Death of an Indian
©2008 Nishi Giefer
In 1868, the man knelt among the rocks and brush. It was a good place to think. Here,
in his buckskins, he was invisible from the cabin unless he moved. And even then only if the
laborer cared to look for him.
Something about the worker below puzzled the watcher. He had seen a hoe in action,
indeed. He had seen toil, sweat. But this fellow working the hoe went about the job in a
haphazard manner. A distracted manner.
The hoeing continued for a quarter of an hour before a little boy who had been playing
near the house raced to the garden. He must have spoken but the sound was swallowed by the
wind and distance. Seemingly irritated, the hoer threw down the implement and trudged after the
boy. After a minute or two inside, both stepped outdoors. The boy returned to making himself
filthy in a span of powdery dust, playing whatever game the youthful mind concocts. The man
now carried a bundle of white. The bundle kicked and waved its tiny arms.
Baby.
What happened next first startled then amused the man hunkered on the rocky hillside.
The gardener opened the top of the shirt. There was a brief flash of sun on a startlingly white
breast. Then the baby’s insistent motions calmed.
So the gardener was not a man, after all.
The man on the hill, watching patiently, had seen a woman nurse a baby. But he had
never before seen a woman wearing pants.
Journal of Mrs. Anna Watkins
April 29, 1868
Abiel has been gone now for nearly three weeks. He had said it would be a few days.
Four, at most. Where, dear Lord, is he? I pray you return him to me safely. And soon.
Just as I was beginning to contemplate how to sustain this small family in Abiel’s
absence, a most extraordinary event occurred. On the ground before the cabin, I found a quarter
of meat this morning. I think it is deer but perhaps antelope. I know only that it is fresh and that
without it, Ezekiel should have cried in hunger before day’s end.
Oh, how have we come to be abandoned in this place? I toy with the notion of packing
the babies into the wagon and driving in search of town. Or of other settlers. But if I were to
become lost, we would be in even greater straits than we are here.
At least there is the promise of the garden.
Two days after the venison appeared, the anonymous hunter left two rabbits on the
doorstep. Mrs. Watkins gratefully skinned them and sent the little boy to dispatch the skins,
heads, feet, and entrails behind the cabin.
After picketing the horses on the dwindling grass near the cabin, she returned to the
garden. Less than an hour later, she found a parcel of greens, most of which she had not known
to be edible. The gift was wrapped in beautifully tanned buckskin. She held the leather in her
hands, stroking it gently and wondering what kind of person would surrender such a piece.
Who was responsible for delivering these presents of food? And more to the point, what
did he expect in return?
That the anonymous party was a man seemed obvious. There were few women in the
region and most had children to care for, leaving them little time to commit acts of charity.
Besides, a woman would stop to chat. It was a rare treat to talk to another person out here.
Especially another woman.
Curious, she went to the back where the boy had taken the refuse from the rabbits. The
feet and entrails remained. But the skins were gone. And the skulls had been split, the brains
removed.
The hair rose on the back of her neck as a shudder ran through her.
Fighting down her only partially explicable reaction, she went inside and examined the
carcasses more closely. One had a clean hole entering and exiting the abdomen. The wound was
roughly the diameter of a small caliber rifle bullet.
The second had a hole in its chest. There was no exit wound.
And there was no bullet inside.
It was a week from the appearance of the deer haunch when she heard her small son
make a startled sound.
Heart leaping in her chest, she gripped the handle of the hoe as though it were a
weapon. And perhaps it must be.
It wasn’t the full-grown tom turkey she saw first. It was the wiry, tall Indian holding it
at arm’s length. He was standing in the middle of the packed dirt only yards from her son.
Only yards from her.
Fighting for guidance in how to protect herself and her family from a horrible death—or
worse, a horrible life held captive by this heathen savage—she stood slack-jawed, unbreathing.
The half naked brute nodded, more to the boy than to her, then lay the bird slowly on the
dirt. Then, keeping a wary eye on her, he backed carefully beyond throwing range of her garden
implement, turned, and trotted away.
It was later that day when the Indian glanced up from his work and watched a white man
approach the cabin. This was not the same man who had ridden away nearly a moon ago. This
one was burly and rode a mule. He led two more mules behind him.
The Indian watched curiously as the white man called out then dismounted and
sauntered to the door. He saw the knock and watched the man remove his hat and enter the single
room cabin.
There was nothing more to see for a time so the Indian resumed his own work, rubbing
the slightly cooked brain into the cleanly scraped and stretched rabbit hides.
When the Indian next appeared, another week had passed. He led a dark bay horse to
the cabin door and knocked as he had seen the trapper do. In a moment, the door opened a crack.
Cocking his head toward the huge parcel of meat slung over the horse’s back, he slid
the half carcass onto a bare shoulder then lowered it wordlessly to the rough plank worktable
under the single small window.
When he turned toward her, he dropped slowly to one knee. Then he held out his hand.
Mrs. Watkins had not been aware that her son of four years had slipped through the door and was
peering at the Indian from behind her skirts.
Cautiously, the lad reached out a tiny brown hand and put it in the larger, browner one.
After a brief shake, the Indian pointed to his own chest and said, “Ka’Matsch-te.” The second
syllable of the name came from deep in his throat. A difficult sound to convey under the
constraints of the English alphabet.
Mrs. Watkins found herself wondering if she would use “sh,” “th,” or “ch” to write
such an odd sound.
He repeated, “Ka’Matsch-te.” Then he pointed to the boy, a question on his face.
“My name is Ezekiel,” the lad answered tenuously.
The Indian frowned slightly.
“Say only your name,” his mother prompted coolly. “Slowly.”
The boy complied.
The Indian nodded and relayed, “Ee-zee-kyo.”
The boy broke into a smile and pointed to his mother. “And that’s my mama, Mrs.
Watkins.”
The Indian stood. He could see his presence disturbed the woman. She looked at him
like a woman regards a snake. He doubted she would touch a snake so he did not offer her his
hand.
“Miss-uss Wat-kins,” she repeated slowly, trying to hide her terror. Trying not to recall
the stories of mutilation, of torture. Of rape.
“Miss-uss Woe-kins.”
“Yes.” She tried to smile. Then she gestured toward the meat and spoke deliberately,
“Thank you.”
He uttered a short grunt and slid a knife from the scabbard sewn to the belt that
suspended his leather leggings. If he saw her bristle, he gave no indication of it. He merely
turned and began slicing thin strips of meat. When he had accumulated a sizable pile, he walked
behind the cabin, near the creek, and hung the slices on the slender branches of a scrubby willow.
Then he was gone.
Mrs. Watkins did not hear the Indian return but she found another large part of the
buffalo carcass on the plank table the following evening. It unnerved her that he came and went
so stealthily.
After a restless night, she peeked outdoors and saw nothing. She prepared a hasty
breakfast, fed the baby, and straightened the tiny dwelling. Ezekiel had trotted outside while she
was busy. Now he returned.
“Mama, the man is back. Kaw-mots-tay. Is that the way to say his name?”
Alarmed but keeping a straight face for her son, she replied, “I think so. I’ve forgotten.
Did he bring more meat? We have enough to last the summer, I should think.”
“No. He’s doing something by the garden.”
From the doorway, she watched. “He’s preparing the hide,” she mused. She didn’t
realize she was speaking aloud.
But Ezekiel paid no attention. “I’m going to watch.” Before she could stop him, he
trotted off.
A bone scraper in his hand, Ka’Matsch-te looked up and grunted. Then he said
carefully, “Ee-zee-kyo.”
“Kaw-match-tay,” the boy replied.
The Indian frowned at the mispronunciation. “Ka’Matsch-te.” He repeated the name
slowly, patiently listening until he was satisfied with the boy’s performance.
Finally, Mrs. Watkins took up her hoe and strode to the garden, at once fearful and
defiant. Terrified but resolute. Too proud and stiff to show any of her many emotions.
Not that the Indian was looking at her anyway. He was immersed in his work.
Only after several minutes of furious hoeing did she break out of her gripping fear and
glare toward him. He was running with perspiration. Somehow, she was surprised.
But of course, he would sweat. He was, Indian or otherwise, human. Presumably the
same species as she. Though some had suggested otherwise. Including the preacher at the fort the
last time she had attended a worship service.
How long ago that seemed. . .
Leaning on the hoe to catch her breath, she allowed herself to study him. Actually, she
was staring but, despite her better upbringing, she didn’t care. Perhaps his kind didn’t recognize
the impropriety of staring. Who knew if they observed manners of any kind?
So she stared. Brazenly.
He was naked to the waist. The single long braid fell down the center of his back
except when it occasionally fell into his work and he flipped it back again. He wore no hat or
headband. There were no beads or feathers or décor of any sort. But the hair was freshly combed.
Recently braided. Clean.
His legs were clad in supple-looking buckskin. Again, no fringe or other adornment.
The pantlegs hung from a belt, perhaps two inches in width. The crotch was open, covered back
and front by a leather breechcloth that extended downward nearly to his knees and were wide
enough to provide protection and prevent inadvertent view even while he knelt and worked the
hide that was pegged to the ground.
The moccasins, too, were simple. There appeared to be no laces. She couldn’t see the
tops beneath the leggings so she didn’t know how high they extended. She wondered vaguely
how they were put on and off.
She noted he had removed the quiver from his shoulder. It rested on the grass next to
the wear-shined bow.
It was nearing noon when she took the bread from the coals at the edge of the fireplace.
“Ezekiel, please take this plate out to the Indian.”
If the lad thought it odd to feed the guest outdoors, he kept silent about it. A minute
later, he returned. “I don’t think he wants it, Mama. He didn’t look up. He just kept working.”
Without asking, Ezekiel took his plate while her back was turned. In the middle of his
mother’s sentence, he padded out, carrying his food to the edge of the staked hide. There, he sat
and ate. Watching.
Ezekiel had so many questions but Ka’Matsch-te only answered in short grunts, some
punctuated with question marks, others with periods. Eventually, the boy stopped asking.
After she ate, Mrs. Watkins smoothed a blanket in the grass near the large garden and
laid the baby on it. For a few minutes, all was calm. Mrs. Watkins pulled weeds. Ka’Matsch-te
scraped and stretched the raw hide. The baby analyzed her hands with great delight.
Then there was a splash followed by a piercing scream in a pitch that can only be
generated by a tired four-year-old.
Jumping to her feet, Mrs. Watkins sprinted to the creek and retrieved the inconsolable
boy. On her way to the house to help him find dry clothes, she noticed with disdain that the
Indian had not moved. He would have continued his work while her son drowned mere yards
away!
Never mind that the water was only a few inches deep and the boy’s reaction was due
more to necessity of a nap than to any injury or suffering.
Fuming on the topic while she dressed Ezekiel, it suddenly occurred to her that she had
left the baby alone. Alone with the Indian!
At that precise moment, as though further punishing her for her distraction and
negligence, she heard the baby whimper.
Mrs. Watkins burst through the door just as the Indian was about to step inside.
Nestled in his arms was the infant, ferociously sucking her fist.
“Eat. Baby,” he grunted.
Shaking, she snatched the child from the tall Indian. Before she had a chance to shoo
him from the house, he turned and ambled away. She hurriedly latched the door, drew in the
latchstring, and fed the baby.
When she emerged, both children were napping and the Indian was gone.
For almost a month, they did not see the Indian. Not until two days after the mare had
broken her picket rope and disappeared.
Mrs. Watkins was again debating whether she should leave. Abiel had said he would
return in two days. It had now been nearly three months. But she couldn’t hitch the wagon to
only one horse. And she couldn’t pack enough provisions on the saddle. And how could they all
ride? And what of the blankets, the clothes, the cooking utensils. . .?
Watching Ezekiel play near the creek, she leaned on her hoe and bit her lip almost hard
enough to draw blood.
Desperate.
Where was Abiel? How could he abandon them here? Here in this land of barren
emptiness. Of wild Indians.
Then she saw the Indian. He was silhouetted for an instant at the top of the ridge.
Mounted on his own bay, he rode bareback and with only a bitless hackamore.
And he was leading her mare!
For a moment, she thought he had stolen the horse. But no, she had seen the frayed
rope, had known it needed repair even before it broke. And why would he steal the animal only
to return it?
In the yard, he slid from his horse’s off side and wordlessly returned the Watkins mare
to the corral where she greeted her gelding partner.
Ka’Matsch-te was preparing to mount when Mrs. Watkins blurted, “Wait. Please.
Ezekiel, water his horse.”
The Indian handed his braided rawhide reins to the boy.
“Come. Inside. Please.” Mrs. Watkins gestured her intent.
Ka’Matsch-te ducked inside and smelled fresh bread. He dropped onto the offered
chair and surveyed the room as she ladled stew from a pot near the fire and placed it before him.
“Bread?” he grunted.
“Of course,” she muttered. As she sliced the bread, the baby began to fuss.
Handling a spoon with all the grace she would expect from a pirate, the Indian cleaned
the first bowl then helped himself to more stew and another slab of bread. Halfway to the bottom
of that serving, Ezekiel entered and, taking the spoon from their guest, demonstrated the proper
method of using the utensil.
Taking the etiquette lesson with a few good-natured grunts, the heathen finished then
arose and hefted the wooden bucket near the door as he departed.
“Wait!” Mrs. Watkins cried. “Wait! Indian! You can’t take my bucket. It’s our only
bucket. Stop!” She chased him outside.
He turned toward her with a patronizing smile, indicated she should stay where she
was, then went to the creek. He filled the bucket not halfway, as she must do because of the
weight, but to the top. After placing the bucket in its place near the door, he picked up her few
knives and went outside. Sitting cross-legged, back resting against the cabin wall, he began
honing the sorely dull blades.
Mrs. Watkins returned to her work in the kitchen. Several minutes later, Ka’Matsch-te
returned the knives then disappeared again. She thought he had gone but as she exhaled and
began to relax, she heard the axe thud into a log.
When she went to check on the garden later, she saw a neat pile of firewood. Beyond
that, under a willow near the creek, she saw Ka’Matsch-te reclined on the earth.
Sleeping in broad daylight!
Ka’Matsch-te ducked through the open door the following noon. Before taking his
place at the table, he spread the newly tanned buffalo robe over her bed in the corner of the
cabin. After serving him and Ezekiel, she crossed the room and admired the soft hide. It was, she
had to admit, beautifully done.
The meal finished, the Indian seated himself on the plank worktable outdoors and
began working a long strip of rawhide. He laid the strip on his thigh and, using his razor sharp
knife, skived the hair and scurf. Mrs. Watkins tidied the cabin then emerged to watch for a time.
Then she took up a slender branch and drew a stick figure in the powdery dust near the
Indian’s feet. Pointing to her simple artwork, she said firmly, “Man.”
Ka’Matsch-te looked up idly.
She pointed to him and repeated, “Man.” Then she drew a stick figure in a skirt.
“Woman.” She put a hand to her chest. “Woman.”
The Indian nodded but said nothing.
Uncertainly, Mrs. Watkins drew a smaller figure. “Boy.” Then, “Girl.”
Another nod.
The next sketch was a man and woman with joined hands. Husband. Wife. Indicating
the wife, she said, “Mrs. Watkins.” Then she introduced the stick Mr. Watkins. The boy stick
was Ezekiel. The girl stick, Ruth.
At this, the man held up his hand and scowled. “Roo—?”
“Ruth,” she said slowly, emphasizing the “th”.
With an odd half-smile, he put his tongue between his teeth and repeated, “Th. Th.”
His expression seemed to say he thought it an odd sound.
Shooting him an ironic, almost reproving glance, she tried to reproduce the Indian’s
name, emphasizing the sh-ch-ts guttural sound at the end of the second syllable.
Ka’Matsch-te smiled, conceding. His expression said, “Okay, Lady, mine is as strange
to you as yours is to me.” He pointed to her sketch and repeated, “Man. Woo-man. Boy. Grrl.
Husbin. Wife. Son.” There, he stopped. Hopping off the table, he indicated the tiny stick girl, a
question on his face.
“Daughter,” she said. “Daughter.”
“Dotter,” he recited.
She drew a house with a peaked roof over the family. Then she made another man and
woman in a pointed home. A tepee. Indicating the stick woman, she asked, “Ka’Matsch-te
wife?”
His face was still as he looked at the lines in the dust. After a long moment, he held up
one finger. “Ka’Matsch-te wife.” Using the point of his knife, he drew a pregnant stick then
erased her and drew her lying flat.
Mrs. Watkins’s face deepened. “Your wife is dead?”
“Dead. Wife.” He nodded. Pointing to the distended belly, he said, “Baby dead.”
“She died in childbirth,” Mrs. Watkins mumbled sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”
Then Ka’Matsch-te held up two fingers. A second wife. Beside the tepee, he drew a
new wife and four children, each successively smaller. Pointing at each figure, he said,
“Ka’Matsch-te. Ka’Matsch-te wife. Son. Son. Dotter. Dotter. Dead.”
Mrs. Watkins felt a sinking in her chest. “What happened?”
In answer, Ka’Matsch-te drew many tepees and several stick people. Then he erased
himself. A few feet away in the dust, he drew himself on his horse. Hunting a deer. He gestured
his return and re-drew all the people in the village on their sides. “Dead.” Then he sliced his
finger across his neck as a knife.
“Everyone?” she gasped. Feeling sick, she asked reluctantly, “Whites?”
This was not a word he knew.
She pointed to her original stick family under the peaked roof. “Whites.” Then she
indicated the tepee people. “Indians.”
“No whites,” Ka’Matsch-te said. Then, venom in his voice, he said, “Utes.”
Visibly relieved, she said, “Oh. Indians.”
Ka’Matsch-te gave her an odd look. He put his hands on his bare chest. “Ka’Matsch-te
Indian.” He pointed to her. “Missus Wokkins white.” Then he pointed vaguely northeast and
said, “Utes. . .” For a moment, he searched for a word. “Diablo.”
“Devil,” she translated.
Ka’Matsch-te nodded. “Ute. Devil.”
While Mrs. Watkins hoed and occasionally offered suggestions, Ka’Matsch-te
improved the irrigation system in the garden. The sun was drooping in the west when she
scanned the hills for the millionth time— hoping for a glimpse of Abiel. Suddenly, she gasped.
“Ka’Matsch-te!”
Without looking up or changing his pace, Ka’Matsch-te grunted.
“There are two Indians,” she insisted, pointing east.
“No Indians. Navaho. Three Navaho.”
“But Navahos are Indians,” she pressed.
“No,” Ka’Matsch-te shook his head. “Ka’Matsch-te Indian. Those Navaho.”
She started to ask a frantic question but Ka’Matsch-te cut her off. “Go. Eat. Navaho.”
Determining to improve his grammar later, she rushed to the cabin to prepare a meal.
In a constant state of internal turmoil, Mrs. Watkins scurried around the cabin while
the Indians ate and talked. Through their heavy use of sign language with Ka’Matsch-te, it was
apparent they didn’t share a common language.
After their lingering meal, the Navahos moved outside for more talk. They sat slapping
mosquitoes and laughing and talking until nearly midnight. In the morning, they were gone. Mrs.
Watkins found Ka’Matsch-te on the plank table, braiding long rawhide strips.
“If they are Navaho,” she asked, pointing the direction the Indians had gone, “then
what are you?” She pointed at Ka’Matsch-te.
He said what sounded to her like, “Brind’ne.”
She frowned and tried to reproduce the word. Then she repeated the names of all the
tribes she knew. “Pawnee? Kiowa? Comanche? Sioux? Cherokee?”
As she spoke each name, assuming one of them must be the Anglicized version of his
tribe’s name, he pointed to indicate where that tribe lived.
Shoshone, north. Arapahoe, north and east. Apache, south and west.
Her list exhausted, she shrugged and asked, “Where are the Brind’ne?”
Ka’Matsch-te pointed to his chest. “All dead. Only Ka’Matsch-te.”
So that was it. He was the last of his tribe.
Perhaps that explained why he hovered around her ranch. He had no one else. Nowhere
to go. No home. No family. A man wants the comforts of people. Someone else’s cooking. The
noise of children playing. Adult companionship. Friendship.
All of that was gone for Ka’Matsch-te.
But wasn’t it also gone for Mrs. Watkins?
Suddenly she felt less isolated. Less alone for her unlikely alliance with this tribe-less
man.
“No Indian left. Now Ka’Matsch-te white.”
She studied him, pondering his meaning and oddly pleased that he had acquired so
many words. “But you are still Indian, yes?”
“No Indian left. Dead. Ka’Matsch-te need be white now.”
Still not certain she understood, Mrs. Watkins gestured toward him and said, “Then
you need proper clothes and a haircut.”
Ka’Matsch-te smiled and resumed his work.
Suddenly, head cocked, she asked, “What does Ka’Matsch-te mean?”
“Rain Nose,” he answered without pause. Then he sniffled and swiped his hand under
his nose. He waited a moment as her face crinkled in disbelief. Then he laughed.
“You’re teasing me,” she chastised. “What does it really mean?”
He tried to conjure up the English equivalent from his woefully small vocabulary.
“Hard think. Long think.”
She scowled, considering. “Deep Thinker. One Who Contemplates. Contemplator.”
With a smile, he said, “Ka’Matsch-te contemplator haircut.”
She smiled. “You mean you will contemplate a haircut.”
His reply was a short grunt.
“Go hunt. Come back four suns.” This was Ka’Matsch-te’s proclamation after
breakfast.
Mrs. Watkins couldn’t fully hide her concern. But she couldn’t keep him here. No
more than she could have kept Abiel. It irritated her that she was even worried about this man.
After all, he was a heathen. Last night, before he had gone off to wherever he slept, he had
announced to her that his god of superstition was equivalent to her own god.
The first morning after Ka’Matsch-te left, Mrs. Watkins awoke feeling more tired than
when she’d gone to bed. The baby had awoken twice in the night but it was no great thing to
offer the breast and fall back to sleep. So perhaps it was something else that caused her tiredness.
Indeed, even Ezekiel’s play was subdued.
Just past noon, when all three members of the family dozed, there was a “Hallo!” from
outdoors. A startled Mrs. Watkins jumped to her feet and answered the call. It was the same
trapper who had called earlier in the spring. He gratefully accepted coffee and the baked treats
she had made throughout the morning. The baking spree had used a supply of her jealously
hoarded flour and sugar but it had kept her hands busy and prevented her succumbing to the
idleness that threatened to overwhelm her.
“I see your husband is back,” the trapper offered through his full mouth. “That’s sure
heartening. I worried a-plenty about you folks here without your man.”
“Actually, he is still away,” she began carefully, uncertain how much of her plight to
admit. “But I’ve hired a man.”
“Must be a good’un,” he acknowledged. “I seen your wood supply. Crops is looking
good. Stock is slick and fat. Good to have you a hand.”
“He’s quiet,” she offered, trying to think how to describe her situation but unwilling to
confess her association with an Indian. It was one thing to have him about but another for other
whites to know. “He seems willing enough to work and he’s knowledgeable about tools and
things.” She added, “He’s also quite good with leather. Tanning, and such.”
“He’ll do, sounds like. Mind if I eat me another of them rolls, Missus?” Again
speaking around a full mouth, the man relayed news of the region. “Soldier boys is sparking for a
fight. Got ‘em a new feller from back East. Sounds like trouble brewing, you ask me. Them
youngsters come out of West Point and think they know a thing or two about fighting. Problem
is, they ain’t fit Injuns. And Injuns never studied no books at the Point. Word is, he’s fixing to
round up ever’ Injun he kin find and hang ‘em.”
“But not all the Indians want to fight!” she protested quickly.
“Ah, now,” the trapper pointed to her knowingly, “you been here long enough to figger
that out, Miz Watkins. But that fool army man ain’t. And he don’t aim to listen to nobody, way I
hear tell. To some easterners and tenderfeet, a Injun’s a Injun. And they say the only good one’s
a dead one. But I’ve knowed some good Injuns. They got ‘em some different ideas, no doubt.
But down deep, they just want same as you and me. Food, shelter, and raise their younguns. No
different than any other folks.”
Seeming to enjoy his own voice—and the opportunity to use it on a listener other than
the wind—the trapper talked long into the afternoon. Mrs. Watkins could barely keep her eyes
open as she listened. She wondered vaguely why the baby hadn’t awakened to eat. Probably
because of the late night meals.
Finally the trapper, perhaps sensing her anxiousness for him to leave, made his
departure. Mrs. Watkins forced herself outdoors to where the horses were picketed. Instead of repicketing them after they had drunk their fill from the creek, she turned them into the corral.
They wouldn’t starve before morning and she was just too exhausted to care.
Despite his eagerness to see the Watkins family and show them his purchases,
Ka’Matsch-te pulled up on the ridge east of the cabin, near where he had first studied the
rancheria. And that’s what he did now.
Something was wrong.
There was no smoke from the stone chimney. No boy playing between the cabin and
the creek. No one in the garden.
Ka’Matsch-te sat for over an hour. Watching. Contemplating.
Leaving his horse and the pack animal picketed, he led the newly acquired milk cow
down the hill. Her tired calf trudged reluctantly after them, occasionally stopping to puff but then
catching up.
As he turned loose the cow, Ka’Matsch-te frowned. The horses in the corral nickered
expectantly. They should be picketed now. It was late afternoon.
He smelled the sickness before he opened the door. The baby slept fitfully in her
cradle. Ezekiel lay in rumpled bedding that smelled of urine.
And Mrs. Watkins was on the bed cocooned in heavy quilts and the buffalo robe
despite the day’s heat. Her spasms shook the bed frame.
As Ka’Matsch-te dug in to nurse the family through the fever, the baby roused. Her
screams were not the cries of a sick baby but of a hungry and neglected one.
Knowing that only one thing would pacify her, he took Mrs. Watkins shoulder and
spoke her name. It was the first time he had touched her. From the beginning, he had sensed her
fear of him. Wanting to stay around, even if not at first welcome, he had kept his distance.
But now he gripped her shoulder and rolled her onto her back. “Eat. Baby. Missus
Wokkins. Eat. Baby.”
“I can’t eat the baby,” she muttered weakly. “One feeds a baby.”
“Feed baby,” he urged over the insistent infant shrieks.
Mrs. Watkins made no move to take the child.
After a slight hesitation, he pried open two buttons on her sleeping gown and exposed
a breast. Moments later, the baby found the nipple and sucked greedily, noisily. Ka’Matsch-te
used a rolled quilt to prop the child in place.
Then he turned to the fireplace and began building a fire. Before it was burning well,
the baby screamed. Again, he put her to the breast. Again, she tried to nurse. But then she let
loose and howled.
No milk.
The commotion woke Ezekiel. Ka’Matsch-te gave him a cup of water, finished starting
the fire, and left the indignant baby in her crib. Taking a tin mug, he trotted to the corral and,
while the calf nursed on one side of the cow, he filled the cup with milk from the other.
Leaving the thirsty horses, he returned to the cabin and spent a frustrating half hour
enticing the baby to consume some of the milk from the foreign delivery system.
Fed, burped, and changed, the baby was returned to the crib while Ka’Matsch-te
tended to the stock and brought in his own horses and supplies.
With dry clothes, clean bedding, and half a cup of broth in him, Ezekiel settled back
into his covers and slept. But Ka’Matsch-te was only able to get a few drops of broth into Mrs.
Watkins.
He wasn’t sure she would survive until morning.
Once more able to feed the baby, who had grown colicky on the cow’s milk, Mrs.
Watkins sat up in bed cuddling the infant and watching Ezekiel practice his letters on the slate,
writing with chips of limestone he had collected from the creek. When Ka’Matsch-te carried in
an armload of wood, she nodded to the pile of goods near the wall and asked, “What is that?”
“Trading Post,” he answered.
“What did you trade?” she wondered.
“Rope,” he answered. “Reata. Hides. Jaquima. Leather.”
“You must have had a lot of rope,” she stated dubiously. She noted the smattering of
Spanish interspersed in his limited English vocabulary.
He nodded. “Much rope. Trade all. Buy cloth. You make white clothes for Ka’Matschte.”
She studied the folds of fabric. “It looks like I will be making white clothes, gray
clothes, and calico clothes.”
Leaning over to the stack, he pointed. “White for Ka’Matsch-te shirt. Ee-zee-kyo shirt.
Ruth shirt. Gray for Ka’Matsch-te pant. Ee-zee-kyo pant. Calico for Missus Wokkins shirt.”
“Dress. Women wear dresses. And skirts and waists,” she corrected. “And thank you.”
Ka’Matsch-te’s “white clothes” weren’t finished when he went hunting again. The
leaves were beginning to turn. The animals were growing thick coats. Many of the crops in the
oversized garden were waning.
It had been a good harvest so far. Enough to hold them through the winter.
Mrs. Watkins spent the day cooking, caring for the children, and cultivating the winter
crops. Beets. Turnips. Onions. They would be there in the spring, ready to eat. Perhaps even
during the winter if one cared to dull the axe by digging into the frozen ground.
In the lengthening evening, after supper dishes were cleared and the children tucked in,
she picked up her sewing.
As she worked, she thanked God for her regained strength. And for the guardian angel
He had sent in the form of a pagan Indian. With the help of Ka’Matsch-te, she would prove up
the claim. Even if Abiel never returned, she would own the land in four more years.
In the morning, she went about her chores, watching constantly now not only for Abiel
but for Ka’Matsch-te as well. Ka’Matsch-te had said he would be gone for two days but perhaps
if the hunting were good, he might return early.
But he didn’t.
She shouldn’t be in such a rush to see him. When he did come, there would be even
more work than usual. The meat would have to be salted and dried. Ka’Matsch-te would work
for days scraping, stretching, dehairing, and tanning. The rawhide would be cut into strings.
Ropes would be twisted and braided. Moccasins would be made. Perhaps a quiver for Ezekiel.
He had been asking for one for weeks.
But even though Ka’Matsch-te’s return would mean a frenzy of labor, she was anxious
to see him top the rise.
They did not share a romantic kind of love. More of a companionship. An allegiance.
A mutual need for improved existence. A division of labor.
As she worked, she pondered what it must be like to lose not only one’s family, but
one’s entire culture. Though she may have lost her husband, there were still people who spoke
her language, shared her religion, knew her songs and stories and history.
For Ka’Matsch-te, there was no one. In some sense, it was as though his past had been
erased.
At half past midnight, according to the clock above the mantle, she was roused.
Thinking it was Ruth, Mrs. Watkins began opening her blouse. But the baby was sleeping
soundly.
She lay awake for several minutes, listening to the night sounds, none of them out of
the ordinary. Almost asleep again, she heard a horse shift its feet. Too close to the house.
Perhaps one of the horses had worked open the latch on the corral gate.
Silently, she slipped off the bed. Ticking off other possible explanations, she
considered Indians. A stray horse.
Carefully, noiselessly, she lifted the latch, intending to let the door open only an inch
or so.
But the door did not open an inch. It slammed into her!
For an instant, a reflexive scream threatened to escape her lips. But only an instant.
The threat she feared was now resting limply against her foot. Her suddenly wet foot.
The waning gibbous moon gave just enough light to allow her to identify Ka’Matschte. Unconscious. Bleeding on her foot.
In a moment, the lamp was lighted. As she dragged him inside, using the strength
roused by her scare, she glanced out and saw his horse dozing beside the workbench.
Mrs. Watkins rolled Ka’Matsch-te onto his back and examined his face by lamplight. It
was an unrecognizably mangled, bloody mass. His torso was covered with bruises, scrapes, and
deeper cuts. With her limited knowledge of injuries, she guessed no bones were broken. Unless
perhaps in his battered face.
Speaking softly so as not to wake the children, she asked, “Ka’Matsch-te, can you hear
me?” She wondered how long he had lain against the door. Probably it was his collapse that had
awakened her.
He made no response to her inquiry.
Quickly, she threw a handful of kindling on the coals in the fireplace. She had
considered dousing them after supper. It had been so warm and close in the cabin. Glad now that
she hadn’t, she prepared hot water and ripped an outgrown and worn pair of Ezekiel’s pants into
rags. These she dipped into the water and began cleaning the wounds on his body. While her
hands were busy, she pondered what to do about the wounds on his head.
The water in the washpan quickly became choked with blood and bits of dirt and
gravel. She threw it out and heated more water. By the time Mrs. Watkins had tended to the
wounds on Ka’Matsch-te’s back and chest, Ruth was beginning to stir.
In the midst of the feeding, Ka’Matsch-te cracked the one eye he could open ever so
slightly. Staring at nothing, he muttered something in his own language.
Mrs. Watkins pulled a light blanket onto her shoulder to cover the nursing baby.
“Ka’Matsch-te, you’re home.” She felt funny using the term. Hoping he would understand her
words, she went on. “You are hurt. What happened to you?”
“Drink,” he mumbled.
A glance under the blanket assured her Ruth had finished and was sleeping. Stepping
over the trundle bed, she laid the infant on her bed then dipped a cup of water. Cradling his head
with one hand, she held the mug to his lips.
When he was finished, he slurred, “Fall down. Cliff.” Then he closed his eyes and
went silent.
By morning, she had had almost no sleep. Only a few minutes dozing in the chair. But
she had managed to clean Ka’Matsch-te’s smashed nose and cheek. Surprisingly, though his
upper lip was lacerated almost completely through, no teeth were broken.
She had also managed to roll him onto the buffalo robe. It was then that she heard
jingling in the front yard. She caught a flash of light as Ezekiel ran inside.
“Mama, there’s soldiers outside! One of them wants to talk to you.”
Hastily covering Ka’Matsch-te’s leather leggings and breechcloth with a quilt, she
asked anxiously, “What did you say to them? Anything?”
Abashed, the boy confessed, “No, Mama. I’m sorry. I should have been polite.”
“No, no!” she blurted. “You say nothing. Not a single word to any soldiers.
Understand?”
“But, Mama, why can’t I—?”
“Because,” she said, voice low, “they are on orders to kill every Indian they see. And
they might confuse our hired man for an Indian.”
Perplexed, the boy said, “But, Mama, he is—”
Putting her hand over his mouth, she spoke swiftly and with great meaning. “Not a
word! Let them think you’re dumb.”
Suddenly, there was a knock on the frame of the open door. “Ma’am?”
Appearing far calmer than she felt, Mrs. Watkins turned toward the speaker. “Yes?”
“Ma’am, the captain would like to speak to you.” He was a young enlisted man. No
more than her own twenty-two, she guessed.
“Of course, Corporal. I’ll be out momentarily. My hired man has been wounded. I
must finish treating his wounds.”
The corporal leaned inside and saw the unconscious man. For once, Mrs. Watkins was
glad for the dim light in the tiny cabin. “Shall I send over the doctor, Ma’am?”
Her hesitation was only slight. In any ordinary circumstances, she would obviously
accept such an offer. So she said, “Certainly. Please do.”
The instant the soldier was gone, she told Ezekiel to close the door. In a flash, she
snatched the shears from her sewing basket. It took only a second to snip off the abnormally
frayed and tattered braid. When she grasped it, a bur stuck in her hand. Penance, perhaps.
The leather leggings took slightly longer but by the time the doctor knocked, the
patient under the quilt was naked.
She pulled open the door and offered her hand, which the old gentleman took with a
bow. She said, “Thank you so kindly, Doctor. I am Mrs. Watkins and I’m afraid the injuries
sustained by my employee supersede my medical knowledge.”
“Why, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Watkins. My name is Dr.
Carlson and if your medical skills are on par with your elegant nature, I’m sure you’ll have your
man back at the plow in short order.” He followed her inside. An enlisted man was at his heels.
As the physician performed his examination, she cast a warning glance to her son and
stated, “His name is John Tanner. He’s been working for us since spring. My husband must be
away frequently and Mr. Tanner is quite capable.”
“I see,” mused the older man as he worked. “His wounds are serious, I’m afraid, but
not life-threatening if you can keep the infection away. Fortunately, you’ve already done an
exemplary job of cleansing.”
“Shore is a dark-skinned cuss,” the other soldier spoke for the first time.
“Mr. Tanner’s mother is of Italian descent,” Mrs. Watkins offered quickly. If she was
disturbed by her sudden ability to concoct a lie on the spot, she didn’t stop to consider it at the
moment.
“Poor man’s face will never be the same, I suspect,” the doctor commented. “Ah, he’s
coming around. Good morning, young man. Can you tell me your name?”
Mrs. Watkins’s stomach went cold. Don’t speak, she wanted to shout silently. Stay
unconscious!
But the man on the blanket didn’t heed her un-offered advice. He muttered a single
syllable. “John.”
Mrs. Watkins allowed herself to take a breath. Then she tried to guess how Ka’Matschte would pronounce Tanner. Would his accent give him away?
“John Tanner.” The voice was thick and low, muffled—fortunately—by the immense
swelling.
“Well, Mr. Tanner,” the physician spoke reassuringly, “you are in good hands. You’ll
be up and working in no time. Do you recall what happened to you? Do you remember how you
came by your injuries?”
Ka’Matsch-te was silent. His eye closed. The doctor was about to say something to
Mrs. Watkins when the Indian’s single word cut through the room.
“Utes.”
Three adults and one four-year-old boy turned sharply toward him. “What’s that you
say, Mr. Tanner?” the doctor inquired.
This time there was less volume but no less meaning. “Utes.”
“Utes done this to you?” the young soldier asked.
“Yes,” Ka’Matsch-te slurred.
“Do you know where they are?” The soldier leaned close for the reply.
“North.” The smashed lip masked the accent. “East.”
“Up by Mount Payton?” the enlisted man probed.
“East side,” Ka’Matsch-te whispered. Then he said no more. In part because he didn’t
trust his English and in part because he felt faint.
When they were certain he had no more to say, the doctor stood. To the soldier, he
said, “Go tell the captain about this. And send a man back here to help me get Mr. Tanner into a
sleeping shirt.”
“I don’t believe he has any spare clothes,” Mrs. Watkins broke in. “He was wearing his
only set when he left to go hunting. He returned shirtless, his pants beyond repair, and with no
boots.”
The soldier snorted and announced, “Them damned Injuns will steal a man
blind.”
“Private!” the doctor stormed. “You will do well to keep in mind the presence of a lady
and her children!”
“Sorry, Ma’am,” the man mumbled. Then he scuffed outdoors.
“I do apologize for his crude language, my dear Mrs. Watkins. It’s a man’s world, this
military life. I’m afraid at times they forget themselves.”
For a gift of shirt, pants, belt, and a pair of used riding boots, she could weather the
impropriety.
Prologue
May 17, 1912
“So, Mr. Tanner, your granddaughter tells me you were raised as an Indian. I’m
studying anthropology at the University, you know. I’d love to hear your story.”
John Tanner let a small smile cross his lips. He nodded his head toward the field
beyond the house and said, “You can help me work while we talk.”
While they tamped dirt around the base of a massive corner post for the new fence,
John said, “I never talk about my upbringing.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Because the reason I became John Tanner was that I was about to be killed by white
soldiers for the simple reason that I was Indian.” Though he was beyond the age of sixty, the old
man was still lean. He still showed by his supple movements that he knew how to work.
“Really? So what happened, sir?”
“Mrs. Tanner made up a name for me and told the army men I was half Italian!”
They laughed. Then, seeming suddenly serious, John pressed, “And just exactly what
are your intentions with my granddaughter?”
“Purely wholesome, I assure you, Mr. Tanner,” the young man resolved.
Wearing a crinkled brow, John asked, “Does that mean there will be no greatgrandchildren? Because you know there are more fun things to do on a long winter night than
play cards, my boy.”
The young suitor laughed. Then he asked, “To what Indian nation did you belong, Mr.
Tanner?”
“Brind’ne,” John answered.
Perplexed, the young man said, “I’ve not come across that tribe in my studies.”
“That’s because it’s extinct,” John said. “Unless you count your girlfriend and her
siblings and cousins. Though my children are half Brind’ne, they didn’t know it for years. Only
Mrs. Tanner’s oldest boy, Ezekiel, remembers me as an Indian. He and I learned to read and
write together.”
“So how did you come to know the Tanners?”
John set down the tamping post and looked out across the short grass plain. “They
were the Watkins family then. Mr. Watkins had gone hunting and never returned. And my family
was wiped out by the Utes. It seemed I would have to find a new place, a new life. And I could
see that the whites were going to overwhelm this country so I chose to join them.
“I think when she first met me, Mrs. Tanner thought all Indians were the same. She
acted as though I should just go off and join the Navahos or the Kiowas because I was the same
as them. But I felt no more kinship to them than to her. Less, perhaps. Because I knew she was
alone. As alone as I was.”
Here, he stopped his musings and locked his eyes on the young man. “And I knew life
would be better eating a woman’s cooking than eating my own.”
“So you became a white man, so to speak.”
“I did. There are still many parts of me that are Indian. Many things I just don’t
understand about white culture and white religion, though I keep it to myself most of the time.
But Mrs. Tanner and I had a mutual need for each other. Over time, it developed into feelings of
love. And there’s your story, my boy.”
Journal of Mrs. Anna (Watkins) Tanner
June 1, 1869
I expected him to be savage.
Such was not the case.
I expected him to be uncultured.
Instead, I touched a new culture.
I expected him to be vicious and cruel
as I had heard “they” all were.
But I met an equal. Thirsting for knowledge,
Thirsting for new life.
I expected him to be them.
But he was only one man.
Alone.
The last of all.