Winter's Child by Margaret Coel Page B

back to Cut Nose’s camp. He trailed a half dozen ponies packed with pots and pans and food he’d gotten trading with other bands. Everything he owned, he brought to Cut Nose. It still didn’t persuade him.”
    Belle tilted her head back and laughed at the ceiling as though she were reliving the bargaining herself. “The one who persuaded Cut Nose was Lizzie,” she said. “Brokenhorn had taken the opportunity to talk to her alone. Followed her to the creek when she went for water, waited for her in the brush when she went to pick berries.They fell in love. Finally, Lizzie convinced her father to let her marry Brokenhorn, and Cut Nose himself presided over the wedding. There was a big feast, and afterward, Brokenhorn and Lizzie went to Brokenhorn’s village. Her father gave her the ponies Brokenhorn had given him because Cut Nose did not want his daughter to come to the Arapahos as a beggar. She rode into the village as a proud and much-loved Cheyenne woman. She was fifteen when she became Arapaho. After that, she was called Kellsto Time.”
    â€œWhite folks always want to know, were they happy?” Wilbur clasped his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Like that’s all that matters. My father told me that great-grandfather always looked after Lizzie. They were traditionals, stayed close to the old ways. In the summers, Brokenhorn pledged the Sun Dance and Lizzie cooked for the dancers. Even after the government outlawed the Sun Dance and threatened people with prison if they took part, Brokenhorn and Lizzie and the other traditionals went into the mountains, where the government agent couldn’t find them, and held the Sun Dance anyway. That’s the kind of people they were. After she married Great-grandfather, she never spoke another word of Cheyenne. She took pride in being Arapaho.”
    The coffeepot made a rhythmic blipping noise in the quiet that dropped over the kitchen. Wilbur had told the story he intended to tell; there was nothing else. “Thank you,” Father John said.
    â€œOh yes.” Shannon jumped in. “Thank you so much.”
    Belle shifted sideways toward her husband. “You suppose your relation Daisy might talk to them?”
    Wilbur drew in his lips and shrugged. He took a moment before he said, “That old lady makes it her business to keep track of family history. Spends most her time off visiting her grandkids. Not sure you can catch her.”
    Belle had turned toward Shannon. “Daisy’s a granddaughter. She thinks she’s an expert on the Old Time. She likes telling stories.”
    â€œSelf-proclaimed expert.” Wilbur started to his feet. “Doesn’t think anyone else has a right to poke into family history. I’ll give her a call and see if she’s around. You might want to see if you can talk to another old granddaughter. Theresa Horn is pretty sharp sometimes, and other times not so much. Give her grandson, Thomas, a call and see if the old lady will talk to you.”
    Father John stood up and pushed his chair into the table, catching Shannon’s eyes as he did so. That was the way research went, just as Shannon had said. You start somewhere and are sent somewhere else. You never know where you might go. He thanked Wilbur and Belle, and Shannon joined in. Praising the delicious fry bread, the generous gift of information, the Arapaho hospitality.
    *   *   *
    Through the tunnel of cottonwoods shimmering in snow, Father John spotted the dark maroon truck in front of the administration building. He turned onto Circle Drive and pulled up alongside the truck.
    â€œLooks like you have company.” Shannon had talked nonstop on the drive back to the mission, recalling everything Wilbur had said, exclaiming over the emptiness of the reservation, the small houses, the abandoned cars and trucks and appliances in the yards, laundry stiff as cement on the lines.
    â€œHow did