As the men watched the children, Josiah watched the men, studying them. Observing was what he did best. He wondered what thoughts the seemingly commonplace event evoked in these hardened men. For him, it was a bittersweet sense of poignancy because this happy day marked the beginning of the end of Billy's childhood. Mary sense it too. Josiah could tell by the way she gazed lovingly at her little boy. He eyes seemed to recall the tiny baby she had clutched to her breast. She no doubt wondered where the time had gone.
'Funny thing about children,' Josiah thought. Each morning, they awoke looking exactly as they did the day before. But somewhere along the way, the infant becomes the toddler, the toddler the child, the child the youth. Until one day, not too many years hence, Mary Travis would find herself looking into the eyes of the man who was her son.
Tradition holds that seven was the age of reasoning, the age at which a human being was expected to have mastered the difference between right and wrong. Although both concepts, he had learned, varied with time, person – and circumstance . . . .
FAITH
Josiah dragged his feet as he slowly made his way through the crowded city street to St. Joseph's Catholic School for Boys. His hear was as gray and overcast as the San Francisco morning. He was going to Hell. He always knew it – would have known even if his father hadn't told him.
The sun burned his eyes. God's punishment – that was what it was. He tried to blink back the stinging tears, but they overflowed anyway and he wiped them angrily on his shirtsleeve. Then he sucked in a painful breath when his left thumb brushed his cheek. The pain was enough to make him cry, because his father had assured him that it was only a small insignificant misery compared to the torments of Hell.
Hell was the only reason he didn't want to die.
He went to the chapel where the other boys would soon gather for morning mass. He was early, but he thought maybe if he asked God. . . .
What right did he have to ask God for anything? He was a sinner. Miserable, worthless, and damned.
The rears began to come faster than he could brush them away, so he quit trying.
"Josiah?"
The little boy froze. He knew that voice. Father Spellman. Josiah was scared, but he knew better than to pretend he didn't hear. He stood, turned, and bowed his head respectfully. "Good morning, Father," he sniffed.
A large, soft hand reached out and lifted his chin upwards. Josiah's red-rimmed blue eyes traveled up the length of the black cassock to the stern face.
"Why are you crying?"
Josiah felt his gut go cold with fear, but to lie to a priest had to be a Really Terrible Sin, so he told the truth. "My. . . my catechism . . . I didn't . . . I couldn't . . . . " He started to cry harder. He couldn't help it. He was tired and stupid, his thumb hurt and he was going to Hell.
Father Spellman took his left hand. Josiah cried out in pain and quickly pulled it back.
The priest bent down so that he was at eye-level with the boy. "Josiah, what's wrong? Let me see your hand. . . ."
Obediently, Josiah held out his hand for the priest to see the small sewing pin wedged under the thumbnail.
"Oh, my. . .," Father Spellman said. Without giving him any warning, he quickly pulled the object out.
Josiah let out a yelp, but felt immediate relief from the gnawing pain the pin had caused.
"Feel better?" Father Spellman asked?
Josiah nodded.
"Now, I am betting that a certain little boy was playing in his mother's sewing box where he wasn't suppose to be," the priest smiled.
Josiah quickly shook his head. "Oh no, Father . . . I . . . ." The boy hung his head, too ashamed to continue.
Father Spellman was a short, portly man, and Josiah was tall for his age. He was only seven and was taller than most of the nine year olds at the school – but even so, the priest lifted him easily, then took a seat in one of the pews.
"Tell me what is troubling you, Josiah, and remember, it's a sin to lie."
'What did one more sin matter?' Josiah thought. He was going to Hell anyway.
Still, he told the truth. The catechism lesson for that weeks was to learn the Act of Contrition. You had to know it before you could go to Confession. If you didn't go to Confession, your sins stayed on your soul and you would go to Hell. Everyone knew that.
It was a long prayer, and a hard one, not easy like the Hail Mary. It was also full of words Josiah didn't understand. He'd tried to memorize it, but when his father had quizzed him, he'd forgotten everything.
Four hours and hours, his father had stood over, making him read, then recite. Every time Josiah would get it wrong, they'd have to start all over again. Long into the night they had worked, until Josiah's eyes started to close all by themselves. He wanted to stay awake. . . want to learn the prayer. . . but he was a stupid, worthless sinner and he couldn't.
"So, then my father stuck a pin in my finger, he said that didn't hurt anything like the pain of Hell. And that I'd better get use to it because that's where I'm going."
Josiah wasn't crying now. He just hung his head in shame.
Father Spellman was quiet for a long, long time. Josiah would have thought that the priest was as disgusted with him as his father was, except that the strong arms that held him in a close embrace somehow felt safe.
"Josiah? Let me tell you two secrets that your father doesn't know."
Josiah looked up at the priest, whose face was as stern as ever, and still scared him a little.
"The first secret is that father don't know everything, and sometimes they can be wrong. Now, that doesn't mean you shouldn't respect them. What does the Fourth Commandment say?" he prodded.
"Honor thy father and thy mother," Josiah replied quickly.
Father Spellman smiled, then continued. "The second secret is this: little boys don't to to Hell, Josiah. Not because they didn't learn the catechism, not for any reason."
"But if I don't know the prayer. . . ."
"If you don't know it now, you will learn it some other time. It is enough that you want to learn it. God is forever, Josiah, He will wait for you. Do you understand?"
Josiah wasn't sure he did, but he nodded 'yes' anyway.
Father Spellman then stood, repositioned Josiah so that he was stretched out on the pew. He tucked a hymnal under Josiah's head for a pillow. Josiah felt kind of funny, but he hadn't slept all night. Not one wink.
"You have a little rest, then go to your classes when you wake up."
Josiah nodded, almost asleep. . . .
The man smiled. Father Spellman had done more than take a pin from a little boy's finger. He'd removed a nail from his soul.
God was probably still waiting for Josiah Sanchez to see the light and Josiah would never stop looking for it.
Nathan watched as JD set up the piñata so that Billy would get a good, solid whack at it. He supposed it was some unwritten rule that the guest of honor should get to be the one to break it. That was part of the fun.
His childhood as a slave hadn't left him with a lot of happy memories. The year he was seven – Billy's age – had been one of the worst of his life. He had been sold to a plantation in Alabama, along with his father and his three sisters. And every night he had prayed that somehow, some way, Mama would get too, so she could be with them. He had missed her so much, even though now, he couldn't picture her face in his mind, no matter how hard he tried. He remembered how soft her touch was, even though her hands were calloused and rough from slave's work. But was she pretty? Homely? Thin? Plump? He couldn't remember. It would seem that his fading memories would have made the pain of losing her easier as time went on. But somehow the fact that he was left with nothing of her. . . no picture, no lock of hair, not even the memory of her face. . . had left an ache in his heart that had never gone away.
He watched the Potter children, whose father had been murdered in cold whose father had just two years before. No doubt they still grieved for his loss, but like Billy, who had seen his own father gunned down before his eyes, they had already learned to laugh and smile again. Billy was proof of what a remarkably resilient being a 7-year-old could be. So as bad as that year had been for him, Nathan also recalled it as a time of wonder and great discoveries which gave the promise of hope even to a little slave boy...
"W"
It was one of those hot July days when even the bugs stayed in the shade. The only folks out and about were them that were too danged dumb to keep out of the heat, like Master Jackson, and those who had no choice, like Nathan and his father who had accompanied the old man on his weekly trip into Wetumpka. It was a long stretch of dusty road between the plantation and the town, but Nathan knew they were near their destination when they past the black-and-white sign that his daddy had told him said "Wetumpka."
His daddy didn't know how to read, so Nathan figured he was only guessing what the sign said. But, it had a word on it, the town was Wetumpka, so it was a good guess.
They pulled the wagon up to Wildon's Mercantile. Nathan's daddy would load up the supplies while Master Jackson talked with the owner of the store. Nathan was expected to stand nearby to run whatever errands Master Jackson wanted done.
"Come on up to the porch and set a spell," old man Wildon told Master Jackson. "Sure is a hot one."
Master Jackson agreed, taking off his hat and mopping his brow as he shoved Nathan aside to get to the shady porch.
"Fetch me a cool drink, boy," he said to Nathan.
Nathan's body, conditioned by a deftly applied switch, responded before his brain did. He was already moving to do Master Jackson's bidding before he knew where he was going. This made the Master and old man Wildon both laugh at the sudden look of confusion on the boy's face.
Old man Wildon pointed to a rickety bench just inside the door. "Water barrel's right there, boy, and mind you don't knock nuthin' over."
Nathan moved quickly, but was again thwarted by the sight of not one, but two barrels. He could hear the white men snickering. He couldn't read the words painted on the barrels, so didn't know which was which.
He had two choices. He could go back and ask old man Wildon which barrel had water, or, he could sample the contents, which might get him beat. As he was thinking it over, he heard Master Jackson say, "Now, Wil, ya know my niggers don't know whiskey from water from piss. Ya gotta show 'em everything."
Wildon laughed. "C'mere boy," he said.
His face burning with shame, Nathan complied.
"Now, one o' them barrels is water. The other one is whiskey. How 'bout you take a big taste o' the one you think is water."
Nathan was baffled. "But, massah, I don't know which one."
Wildon smiled genially. "I'll tell you what. . . you pick one. But whichever you pick, you gotta drink a big ol' swallow o' whatever's in it."
Nathan didn't like this stupid white man's game. He knew he was being made the fool. But he pointed with confidence at one of the barrels. "That one."
Wildon didn't offer him a tin, but had him cup his hands under the spigot.
Even before it touched his lips, Nathan knew it was whiskey and not water by its familiar odor. It didn't smell bad, but when he gulped it down, he immediately felt an unpleasant burning in his nose and throat. He wanted to spit it out, but he knew that was what Wildon wanted him to do.
His eyes watered while Wildon and Master Jackson laughed. Nathan looked to his father, who wasn't laughing, but knew he couldn't do anything. Wordlessly, he fetched the tin beside the barrels and filled it from the one he hadn't drank from. . . wishing it was piss instead of water.
And as the murkish liquid filled the tin cup, Nathan noticed something. The first letter in the words were the same. That they both had the same pointy letter that looked like two arrowheads pointing down. "'Whiskey' . . . 'water' . . . ." And he remembered he'd seen that same pointy letter somewhere else. . . the sign that said, "Wetumpka."
Whiskey . . . water . . .. Wetumpka. . . .
His eyes moved to the sign on the store window. "Wildon's" was the name of the store.
Yep. There it was. That same soft whistly sound, and that same pointy letter.
"BOY! Watch what you're doing!!"
Nathan jumped as the water overflowed the tin. He almost dropped it.
"Sorry, massah Wildon," he said humbly, then handed the tin to Master Jackson, who shoved him aside.
"Go set yerself somewhere out of the way," Master Jackson told him. "And mind you don't make any trouble."
Nathan sat down in a corner of the porch. Whiskey, water, Wetumpka, Wildon. . . . he found a rusted nail and an old wooden shingle. Then, trying not to attract attention, began to copy the markings on the barrels and the store window. Whiskey. Water. Wildon's Mercantile . . . Wat-ER . . . mER-can-tile. E-R . . . 'er'. . . and there was that "t" sound in both mercantile and water. His eyes looked to see what letters those words had in common. T? The one that looked like the Cross of Jesus? "Wetumpka" had that sound in it, too. He'd have to look at the sign on the way out of town to see if it had a cross in it too. He was sure it did.
His heart was racing with excitement. He wanted to jump up and shout his discovery.
But he knew the white folk wouldn't like it, and his daddy wouldn't like it what the white folk didn't like.
So he kept silent that July afternoon, keeping his smile to himself as they rode out of town. He used his nail and shingle to copy down each letter on the familiar Wetumpka sign.
The cross was there, just like he thought it would be . . . and there was "w-A-ter", and "Wetumpk-A-". Another pointy letter with a bar in it. Ahh. . . .
All the letters made their own sound. They made their own sound!!! That is how you knew how to say what was written down!
Nathan smiled, but decided that for now, he would keep his wonderful secret to himself.
The piñata exploded as Billy gave it a good, solid crack with his stick, scattering candy and gumdrops that were scooped up by eager little hands. Buck Wilmington wasn't watching the children grab the treats, though. He was looking across the dusty street, at a dirty little girl in an equally dirty dress. She was watching the festivities with big, sad eyes, but not daring to come any closer.
Buck had seen her around, but didn't know who she was. She looked about Billy's age, but one look at her was enough to know why she hadn't been invited to the party. Mary was careful who Billy played with, and it was clear the little girl did not come from the type of people Mary wanted Billy to know. . . .
WORKING GIRL
"My mommy said you're a 'bastard'," Geneva Noles was telling him.
Buck didn't know what that word meant. "So?"
"So, it means you're dirty."
"I am not!" While it was true that he didn't much like taking a bath, his ma made him do it anyway. She had just about scrubbed his face off before sending him to Benji Cutler's birthday party. "What do you know, anyway?" He moved passed her and went to join the other children who were starting a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. Buck loved that game.
He set the present he'd brought for Benji on the table beside the cake. It was a big blue and white marble . . . a shooter. It had cost him 2 whole cents.
As he gave the cake a hungry glance, he noticed Benji's ma talking to someone other mas. One of them was Daisy Beckman's mama. Daisy's family was the richest one in town because her pa owned all the money in the bank. Everyone knew that, even though Daisy never said nothing about it. One of the mothers pointed at him. Buck smiled at Benji's ma, but he didn't like the way some of the women were looking at him. He knew something bad was going to happen from the look on her face when Benji's ma started walking towards him.
"Howdy, Mrs. Cutler," he said anyway.
She bent down and put her hands on her knees. "Honey, I'm sorry, but there was a mistake. This party is only for invited guests."
Buck frowned. "But I'm in Benji's class at school. Mrs. Gordon said the whole class was invited." He quickly scanned the guests. Yep, just about Mrs. Gordon's whole class was there.
"Well, you are just a little old for some of these children."
"But, I'm seven, just like Benji," Buck explained, and then pulled himself up to his full height. He was the biggest boy in his class. "I'm just tall fer my age," he said proudly.
Mrs. Cutler sighed. "Buck... try to understand, son. Some of the parents think it would be better if you didn't play with their children."
"Huh? Why?"
"Because you're a bastard," Geneva Noles piped up. She sure seemed to like saying that word. "And because your ma is a whore."
"GENEVA!" Mrs. Cutler snapped. "You mind your tongue or I'll tell your mother to take some soap to that mouth of yours!"
Now, Buck thought she was mad at Geneva, but she turned to him and said "Go home, Buck. You don't belong here."
Buck was about to protest the fact that Geneva was not being asked to leave, but Mrs. Cutler grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around, and shoved him. Not hard enough to make him fall or anything, but enough so that he got the message.
Buck didn't know what he had done wrong, and he suddenly felt like he had sand in his eyes or something. He wanted to just run on home, but instead he turned back to Mrs. Cutler. "But what did I do wrong?" he asked, and couldn't keep his bottom lip from shaking.
"Ask your mother to explain it to you, son," Mrs. Cutler said.
Buck just stood there while, one by one, children were moved away from him like he had cootie bugs crawling on him or something. They didn't even look at him, except for Daisy's ma, and he couldn't tell what she was thinking. She was a pretty lady, with nice eyes that didn't look mad at him.
Angrily, he grabbed the gift he'd brought and then raced down the street to the big red building near the outskirts of town. He had to run all the way around it. Clara Jean, who was the boss of everyone, had told him never, ever to come in the front door. He'd done it once, and she'd taken a switch to his bottom.
He went in through the kitchen door and took a seat at the table. He was supposed to wait there until Clara Jean told him it was okay to go talk to his ma. He felt hot tears running down his face, and luckily, he didn't have to wait long.
Orlie, the cook, went and told his ma he was there. She came in and scooped him up in her arms like she always did when he was sad or sick or tired. She sat him on her lap, even though he was getting so big that his feet almost touched the floor when she did that.
He told her what had happened. "What's a bastard?" he asked her, sniffling.
She hugged him tighter but didn't answer him.
"Geneva Noles said you was a . . . a . . . I don't remember the word."
She ran her fingers through his hair. "Bucky, you are going to hear a lot of people call your mama a lot of names. Some of them won't be so nice, but it don't hurt me none to be called those things, so I don't want it to bother you, either, you hear me? When someone says 'your mama is this', or 'your mama is that', you hold your head up. You look 'em in the eye, and you say 'Yes, she is.'"
"But ma . . . ."
"No buts, Bucky. . . think about it. They are saying those things to make you angry . . . to make you fight. If you don't do either, well, it kinda takes all the fun out of it for 'em."
They sat quietly for awhile, as she held him, rocking him gently. Buck loved that, and he didn't care if he was getting too big for it. But after a few minutes he had to ask, "Ma . . . do they call you those names because you . . . work?"
He didn't know what his ma's work was about, but, he did know that nobody else's ma was a 'working girl' so maybe that wasn't a good thing to be.
"I 'spose they do, Bucky."
"Lord'a' mercy . . . would you look at this!" Orlie interrupted from the other side of the kitchen. "C'mere Francie, you gotta see this," she said.
Buck and his ma looked at each other and decided they should go see what Orlie was gawking at. Together, they peeked into the parlor where they could see someone standing at the front door.
"That's Daisy Beckman's ma!" Buck said when he recognized the woman.
"What do you suppose she wants?" Buck's ma asked.
"Probably looking for her man," Orlie laughed.
"You hush, Orlie! You're talkin' about decent folk. Her husband ain't never set foot in this place and you know it!"
"Well, what's she want then?"
Clara Jean was walking towards them, with that big scowl on her face she always had. Buck thought if Clara Jean ever smiled, her face would crack.
"She wants to see the boy," Clara Jean told Buck's ma, and pointed at him.
Francie pulled him close. "Why?"
"Ask her yerself, doll. I ain't got the time for nonsense."
Buck's mother walked with him to the door. Mrs. Beckman extended her hand. "Mrs. . . . Wilmington?" she said.
Buck hadn't ever heard his ma called that, and he figured it must be wrong because his ma said, "It's just Francie, ma'am," as she took Mrs. Beckman's hand.
"My daughter and I would like to invite Master Buck over for afternoon tea."
"I don't like tea," Buck said, and was quickly corrected by a stern nudge from his mother.
Mrs. Beckman just laughed. "How about lemonade and cookies then?" she asked him.
"Mrs. Beckman. . . ," his ma began. "Are you sure. . . I mean, people will talk. . ."
"Miss Francie, my husband, as you know, owns more than half of this town. I assure you that whatever anyone might have to say will be of little consequence."
"I got a big swing and a hobby horse!" a little voice piped up. It was Daisy. "You can play with them if you want."
"What about Benji's birthday party?" Buck asked.
"I don't like Benji. His hair smells like bacon," Daisy made a face.
Buck was glad his ma liked to put rose water in his hair, even if it did smell kind of sissy. "Can I go, ma?" he asked.
His ma looked down at him and stroked his hair, but she spoke to Mrs. Beckman, "Thank you," she said.
Mrs. Beckman smiled and nodded. Later, Buck's mom would tell him she was a true lady. It would be years before he understood what that meant, but eventually, he knew.
He was shaken from his reverie when he noticed Mrs. Travis had crossed the street. He held his breath as she approached the ragged little girl with the sad eyes. Only letting it out when he saw the elegant and graceful woman reach out and take a grubby little hand in her own, leading the child to the others.
Yup. A true lady.
Ezra had watched as tow-headed Willie Lahr gather up the piñata candy hand-over-fist. He was about 12, older than the other children, so it hardly seemed fair when he managed to grab more than anyone else. Once the kids finished grabbing the candy, however, the boy began to carefully mete out his share to some of the smaller children.
Sometimes, Ezra reflected, being the best wasn't the best to be. . . .
HOW YOU PLAY THE GAME
"Pugnacious. . . p-u-g-n-a-c-i-o-u-s."
Ezra's opponent spelled out the word and Ezra waited for his turn. It was just the two of them, again.
Ezra stared at the competition in abject annoyance. Chester Hoyt was a Negro, and this was the only school he ever went to that let a Negro go to school with white folks. The very idea was absurd. His Uncle Percival had said so.
Chester thought he was so smart, but Ezra was smarter than him. They were both in 4th grade, but Chester was nine and Ezra was only seven. He was supposed to be in 2nd grade, but he was too smart for all that baby stuff. So there.
The prize for winning the spell down was a shiny, gold spelling medal that hung from a blue velvet ribbon. It had a clasp on it so the winner could wear it on his lapel and everyone would know he was the best speller in 4th grade. Ezra wanted it, and he was going to have it.
Mr. Beauchamp, the headmaster, looked at him and give him the next word – "perspicacity".
Ezra clenched his fists in anger. The spell-down was two rounds out of three. So far, he had won a round, and so had Chester. If Chester could spell "perspicacity" and the next word, he'd win. It wasn't fair!
"P-e-r-s-p-i-c-i-t-y," Chester rattled off the letters.
Ezra hated him. Who did he think he was?
"That's correct," Mr. Beauchamp said. He looked through the speller for the next word.
'Make it a real hard one,' Ezra thought.
"Hmmmmm. Let's see . . . ah . . . here's one . . . 'pulchritude'."
Ezra looked on with satisfaction as Chester's face fell. Although, truth be told, Ezra had no idea how to spell that word either.
Chester hesitated a long, long time, like maybe he was going to give up. Then, the unthinkable happened . . . .
"P-u-l-c-h-r-i-t-u-d-e." Chester was not so confident this time, but Ezra knew immediately from the look on Mr. Beauchamp's face that he'd gotten it right. Mr. Beauchamp wasn't pleased. He didn't like Chester, either.
Mr. Beauchamp peered over his glasses at Chester. "How did you know that word?" he asked him, his voice stern.
"It's in the Bible, sir," Chester replied. "I can spell most words that are in the Bible."
"Indeed," Mr. Beauchamp said, tapping his pencil against his knee. "Well, I think since you boys are both so good, we ought to make it more of a contest. Instead of two out of three, it will be the best of five."
The rest of the class groaned, because they would all be forced to participate in the next two rounds.
Ezra knew that -they- knew that only Chester had prayer of beating him.
Sure enough, two rounds later, it was Chester and Ezra -- again. Ezra had won round four, so they were tied two to two.
Ezra's word was 'reticent' and he stomped his foot on the floor when Mr. Beauchamp told him he'd spelled it wrong.
"That will do, Master Standish," Mr. Beauchamp scolded him.
But, if Chester got it right, and then spelled the next word . . . .
"R-e-t-i-c-e-n-t," Chester spelled the word easily.
Mr. Beauchamp looked over his glasses again, but didn't say anything. He looked through the speller until he found a new word.
Smiling, he said, "Rhythm."
Ezra had no idea how to spell that, but the letters just rolled right out of Chester's mouth, "R-h-y-t-h-m."
Mr. Beauchamp slammed the speller closed. Ezra thought he was going to declare Chester the winner, but instead he said, "My, my, this has been so exciting, I think we might have to continue tomorrow."
Chester looked confused. Ezra was confused. But if Mr. Beauchamp wasn't declaring a winner, then he still had a chance. . . .
And so the spelldown continued onto the next day. Mysteriously, Mr. Beauchamp kept changing the rules, so the contest was still going on the next afternoon. Even though by that time, Chester had won ten rounds and Ezra had won only four. Then, mystifyingly, Mr. Beauchamp declared all previous rounds be scratched, and decided that whoever won round fifteen would get the spelling medal.
Ezra had already begun to accept the annoying possibility that Chester was a better speller than he was, but now Mr. Beauchamp was saying all the other rounds didn't count. Ezra only had to win this one and the spelling medal would be his. Something about that didn't seem quite right, but . . . Mr. Beauchamp was a teacher, so he should know how to pick the best speller.
The round went as all the others had, with everyone in the class being eliminated except for Ezra and Chester.
Mr. Beauchamp gave Chester his word, 'idylls.'
Ezra's heart began to pound in his chest. He knew that word. His Uncle Percival had a book called "Idylls of the King."
"I-d-o-l-s?" Chester spelled it like it was a question.
"That is incorrect," Mr. Beauchamp said, then nodded at Ezra.
Ezra spelled the word easily, and waited for nervously for the next one. He knew it would probably be really hard. . . .
"Paper."
Ezra looked at Mr. Beauchamp, confused. Surely that wasn't his word.
"That's not fair!" Chester protested, and got a ruler across his knuckles for his trouble.
The blow even made Ezra wince. Uncertain what Mr. Beauchamp was up to, he hesitantly spelled out, "P-a-p-e-r."
Mr. Beauchamp rose to his feet and shook Ezra's hand. "Congratulations, Master Standish," he smiled and then pinned the medal to Ezra's lapel. Then he lead the class in a round of applause for the Champion Speller.
Ezra wanted that medal, and he beamed with pride. Chester returned to his desk at the back of the class with tears in his eyes. Ezra didn't care. He was the best. He had the medal to prove it.
So why didn't it feel good?
Though he was ashamed to admit it, a dozen years would pass before Ezra would understand what had really happened that day between two small boys with intelligence well beyond their years. And a teacher who could only see fit to acknowledge those gifts in one of them.
After a short time, the medal had tarnished and revealed itself to be brass, not gold. He'd never worn it, although he still had it. A reminder not of the five rounds he'd won in that spell down, but of the ten he had lost. A reminder that sometimes - no matter what his mother said - winning wasn't everything.
After the booty from the piñata had been gathered up by gleeful little hands, Mary collected the children together for lemonade and cake. JD volunteered to take down the remains of the ruptured piñata, but the rope holding it got hung up in the branches of the tree, and he couldn't reach it. He jumped up two or three times, but still couldn't get it.
"You're short," Ethan Potter was quick to observe.
JD laughed. "Yep, reckon I am... but you're shorter."
"I'm just a kid. You're a grown up."
JD laughed again, taking another stab at the jammed rope. "'Bout time someone noticed." He felt someone tugging at his pants leg and looked down into a pair of big brown eyes in a little brown face.
"Senor JD, if you put me on your shoulders, I can reach it."
JD smiled. Elias Romero was Billy's age, but he was a tiny little thing, a whole head shorter than the Travis boy. JD lifted him easily, and his small hands deftly untangled the rope.
"I coulda done that," Ethan said.
"Prob'ly," JD said, "but we've done just fine." He ruffled Elias's black hair and the boy beamed at him before returning to the others.
Sometimes, "little" wasn't so bad. . . .
THE MEASURE OF A MAN
Mrs. Ellsworth's screech of terror had brought the entire household running. JD had been in the carriage house several yards from the main residence when he'd heard it. He knew something awful had to have happened, because Mrs. Ellsworth was the lady of the house, and she never screamed like that. She didn't even yell at the servants the way her husband did.
When JD came running up and saw what all the commotion was about, it took his breath away. The adults around him were shouting orders and scurrying about in confusion, but all he could do was stand there and wonder how the dickens little Master Alexander had ended up where he was.
Alexander was the Ellsworths' youngest child and their only boy, so that made him special. Or so said his ma. He was the 'hair of the fortune family' or something like that. He was just a little baby, not even big enough to walk or talk yet. JD thought he was cute, but he wasn't supposed to talk to him or touch him, ever. Mrs. Ellsworth had told all the servant kids so.
As JD listened to the grown-ups' panicked conversation, he was able to figure out that Alexander was supposed to be taking a nap, but instead he had climbed out of his crib and crawled out the window.
JD could barely see him. The baby was three stories up and sitting on a little wooden ledge that held a flower box in the summer. He was just sitting there, waving at everyone below him, while his nanny tried to reach him from the window.
Several of the servants had found a tarp in the carriage house and were trying to position it. So if Alexander fell, he'd fall into it instead of hitting the ground, but even JD could see that wasn't going to work. Alexander was right over the entrance to the house. If he fell, he'd hit the angled roof over the foyer and he would probably die.
The ledge he was on would never support the weight of an adult, or even a large child, but JD wasn't very big. The other stable boys pointed that out every chance they got. He was seven, and the Ellsworths' daughter, Patricia, who was only four, was bigger than he was. The ledge wouldn't break with him on it.
JD ran over to Mrs. Ellsworth. She looked like a marble statue she was so white. Mr. Ellsworth was with her, and he was screaming that someone was going to pay. He scared JD, so he patted Mrs. Ellsworth's elbow gently to get her attention.
She looked down at him. "NOT NOW, you little. . . ." She didn't finish, she just pushed JD aside and knocked him down, which caught Mr. Ellsworth's attention. He looked down at JD and raised his hand like he was going to hit him.
JD put up his arm to ward off the blow, and quickly said, "I can get him down!"
"JD! NO!" His mama came running over and picked him up off the ground. "Please, sir, he didn't mean anything by it. . . ." She curtsied before her employer.
JD didn't think Mr. Ellsworth even heard her. He grabbed JD from her arms and ran into the house with him while his mama screamed and started to cry. JD wished he could tell her it would be okay, but before he knew it, Mr. Ellsworth was running up the stairs with him.
He kept running until they were in the nursery, and then Mr. Ellsworth stopped by the window and set him down on the floor. Alexander's nanny looked at Mr. Ellsworth and then down at JD.
Her hands went to her mouth like she wanted to scream, too, but Mr. Ellsworth pushed her aside and leaned out the window. He carefully tested the ledge. Then, he yanked down the drapery cords and began to tie them together. As he worked, he spoke to JD. "Johnny . . . that's your name, isn't it?"
JD nodded.
"Johnny, listen to me very carefully. I'm going to help you out this window. I want you to crawl to Alex and tie this around him and make a knot. Do you know how to tie a knot?"
That was a dumb question! JD even knew how to tie his shoes! He wasn't a baby! But, he only nodded a 'yes'.
"Keep your eyes on Alex, Johnny. Don't look down, do you understand me?"
JD nodded, but Mr. Ellsworth shook him and said, "Do you?"
"Yes, sir!"
He handed JD the makeshift rope, then picked him up and put him out onto the ledge. The wood gave slightly under his weight, but JD wasn't afraid. He got down on his hands and knees and started crawling slowly towards Alexander.
The baby turned. When he saw JD, he squealed, giggling and clapping his fat, little hands together.
"Hi, baby," JD cooed. "Nice baby. Stay right there and wait for me. Nice baby. We're gonna play a game . . . see?" JD held up the scrap of drapery cord as he reader Alexander. "I'm gonna wrap this around. . . like this. . . ." He kept talking as his small fingers struggled to make a tight enough knot. "Now, you gotta come with me, okay?" JD crawled backwards hoping Alexander would follow him. But the baby just laughed and said a bunch of baby things that didn't make any sense.
JD knew hew as going to have to bring the baby back to with him. The only way to do that was to hold him with arm while he tried to crawl backwards. Carefully, he wrapped his left arm around Alexander and then caught a whiff of an unmistakable odor. Alexander's soggy diaper was full of poop! ICK!
JD had gotten poop on himself before, in the stables, so he supposed it wasn't really that different. He pulled Alexander close, poopy diaper and all. Then slowly edged his way back tot the window. The dumb baby wanted to stay where he was, though, and tried to wiggle out of his arms. So JD had to hold him real tight, which made Alexander mad.
The heir apparent was crying and red in the face by the time Mr. Ellsworth reached down to grabbed him out of JD's hands. He pulled the baby to his chest.
JD guessed he didn't know he was getting poop all over his fancy suit. He crawled back in through the window. Without waiting for Mr. Ellsworth to excuse him, he ran out of the room and back down the stairs to let his ma know his was okay. He didn't like it when she cried.
He passed Mrs. Ellsworth, who was on her way up, but they didn't say anything to each other. When he burst through the front door, he expected only his mama would still be there now that the excitement was over. To his surprise, all of the servants were still there. And then to his even greater surprise, they began to applaud and cheer as he ran to his mama.
She scooped him up into her arms to hug and kiss him, while everyone else patted him on the back and said stuff like, "Well done, Johnny boy!"
That evening, Mr. Ellsworth had come to the servants quarters. He had a fancy pink bedspread with dark pink and white roses on it. He gave it to JD's mama and told her that Mrs. Ellsworth wanted her to have it. For JD, he had a checkerboard, a bag of marbles, and a whole dollar. JD's mama said he didn't need to be paid for what he had done, but JD was glad when Mr. Ellsworth insisted they keep the gifts. He also told JD that from then on he was Alexander's special protector and he expected JD to watch out for him . . . .
JD stood back watching Billy and his friends. He absently patted the letter in his vest pocket. It was from Alexander, who was now fourteen. He smiled. It was always good to be someone's hero.
As Billy began to open his gifts, the children jostled to be the one closest to him. Which, of course, led to the inevitable pushing contest between two of them, although, Chris noted, only one of them did the pushing. The other little girl, about eight years old, allowed herself to be pushed aside as if somehow she didn't deserve a closer spot.
The girl who had pushed her stuck out her tongue and taunted, "Frog face!"
The other children laughed and several repeated the taunt. The sad thing was that the target of their abuse was a painfully unattractive little girl. She had large, disproportioned features and misaligned front teeth that looked too big for her mouth.
Mary hadn't noticed what was going on, so Chris took a couple of steps forward. That was all it took to get the children's attention. He glared at the group, who instantly went silent. "That's enough," was all he had to say. . . . ROSALIE
Chris never could understand why kids like to stare at Rosalie. Her face scared him. The way her nose was all flat, her top lip was in two parts, and her teeth just kind of went every which way instead of being in a straight row. He wondered if you could just wake up some morning and look like that. He'd asked his mother, but she'd told him Rosalie was born that way. That it was a "curse from God". After that, Chris wondered what little kids did to get cursed by God. Didn't seem right.
Besides the fact that he didn't like looking at her, Chris didn't think Rosalie liked being looked at. At least not like she was some kind of crawling thing you found when you picked up an old and looked under it. He wondered how it must feel to look like that, especially since Rosalie wasn't stupid. She was one of the smartest girls in school, in fact. So she has to know it when people stared, pointing and laughing or making faces at her. Even if she pretended she didn't notice.
She couldn't pretend now. Four boys had made a circle around her and were taunting her, calling her "hatchet face." Chris supposed the name kind of fit, because that was almost how her face looked, like some had hit her with a hatchet. But it was still mean. Especially since Rosalie just stood there crying and couldn't get away.
Chris sized her tormentors up. They were all older than he was, but not too much bigger. One of them, Jeremy Poole, was the one who was telling the others to do it. They others were so stupid that they did whatever Jeremy said. Which was why there were Jeremy's friends.
Chris walked up to him. "Leave her along," he said to Jeremy, not sure what he'd do if Jeremy refused, which he most certainly would.
Jeremy pushed, him, hard enough that he fell backwards on his butt, hitting his tailbone on a sharp rock. The other boys laughed and began to hoot, cheering Jeremy on. But Chris didn't take his eyes off him, not once. He started straight at him, holding his gaze as he slowly reached behind his back and picked up the rock he's fallen on. He stood up slowly, still staring at Rosalie's tormentors, who were not chanting some stupid rhyme about him and Rosalie getting married.
He pulled himself to his full height. "I said, 'shut up'," he told Jeremy. He wasn't afraid of him, not now that he could feel the weight of the rock in his hand.
"Make me," Jeremy said, sticking out his tongue.
Chris brought the rock around and bashed him in the mouth with it. Stunned, Jeremy staggered back as blood began to pout from his split lip.
"Now we can call you names," Chris taunted him."
Jeremy ran off wailing, in search of a teacher. When he found one, he immediately tattled just like Chris thought he would. Chris' heart was pounding as Miss Ruggles approached him with a switch in her hand. She ordered them both into the schoolhouse. She let Jeremy go on his own, but she grabbed Chris by the ear and dragged him. It hurt, but he didn't make a sound. He wasn't a crybaby like Jeremy.
Inside, she gave Jeremy a rag for his bloody lip, then asked Chris why he had hit him with the rock. Chris told her it was because he was making fun of Rosalie.
Now, he didn't really expect any kind of reward for sticking up for Rosalie, but what Miss Ruggles said took him by surprise.
"Rosalie is not your business, Christopher. Besides, anyone who looks likes she does has to expect that people are going to make fun of her."
Chris looked up at her, trying to understand how a grown up could be so mean to a little girl. Or maybe Miss Ruggles was just as stupid as Jeremy.
"That don't make it right," he said.
"You owe Jeremy an apology. Now, I want you to shake his hand and. . . ."
"No."
"What did you say?"
Chris was too scared to look her in the eye. He wished he wasn't. "I ain't apologizing to him. He deserved it."
Miss Ruggles grabbed his chin and made him look at her. Her fingers dug into his cheeks, pressing the insides of them against his back teeth. She was hurting him, but he wasn't going to let her know that.
"You will apologize, Christopher Larabee, or you're going to get a beating."
Chris jerked his head free. "No."
Miss Ruggles grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him forward. Before the shock of that even could register, she bent him over a desk and delivered five sharp, stinging blows to his backside. Chris felt his eyes water and blinked back the tears.
"Tell him you're sorry!" Miss Ruggles commanded.
"No."
She hit him five more times, then repeated her demand.
Chris wasn't sure he could stand being hit again – his butt felt like someone had cut across it with a hot knife. But when he looked up at Jeremy and saw the satisfied smirk on his face, ti gave him new courage.
"No."
Miss Ruggles hit him again. Ten strokes this time. On the last one, his knees buckled. He had to bite his lip so that he wouldn't cry out.
"Are you ready to apologize now?" she asked him.
Chris had to take a deep breath so he could talk, but he hated Jeremy now and he hated Miss Ruggles, too.
"Go to hell."
For one brief instant, he enjoyed the satisfaction of watching Miss Ruggles' eyes just about pop from their sockets, she got so mad. But the next moment, she was taking the switch to him again. This time hitting his shoulder and back as well as his butt. She even caught the back of his head once. When he put his arms up to protect himself, she hit them too.
Chris felt his resolve crumble and the tears came freely, but when Miss Ruggles again commanded, "Apologize!"
His voice sobbed out, "No."
He was on the floor now, curled up in a ball to give her less of him to hit. He was bawling like a baby, but still she kept hitting him.
"What on God's earth are you doing?!" a voice shouted through the confusion. It was Mr. Peake, who taught the big kids.
He snatched the switch from Miss Ruggles' hand. Still furious, she explained why Chris was being punished.
Mr. Peak took the switch and broke it in half. "Discipline is one thing, dear lady. Beating a child half to death is another and I will not stand by and allow it."
"Well, I never!"
"Maybe that's your problem," Mr. Peake said.
Chris wasn't sure why Miss Ruggles slapped Mr. Peake for that, but the look on her face would have made Chris laugh if he wasn't hurting so much.
Mr. Peake helped him up off the floor. Chris tried to stand up straight, but it hurt too much.
"Suppose you tell me what the problem is, Master Larabee."
Chris managed to choke out his explanation, concluding with a defiant, " And I ain't apologizing' because I ain't sorry!"
He waited for Mr. Peake to hit him too, but instead, he said, "One should never apologize for defending the honor of a lady. As for you. . . ." he looked sternly at Jeremy. "I would say a taste of your own medicine is no less than you had coming."
He turned Chris around and pulled up his shirt. "I suggest you go home and have your mother put some balm on those welts. No more school for you today."
Chris wiped his eyes, and glared at Jeremy until the other boy looked away. Mr. Peake took his hand and together they walked out of the schoolhouse. Chris was limping, so Mr. Peake had to take small steps so he could keep up.
Recess was over and the other kids were filing back inside. They all stared at him. They knew he'd gotten a beating and they want to see the marks. Rosalie watched him too. Chris wasn't sure what was different about the way she looked at him, but somehow, it made him really glad he hadn't apologized to Jeremy Poole.
When they got to the door, Mr. Peake looked down at him. "Christopher, I don't wan you to think that I condone the fact that you hit Jeremy with the rock. . . that was wrong."
Chris hung his head. He supposed that was true.
"But you know what, Christopher? Sometimes, a man just had to do something that's not quite right to fix something that's even more wrong."
Then, he reached out and shook Chris' hand. Not like a man and a little boy, but like they were both men. Despite his pain-wracked body, Chris stood tall as he walked away.
After the cake and lemonade and the opening of the gifts, the party had pretty much turned into an informal playtime for the children. The space underneath the picnic table Mary had set up under the tree became a fort and the kids divided themselves into cavalry and Indians. Nothing was unusual about that until Laurie Ann Kingman declared herself a general.
"You can't be a general," Billy explained with annoyance. "You're a girl. Girls can't even be in the army."
"This is pretend," Laurie Ann explained patiently. "We can pretend whatever we want and I'll be the general if I want."
"Well, if you're a general, then I"m a sergeant. That's better than a general."
"It is not!" Laurie scoffed. "You are so stupid!"
"Let's not have any of that talk, Laurie," Mary reminded the young lady.
"Ma, tell her she can't be the general!"
"Laurie Ann is your guest, Billy. Let her be what she wants to be."
Vin watched the exchange, wondering if anyone had once told Mary she couldn't do some of the things she had done. . . run a newspaper, raise a child alone. She was a remarkable woman, and maybe, like Laurie Ann, had once had an imagination that would take her places life would never let her go.
Vin couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the little general though. He knew what it was to be seven years old and wanting to be something you never would be. . . . SKY-IN-HIS-EYES Ebibitu. . . that was what color the sky was. He tried to remember the other word, the one he had known a long time ago. . . .
Blue . . . . that was it.
He sat on a rock into which a hole had been carved to catch rain, he looked down into the puddle that had formed there. He saw the sky and his own face reflected in it. But when he tried to look at his eyes, his head blocked out the light and he couldn't tell what color they were. Corn Woman said they were the color of the sky, that was why she named him 'Sky-in-his-Eyes'.
Corn Woman was his mama now. His other mama had died a long time ago. He was alone and scared then, but Running Deer had brought him to Corn Woman because she'd had a little boy once, but he was dead like his mama.
He couldn't remember anymore how his first mama had looked, but he remembered her words to him after she told him to go with Running Deer. "You're a Tanner. Your name is Vin Tanner. Don't you forget that."
And he didn't forget. Not ever. Although he didn't really mind the name Corn Woman gave him. Corn Woman didn't look like his first ma, who was skinny and had long curly hair. Corn Woman was round, like a ball, and she had no front teeth.
Vin grinned at his own reflection. He didn't have any teeth in front either. They got loose and fell out. Corn Woman said he'd grow new, big ones. He wondered – if that was true, how come she had never grown any more? He shrugged. He still had lots of other teeth, so he supposed it didn't matter.
He looked at his hair, which caught the sunlight and was the color of cornsilk. Then he looked around at the other children of the tribe. None of them had hair that color. None of them had blue eyes.
None of them looked like him.
He didn't think you could paint your eyes. That would hurt. But he'd seen the braves paint the war ponies. They made black paint with bear grease and ashes from the fire. It turned the horses' hair black . . . .
He knew where Corn Woman kept the bear grease, and he knew where to find plenty of ashes, which he gathered into a deerskin. Then he went to find Red Cloud so they could go to the Hiding Place that only they knew about. Red Cloud was his best friend, and so Vin brought him along to help out.
They hadn't brought anything to mix the paint in, so Vin decided they could just pour the ashes into the bear grease. Red Cloud held the crock of grease while Vin poured the ashes into it. The fine, gray powder overfilled the bowl, and ran out into the dirt. A cloud of it enveloped both boys as they carefully began to work it into the bear grease.
Red Cloud didn't think the mixture was getting black enough, so he went to get charcoal while Vin scooped up some of the ash that had fallen onto the dirt. There was a little dirt and some dried leaves in it, but after they crumbled the charcoal into the mixture, it began to resemble paint.
Both boys realized if they were going to paint Vin's hair black, they needed something to spread the paint through his fine curls. Red Cloud's sister, Sings-With-Bells, was always combing and braiding her hair, even when it looked perfectly fine. She had a fancy brush and comb that her father had brought from a trading post. A mirror, too. Red Cloud ran to fetch them. Then they set to work.
The brush didn't work as well as the comb. It got clogged up with black bear grease, so they tossed it aside. The comb worked much better, and after spreading the paint all over his head and combing it through, Vin looked in the mirror. Not only was his hair now as black as Red Clouds, it was straight, too. Red Cloud was pleased with it. Vin was too, almost, except it felt kind of sticky, not like real hair. That would probably go away when the paint dried, Red Cloud theorized. Then suggested that they hasten the process by adding a little dust. That sounded good to Vin, until Red Cloud dropped a whole fistful of dirt on his head and some of it got in his eyes.
He pushed his friend away and tried to rub the dust out, but his hands were covered with ash and grease and it made his eyes sting. He was starting to think maybe this idea wasn't going to work when Sings-With-Bells snuck up on them.
She picked up her brush and mirror and snatched to comb from Vin's hand. She was as mad as a hornet and Red Cloud told her that her name should be "Screeches-Like-Old-Goose." He and Vin laughed at that joke until she pinched them both until they screamed. Then she ran off to show her mother what had happened to her brush and comb.
"Let's go get melons," Vin suggested, not really eager to be there should Sings-With-Bells return. Red Cloud readily agreed, and they climbed through a rocky crevasse to a sandy spot where some watermelons grew. Vin knew how to pick the good ones by the way they smelled, but Red Cloud just grabbed the first one he saw. They used their knives to cut them open and Vin laughed when Red Cloud's was green inside. Red Cloud pretended not to notice and took a bite. Vin laughed again when his friend made a face.
Red Cloud reached into the center of the melon and scooped out the runny seeds and threw them at him. They hit Vin in the chin and then dripped down his bare chest onto his leggings, leaving a wet spot between his legs so it looked like he made water in his pants.
Red Cloud pointed at the spot and it was his turn to laugh. Vin scooped the seeds out of his melon and retaliated, and the exchange continued until they were out of seeds.
Vin offered Red Cloud half of his fruit, which was ripe and sweet. They pretended the green melon was a buffalo, killing it with their knives.
They were sitting in the sun, and by the time they had finished off a second melon, Vin could feel something thick and warm running down his face and back. He wiped at his forehead with his arm, and it came away slick with black bear grease. The stuff started to get in his eyes again. As he rubbed it away, Red Cloud began to laugh some more and told him he looked like a raccoon.
That would have made Vin mad, but his eyes were really starting to burn. He couldn't even keep them open.
"Look at this crazy boy!" Vin heard Corn Woman, even though he couldn't see her. She sounded mad, but he was glad she was there. She'd know how to get that stuff out of his eyes.
He felt plump arms lift him from the ground as she continued to scold him, telling him she was an old woman but had never seen a boy as crazy as he was.
She carried him to the creek that ran past the settlement. She wet her long skirt with the cool water so she could wipe his face off. After a few times, he was able to open his eyes, but Corn Woman wasn't done with him.
She pulled his leggings off and made him sit naked in the cold water while she cut a yucca root. She made him lie back so she could wet his hair. Then she scrubbed at it with the root until it was covered with foam. She rinsed it out and repeated the process over and over again until Vin thought surely she had scraped all the hair off his head.
Finally, she appeared to be done, but to Vin's horror, she took a rag from her belt. She made some lather with the yucca root and then began washing him all over like he was a little baby!!
That would have been bad all by itself, but now that he could see again, he spotted not only Red Cloud, but several of his other friends who had gathered to watch the spectacle. Vin wanted to sink under the water and drown, but it wasn't deep enough.
Someone had washed a blanket and hung it over a tree limb to dry. So when Corn Woman had finished scrubbing him from head to toe, she wrapped him in it and carried him back their tent.
Running Deer looked at her as she set him down on more blankets. "That boy has good legs. He should walk," he told her.
Corn Woman didn't pay any attention to his remark and began to tell her husband what Vin had done as she dried his hair.
Running Deer didn't laugh, but Vin could tell he wanted to. So he hung his head, feeling really stupid.
"Think about this question, crazy boy," Running Deer said. "And when you have had time to think, I will ask you to tell me the answer. . . ."
Vin looked up.
"Which is better, the brown horse or the spotted horse?"
Vin frowned, but before he could speak, Running Deer silenced him with a finger to his lips. "You must think to know the answer."
So Vin thought. He thought the whole time Corn Woman was working the tangles out of his hair and arranging it in two neat braids on either side of his head. Where he lived before, only girls had pigtails like that, so at first he wouldn't let her do that with his hair. Now, though, he kind of liked it, because . . . well, he knew Corn Woman liked doing it.
She tied the ends of the braids with rawhide strips and then got him another pair of leggings – the ones with real arrowheads hanging from the waist. Those were his favorites.
Vin still thought about the horse question while he sat beside the cooking fire watching Corn Woman melt grease in a pot. She reminded him that it was lard from the trading post, not the good bear grease he had used to make paint, but she didn't sound really mad.
His mouth began to water in anticipation as he watched her prepare the other ingredients: corn meal, dried cherries, honey, and pecans. She put them all in a bowl, adding a little of the melted lard and some water to make dough. Then she mixed everything together and formed the dough into little balls that she dropped into the hot lard. They bobbed on the surface, turning a golden brown color. Vin could almost taste them. They were his favorite.
When the dough-balls were done, Corn Woman set them on a straw mat to cool. Vin wanted to grab one, but he'd tried that once and burned his fingers, so he waited patiently. He hoped Corn Woman had some sugar to sprinkle on them, but they were good even without sugar. While he waited for them to cool, he went back to thinking about the horse question.
Corn Woman did have sugar, she sprinkled them on the corn balls and then piled them in a wooden bowl which she handed to Vin. She waved her cooking spoon at him, indicating he was free to return to his friends.
Vin wasn't sure he wanted to. They were probably still laughing because he had been washed like a baby.
He discovered that Red Cloud's mother had made her son sit on a small mat by the cooking fire and told him he had to stay there until it was time to sleep. It was for taking Sings-With-Bells' hairbrush and comb. Since Red Cloud had done it to help him, Vin sat down with him and shared his food.
Sings-With-Bells was still mad. She reminded Vin of the demon buffalo Running Deer had told him about. The buffalo had fire for eyes and breathed smoke out of its nose.
He didn't give her any dough balls.
Later, when it was night and Vin was tucked between the soft old blankets and bear skin that were his bed, Running Deer asked if he had learned the answer to the question.
Vin had pondered it, and had some questions of his own.
"Is one horse bigger than the other?" he asked.
Running Deer took a puff on his pipe. "They are the same size."
"Is one stronger or faster?"
"They are the same, but one is brown and one is spotted."
"Then neither is better," Vin shrugged.
Running Deer nodded. "The spirit of the horse does not care what color horse it lives in. That is not what makes it a horse."
Vin frowned, but suddenly, he understood. It wasn't how he looked that made him the son of Running Deer and Corn Woman... it was the way he felt, inside where no one could see.
And besides, Corn Woman liked his blue eyes, and didn't care what color his hair was, so long as it didn't have bear grease in it.
His spirit was where it belonged.
As dusk fell, the party ended and parents arrived to retrieve their children. When the town's seven peacekeepers said their farewells, Billy gave each of them a stick of candy and thanked them for coming, just as Mary had prodded him to do with his other guests.
As they headed for the saloon, JD looked back at Billy and pulled the candy from his mouth long enough to ask, "Ever wish you were that age again?"
"Nope," came Nathan's quick reply.
"Never," Josiah agreed.
Chris only grunted.
"God forbid," Ezra intoned.
"Maybe ten years older. . . ." Buck winked and JD shoved him.
Vin just smiled and said, "I reckon a little bit o' that age stays with a man."
The others ponder this until Josiah summed up their thoughts for them.
"Amen to that."
The End
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