Chapter Ten

When Adam and Mike arrived at the Aha macave camp, most of the inhabitants were men. There were very few women and no children.

“Ask them where my mother is…Chacha wakavar,” said Mike, leaning into Adam.

“Where is Chacha wakavar?”

“She was sick and was taken to the reservation.”

When Mike heard this, she stepped in front of Adam, but he pulled her back, looking sternly at her. “Who took her there?” he asked.

“She was found and taken by the soldiers.”

Mike slumped, stepping away, and Adam followed her, standing behind her. “She would rather die than go to the reservation,” she said.

He turned back to the Aha macave. “Can we get her back?”

“No, we cannot. The soldiers are too many to fight at the reservation.” He motioned toward a small hut. “Come. Rest. We will talk at the night meal.”

Mike went to the pallet of skins at the back of the hut, dropping, bringing her knees up to her chest and covering her head. Adam sat near the opening of the hut, observing the Aha macave as they went about their daily chores. He heard Mike moving around behind him, going through the baskets. Soon, she sat next to him. He noticed she sat with one leg underneath her while the other was bent with her knee up, the tassels of her skirt covering her, and recognized that she was sitting like the few Aha macave women in the camp. She had changed her whole demeanor in the presence of the Aha macave.

She sat down close to him with her head bowed, leaning into his side, grasping something in her hand and fidgeting. “My great-grandmother taught me to speak your language, but…” She held out her hand closed in a fist, and Adam held out his open hand. Her hand hovered over his for a moment, as if she was unsure if she wanted to give him whatever was there. “This came for me before you came to Aurora. I was told it is from California.” She dropped a rolled envelope into Adam’s hand, never looking at him, then drew her hand back and played with the tassels on her skirt. “My grandfather was taken by the soldiers. My grandmother said he was in the prison of the white man, and that we would not see him again. That was many years ago.”

“Your great-grandmother never taught you to read, did she?” asked Adam gently. She looked away shamefully, shaking her head. “Do you know why your grandfather was taken?”

“Because he took supplies and medicine to the Shoshoni during the big war.” She unrolled the envelope in his hand, taking the letter out and placing it back in his hand. She glanced up at him quickly, pushing the edge of the letter with her fingertips, silently imploring him to read it.

Adam unrolled and unfolded the letter and read it to himself, sucking in a long, deep breath when he was done and looking out the opening. He looked back at her when he felt her eyes on him, pleading. He cleared his throat and read. “Miss Dutton, it is with my sincere apologies that I must inform you of the death of Michael Lewis Dutton on the evening of July 4, 1860 while incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison. Mr. Dutton died of consumption.”

Her eyes clouded, and she backed away from him, crawling back to the pallet of skins, curling into a tight ball. He’d never seen her cry. After watching her unemotional, methodical ways, he never imagined he would ever see her cry. He backed away from the door and lay next to her on the skins. She turned her back to him, but allowed him to hold her as she sobbed.