stopped to watch; I had to stand on tiptoe to see past them to Pa. I heard the one say to the other: “That’s the man murdered Abraham Black. Shot him in cold blood. I heard it was his young son found Abe dead in a pool of blood in his own barn. Terrible thing. And all for a couple horses.”
I shrank against the building. My pa? Pa wasn’t a horse thief, much less a killer.
“He’s a well-known one, that one, so I hear. That’s Nat Baker. Nat Baker’s been robbing coaches in the park for years. They finally got him now.”
The other man nodded. “He’ll hang for sure.”
Pa. My pa will hang. For murder.
From the crowd around Pa a man pushed forward, wearing a silver star all shiny and spiked right there on his chest. I knew him right off, those snaky eyes of his, that man Pa’d said was Josiah Wilkie.
Wilkie pointed at Pa. “That’s him, boys. Cuff him good. He’s a slippery devil.”
The men closed ranks around Pa, and my heart thudded slow, slow beats that pounded in my ears as I tried to take it all in. I should stop it. I should step up and say, “No, that’s my pa; he’d never kill anyone.”
Wilkie stepped back and spun those snaky eyes around as if he expected to find someone in the crowd, and I froze solid.
I tipped my brimmed hat low over my eyes so Wilkie couldn’t see my face. I stood with my back against the glass as rigid as those lined-up vegetables, the snow like a curtain between Wilkie and me. If I stood there silent and still, no one would notice me. No one would notice a native-looking girl in a plain woolen skirt and jacket. Here in Bozeman, no one took much notice of native girls—they faded into the shadows like smoke. Here on Main Street I was only a shadow, unconnected with the killer.
The shock of thought ran through me: the killer of a man found dead by his young son, a man killed for a couple of horses.
The crowd around Pa moved and shifted, and his eyes met mine, just for an instant. And then I dropped mine away again, my hands plastered flat against my skirt, my gloves pulled tight. I sensed the movement of the men as they shoved by me in a chorus of triumph pushing Pa before them, his feet catching on the cobbles. His stumble, their rough yank and grab. My palms sweaty inside my gloves, my hands shaking as Pa—my pa, not a murderer, not the killer—was swept away from me and into the closed carriage with its bars, slam, slam, and the “hiya!” as they took him away. And I denied him, stepped deeper into the crowd, melting like late snow, melting in my shame and agony. I denied my pa.
Caleb was at my elbow. “That’s your pa?” He spoke softly, but awe colored his words.
“No. Forget it. Let’s go.” I yanked him past the greengrocer and down the street, opposite to the direction of the police wagon.
The sharp teeth of denial, like coyotes on a downed elk, tore me to shreds.
Kula Baker does not forgive. Especially not herself.
Chapter FIVE
March 24, 1906
“His mind ran over past years, and pieced together
the recollections of a long-past scandal.”
‘Of course! Of course! ’ he said to himself, not without
excitement. ‘She is not like her mother, but she has
all the typical points of her mothers race’.”
—Lady Rose’s Daughter, a novel by
Mrs. Humphrey Ward, 1903
ISLAMMED INTO THE FRONT HALL, SHAKING ALL OVER. Mrs. Gale, sitting by the fire, lifted her head.
“Kula?”
I fled upstairs, my skirts hiked high, taking the steps two at a time.
In my room, I put my hands on the window and shoved, heaving up the stubborn sash. I leaned my head into the frigid air now thick with blowing snow. I gulped in the cold and my body constricted against it, but I didn’t care. Pa should’ve left the woods before this. He could’ve left his outlawing long ago, and changed his tune and been a free man. Instead, my pa had doomed himself by getting caught—maybe even murdered a man, though my heart wouldn’t admit it—and my whole
I shrank against the building. My pa? Pa wasn’t a horse thief, much less a killer.
“He’s a well-known one, that one, so I hear. That’s Nat Baker. Nat Baker’s been robbing coaches in the park for years. They finally got him now.”
The other man nodded. “He’ll hang for sure.”
Pa. My pa will hang. For murder.
From the crowd around Pa a man pushed forward, wearing a silver star all shiny and spiked right there on his chest. I knew him right off, those snaky eyes of his, that man Pa’d said was Josiah Wilkie.
Wilkie pointed at Pa. “That’s him, boys. Cuff him good. He’s a slippery devil.”
The men closed ranks around Pa, and my heart thudded slow, slow beats that pounded in my ears as I tried to take it all in. I should stop it. I should step up and say, “No, that’s my pa; he’d never kill anyone.”
Wilkie stepped back and spun those snaky eyes around as if he expected to find someone in the crowd, and I froze solid.
I tipped my brimmed hat low over my eyes so Wilkie couldn’t see my face. I stood with my back against the glass as rigid as those lined-up vegetables, the snow like a curtain between Wilkie and me. If I stood there silent and still, no one would notice me. No one would notice a native-looking girl in a plain woolen skirt and jacket. Here in Bozeman, no one took much notice of native girls—they faded into the shadows like smoke. Here on Main Street I was only a shadow, unconnected with the killer.
The shock of thought ran through me: the killer of a man found dead by his young son, a man killed for a couple of horses.
The crowd around Pa moved and shifted, and his eyes met mine, just for an instant. And then I dropped mine away again, my hands plastered flat against my skirt, my gloves pulled tight. I sensed the movement of the men as they shoved by me in a chorus of triumph pushing Pa before them, his feet catching on the cobbles. His stumble, their rough yank and grab. My palms sweaty inside my gloves, my hands shaking as Pa—my pa, not a murderer, not the killer—was swept away from me and into the closed carriage with its bars, slam, slam, and the “hiya!” as they took him away. And I denied him, stepped deeper into the crowd, melting like late snow, melting in my shame and agony. I denied my pa.
Caleb was at my elbow. “That’s your pa?” He spoke softly, but awe colored his words.
“No. Forget it. Let’s go.” I yanked him past the greengrocer and down the street, opposite to the direction of the police wagon.
The sharp teeth of denial, like coyotes on a downed elk, tore me to shreds.
Kula Baker does not forgive. Especially not herself.
Chapter FIVE
March 24, 1906
“His mind ran over past years, and pieced together
the recollections of a long-past scandal.”
‘Of course! Of course! ’ he said to himself, not without
excitement. ‘She is not like her mother, but she has
all the typical points of her mothers race’.”
—Lady Rose’s Daughter, a novel by
Mrs. Humphrey Ward, 1903
ISLAMMED INTO THE FRONT HALL, SHAKING ALL OVER. Mrs. Gale, sitting by the fire, lifted her head.
“Kula?”
I fled upstairs, my skirts hiked high, taking the steps two at a time.
In my room, I put my hands on the window and shoved, heaving up the stubborn sash. I leaned my head into the frigid air now thick with blowing snow. I gulped in the cold and my body constricted against it, but I didn’t care. Pa should’ve left the woods before this. He could’ve left his outlawing long ago, and changed his tune and been a free man. Instead, my pa had doomed himself by getting caught—maybe even murdered a man, though my heart wouldn’t admit it—and my whole
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