the Shasta people. Rosy said most of them now lived on the Siletz Reservation near the ocean. It would be some time before Tom and Connie made their way there, but for now, Rosy’s detailed memories of her life as a girl would make for a great outline of life in the Shasta villages.

“She’s a very nice woman. I can see why you consider her a good friend.”

Connie carried the empty food basket. “Rosy was good to my mother even when the others were still so angry.”

“You can hardly blame them for being angry. They were uprooted from all they knew, forced to leave behind so much that was precious to them and march for hundreds of miles.”

“And they watched many of their loved ones die and were then forced to live on a reservation with their enemies.” Connie shook her head.

It was nearly three o’clock, but Connie said they could still talk with another family. They stopped at the poorly structured, unpainted house of the Sheridans.

“The Sheridans are Modoc. The Modoc were enemies of the Shasta at one time. Joseph Sheridan and my father, however, were good friends. They knew each other before the move to the reservation,” Connie told him. She knocked on the frame where a blanket hung instead of a door. “I hope they’ll speak with us.”

An older woman appeared. She seemed surprised by Tom and Connie and called over her shoulder in Modoc. Tom had no idea what she had said, but she disappeared behind the blanket, and two large men appeared.

“Mr. Sheridan, do you remember me?” Connie asked. “I’m Adam Browning’s daughter, Connie.”

“I heard you had returned,” the older of the two men said. “You frightened my wife. Why have you come?” He had a long scar on the side of his neck, and his face was weathered and wrinkled. Tom wondered about the stories he could tell.

Connie explained why they had come. “It’s a good thing that the government has finally seen the importance of remembering the real people, don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t,” the younger man spat. “The less the government knows about us, the better. Then maybe they will forget about us and let us live our lives as God intended.” He crossed his arms and glared at Connie. Despite his anger, Connie seemed undaunted.

“We are your friends, but you treat us like enemies, not even inviting us in.”

“We are no longer friends,” the younger of the two declared. “Your father would not help my father when he came to him many years ago.”

“Your father came to my father for help in leaving the reservation,” Connie countered. “It was illegal, and your family would have been killed.”

“I lost my wife and daughters,” the old man said, his voice low. “We died just the same.”

Connie shook her head. “I was sorry for your loss. I loved your wife. She was like an aunt to me—teaching me Modoc cooking and speaking. Now we’ve come to make sure that those things are not forgotten. That the Moatokni maklaks—the Modoc people—are remembered.”

“The Moatokni maklaks do not need your help,” the younger man declared, puffing himself up to tower over Connie.

Tom stepped forward at this. “We come in peace, but you act as though we are at war.”

“You are not our friend. You are a white man. You have stolen our land and ways of life. You force us to dress like you—to speak like you—to live as you do. We have no friendship.”

Connie frowned. “I’m sorry you don’t want to be our friend anymore. But even though it hurts me, I don’t wish you ill. My heart still cares for you, and I will still call you my friend. I will also pray for you and ask God to heal the pain in your heart.”

The younger man shook his head and walked away. He said something in Chinook Jargon that Tom couldn’t understand, then disappeared behind the blanket and back into the house, where the sound of children could be heard.

Joseph looked hard at Connie. “There is war coming between our people. My son Samson will always feel hate for the deaths of his mother and sisters. Do not come back here. We will not speak with you again.” He returned to his house, leaving Tom and Connie to stare at each other in silence.

“That was rather uncalled for,” Tom said.

“No.” Connie shook her head as they walked away. “Joseph blames my father for the deaths of his wife and daughters. He wanted to sneak off the reservation with his entire family—sons, daughters, and their spouses—and make their way to Canada. He went to my father for money and told him what he would do. Papa wouldn’t help him because it was against the law and the soldiers were everywhere. He told Joseph he would be killed, but Joseph felt certain they could make it. He told my father if they stayed, he knew it would turn out badly, but of course Papa couldn’t do it. He knew Joseph and his family would be caught or more likely killed.”

They walked slowly back to Connie’s home.

“Joseph told my father he knew that if they stayed, his family would suffer, and they did. His wife died two weeks later, and his two daughters died not long after that. One in childbirth and one from typhoid. They left behind little ones who also died a few years later.” Her expression betrayed her sorrow. “Rosy has always said there are more graves holding children than cradles on this reservation.”

“That is terribly sad.” Tom wanted to offer comfort but knew there was none to be had. “Who was the other man—the younger one?”

“Samson, Joseph’s son. I think he’d be about thirty-three now.”

“What did he say there at the last? I couldn’t understand him.”

Connie stopped and shook her head. “He said war is coming and he will do everything he can to kill all of the white people.”

Adam Browning sat on the other side of Clint’s desk. He seemed troubled and had come to Clint for advice. Clint had always liked the way Adam treated him like an equal even though he was years younger than Adam.

“It’s just so perplexing. Why have the people gotten so interested in liquor? I talked to the priest, and he’s just as baffled. The Grand Ronde Indians have never been given to drunkenness. Now we seem to have an epidemic.”

“I know, and I’m trying my best to get to the bottom of it, just like you are. Every time there’s a rumor, I check it out, but so far I haven’t learned anything.”

“There has to be an answer. Someone must know more than they’re saying. I hate to sound demeaning, but the tribes here don’t have the connections to pull this off themselves. There are white men involved in this.”

“I agree, but proving it will be difficult.” Clint moved a stack of papers and pulled out a letter he’d just received. “That brings up another issue. The clerk at the sutler’s store sent me this note. Apparently he’s frustrated by your family handing out goods for free.”

“My sister and others send crates of clothes, blankets, kitchen goods, and so forth. Mercy has been coordinating the distribution.”

“Yes, well, besides the store missing out on sales, there is some concern that you might also be giving away guns.”

Adam rolled his gaze heavenward. “Who is saying that? I’ll go speak to them.”

“I already did. I know you aren’t handing out weapons, but I wanted you to know there were concerns.”

“You already know what they’re saying about us. It’s ridiculous.”

The store clerk burst into the office. “You’ve got to stop them.”

“Stop who?” Adam asked.

“The Indians. They think I’ve poisoned them, and they’re threatening to string me up.”

Clint got up and threw on his coat. “What are you talking about, Jeb?”

“A bunch of folks got sick, and they think it was from the flour I sold them. They think it’s poisoned. I need you to calm them down. Otherwise we’re going to have a riot.”

Clint and Adam made their way to the group milling outside the small mercantile, where Clint called everyone to attention. “I understand many of you think you’ve gotten sick from the flour Jeb sold you. Even if this is true, I assure you that no one here is seeking to poison you.”

“It must be poison. My family is sick. They can’t keep anything down,” one man declared.

“Neither can mine,” another yelled, and soon everyone was protesting their situation.

Clint waved his hands and called to them. “I can’t help you if everyone talks at once.” One by one, the people fell silent. “Thank you. Look, a lot of things can happen to flour barrels during transport. I can’t tell you why your people are ill, but I will look into this. In the meantime, bring back the flour you think is bad. We’ll send for a new batch, and while you wait, I’ll see that your returned flour is credited to your account. As for the sick, if your own healers are overwhelmed, let me know, and I’ll get the reservation doctor to come.” He paused and looked at Adam. “Or I’m sure Mrs. Browning will be more than willing to help nurse the sick.”

“Absolutely,” Adam agreed. “You know that we care deeply for the people here. We will do whatever we can to get you what you need.”

There was a great deal of murmuring and muttering, but the people finally began to disperse.

Clint looked at Adam and shrugged. “I hope that means they’ve accepted my offering.” He heaved a sigh.

“I hope so too. I’ll let Mercy know what’s going on, so if someone does want her help, she won’t be caught off guard.”

“Good. That way she can have her things ready.” Clint smiled. “Maybe make a new batch of vinegar.”

Adam smiled. “You joke, but my wife swears on it. Says it will cure a great many ailments.”

“Yes, well, she can put her faith in vinegar. For the time being, however, I’ve got to figure out what was done to this barrel of flour and get a replacement in here immediately.”

Tom sat on the Brownings’ small porch and thought about everything that had happened since he’d come to Oregon. His main purpose had been to see Connie’s folks cleared of suspicion so Connie could stop worrying about them and maybe, just maybe, put her attention on him.

He’d been in love with Connie almost from the first moment he’d met her, despite their six-year age difference. Connie had always been mature for her age. She found Washington politics fascinating but took just as much interest in her uncle’s work on the ancient world. Tom remembered one year when her uncle and aunt had taken Connie with them to the Holy Land. She had long given up talking to him about Jesus by then, but upon her return, she was reenergized in her passion for learning everything she could about the Bible. She even tried her hand at learning Greek.

Tom thought about his conversation with Connie’s father. Mr. Browning had never once tried to force his religion on Tom. The things he said were very different from those Tom had grown up hearing in his father’s church.

He frowned. The very thought of his father put him in a foul mood. His father had only cared about his success in business and making sure his friends and family seemed perfect. There was never any room for error, and when one was made, Tom’s father was thoroughly condemning. During one particularly severe whipping, Tom’s father had declared that God Himself had instructed that he punish Tom. Maybe that was where Tom’s dismissal of God had its origins.

An owl hooted somewhere off to his left. Tom wondered at the species and wished he’d studied harder to learn more about birds. There were a good number of them he wasn’t familiar with.

“I thought I might find you out here,” Adam Browning said, joining Tom on the porch. He sank into his wife’s rocker and smiled. “I can see why she loves this chair so much. I may have to find another one for myself.”

Tom looked at Connie’s father, although the darkness obscured his features. “I was just thinking of the time your sister and her husband took Connie to the Middle East. They invited me to go along, but I couldn’t manage the time away. Connie came back so excited about everything she’d seen and heard. She was already strong in her faith, but that trip seemed to further stimulate her desire to learn.”

“That was about three years ago, wasn’t it?” Mr. Browning asked.

“Yes.” Tom nodded. “She was just nineteen, and I was twenty-five. I was working for the Bureau of Indian Affairs as a lowly office clerk, and it was impossible to leave because I was in line for a promotion. I knew that taking off on a pleasure trip would have spelled doom for me.”

“I’m sorry. I wish you could have gone. Perhaps you would have had more of your questions answered.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I remember the first time I went to Washington, DC. I walked around the city, thinking about the men who had walked there before me. I imagined men like Lincoln walking the same streets as he considered the Civil War. I thought of Andrew Jackson, the president responsible for driving the Indians into the West. Men like Jefferson who penned the Declaration of Independence. It made them more real to me than any history book ever could.”

“And you think if I’d gone to the Middle East, the existence of Jesus would have become real to me?”

“I like to think it would have. I mean, with such a great abundance of history surrounding you with proof, even the writings of those who weren’t of the faith but still encountered Jesus, I believe you would have come to see the truth of Him for yourself.”

“Why do you believe? I’ve told you why I don’t believe, so now I’d like to know why you do.”

Adam was silent for several moments. Tom heard him draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “My mother. She taught me through her actions how important her faith was to her. It impressed me that when people scorned her, she baked them bread. When they taunted her, she made them cookies. My mother forgave when it would have been so easy to hate. I asked her how she could possibly forgive such ugliness, and she told me she forgave because that was what the Lord asked her to do. It was what He had done on the cross when people scorned and ridiculed Him.”

“But, if as you say, He was God—why should that impress me?”

“Because He was also a man. I know it’s a mystery that goes beyond our ability to understand, but Jesus was both man and God.”

“That makes little sense to me. Why would He go through the sufferings He did if He was indeed God? He could have stopped the torment at any time. He could have prevented the cross altogether and still gotten His point across.”

“Yes, He could have, which makes the cross all the more precious to me. Jesus went willingly for the sake of sinners just like me. He knew that without the cross, there would be no reconciliation between God and man.”

“But God can do anything. Surely there could have been another way of reconciliation.”

Adam chuckled. “Careful there, Tom. You’re starting to sound as though you believe God really exists.”