Mary Scott Starr Walker was only one-quarter Cherokee by blood, and she did not particularly, as they say, show her Indian. Her first husband, George, known as Hop, had shown his, and of their children, Henry showed his more than the rest. In fact, Henry could easily pass for a full-blood, although he was actually only three-eighths Cherokee by blood. So the people in Washington, D.C., did not notice Mary Walker as being Indian. In fact, Mary thought, they acted pretty much as if they did not notice her at all—as if she were not even there.
Washington was intimidating, almost overwhelming to Mary. There were too many buildings, and the buildings were too big. The traffic was absolutely frightening and even menacing. Mary had a paranoid sensation that people were trying to run into her and over her, though she realized that the feeling was paranoid. (Of course, she did not know that word. In fact she did not put any word to the sensation she felt and analyzed.) She was not a voracious reader like her son, Henry. She was not much of a reader at all, and she had never understood his passion for books and for words. She vaguely wondered if that passion was not what was really at the bottom of all this—if the books were not responsible for Henry’s wildness—if the excessive reading was not the reason she was wandering the strange and hostile streets of Washington, D.C. And the people seemed to be rushing everywhere. Anyone not rushing, and Mary seemed to be the only one who fit that category, was in grave danger of being run down and trampled and of not even being noticed in the process. Mary told herself that once she had accomplished her task, nothing would ever drag her back to this city, yet, until she had accomplished her task, nothing could drag her away from it.
She had been in the capital city of the United States of America for an entire month, and her money was running out. She stayed in a cheap, run-down hotel, and she ate only enough to keep her going, yet her funds were nearly depleted. She had written a letter to C. N. Walker asking him to forward her some more money, even though she knew that C.N. was far from sympathetic to her cause. Still, C.N. was her husband, and he would probably send her the money. Even if he did not, Mary had resolved that she would stay. If she had to, she would find work in order to pay her keep. She had determination. She had a cause. Even though he had left home because of her second marriage and even though she knew that he would never come back to her, she had a son, and he was in trouble. He had been in worse trouble, but it was still bad.
Mary had gone to Fort Smith and had consulted with Colonel Cravens. He had done all that he could. She was convinced of that. She liked him and she trusted him. She was grateful to the colonel, for he had saved her son from the gallows, but there was more work to be done yet. The colonel had told her that he had reached the end of his abilities. He had appealed the case to the highest court. There was no more recourse, nothing more to be done. Nothing else could be done, he had said, except …
“Except what?” Mary had demanded.
Colonel Cravens had felt a bit foolish. He had almost wished that he had just kept his mouth shut, but it was too late for that. He had given her that slight hope, and he had to follow it up.
“Except an appeal direct to the President of the United States for a pardon,” he had said.
So Mary had scraped together all the money that she could get her hands on, and she had gone to Washington to see the President, but she had discovered that getting to see the President was not an easy task to accomplish. On her way to Washington she had worried about what she would say to the President, she had worried about how the President would react to her tale of woe, she had worried about what kind of man the President would turn out to be. He was known to be a tough one. “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” he said. She worried that the President would have no sympathy for a mother’s tears, but it did not occur to her to worry about whether or not she would even be allowed to see him.
So Mary found herself in the same office day after day, facing the same expressionless face behind the same desk. She did not know the man’s name, nor did she know his title. She only knew that the office in which he sat was the closest she had been able to get to the President’s office and that, in order to see the President, she had to somehow get past this man. He seemed immovable.
“Mrs. Walker,” he said, his voice irritable, “President Roosevelt is a very busy man. He has many more important things to see about than your problem.”
“It’s about my son,” said Mary. “It’s important to me.”
“The President cannot afford to take time to visit with every mother in the country who is worried about her son.”
“Not every mother in the country who is worried about her son has traveled clear to Washington from the Cherokee Nation and stayed a month to see the President,” said Mary.
“Did you say ‘the Cherokee Nation’?” said the bureaucrat.
Just then another man stepped into the office. Mary had not seen him before, but she could tell by his dress and his bearing that he, also, was someone of some official stature here in the capital. Whatever his business was, he seemed to put it aside for a moment to eavesdrop on what Mary was talking about. He stepped back out of the way and waited for Mary’s answer to the other man’s question.
“Yes,” she said. “I came here all the way from the Cherokee Nation to see the President. It’s the only hope my son has.”
“Mrs. Walker,” said the man behind the desk, his voice a bit triumphant, “are you an American citizen?”
“I’m a citizen of the Cherokee Nation,” answered Mary.
“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been in here pestering me half to distraction every day for well-nigh onto a month to try to get in to see the President to get a pardon for your son, and you’re not even a citizen? You’re not even a voter? Mrs. Walker—”
Here the eavesdropper injected himself into the conversation.
“Mrs. Walker,” he said, “what did young Mr. Walker do to get himself put in prison?”
“Oh,” said Mary, turning to the new speaker, “excuse me, sir. My son is not named Walker. Mr. Walker is my second husband. My first husband left me a widow with three children. My son’s name is Henry Starr.”
“Henry Starr. Henry Starr,” repeated the newcomer. “The name sounds familiar to me. Wait a minute. That’s right. Is that the young man who disarmed a fellow inmate down at the federal facility in Fort Smith, Arkansas, some time back?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Henry took the gun away from Cherokee Bill before he could kill any more guards.”
“Mrs. Walker, come with me, please. I have an idea that Mr. Roosevelt will be happy to see you.”
As Mary followed the man out of the office, the other tossed his unruly blond curls off of his forehead with a haughty jerk of the head and sat back down to his paperwork.