June, 2010

Issue #9

The Little Crooked Finger
by Ellen Gray Massey

"What'cha looking at, Mama?" Three-year-old Mamie peered out of the window to see what her mother was staring at so intently.

"Nothing, sweetness," Betsy said. "There's nothing out there to look at. Only that dreadful wind."

Mamie tugged at her mother's arm to pull her back to the table where Betsy had just dumped out of the black, battered pans the final batch of the bi-weekly baking. "Mamie wants some bread and butter," she begged. She touched a golden loaf, but withdrew her hand immediately.

"No, Mamie," Betsy cried, grabbing the child. "Too hot." She picked her up and hugged her.

"Finger hurts," Mamie held out her little finger for Betsy to blow on it.

Steam from the yeasty-smelling loaves rose into the sweltering kitchen lean-to. The stove heat added to the hundred-degree August heat, enveloping Betsy like a cocoon. Even the bouquet of sunflowers and goldenrod picked earlier in the morning drooped from the jar in the center of the table. But in spite of the oven-like temperature, she kept the window and door closed against the hot persistent wind of Kansas that she hated more than the heat from the iron stove.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead and cheeks with the tail of her cover-all apron and peeked at the baby to be sure he was still sleeping before she dropped into a rocking chair. Her scant ninety-five pounds hardly stretched the leather strips that formed the seat of the oaken chair she and the Colonel had brought from Missouri.

Taking a breather from her morning duties, she again glanced outside through the dusty window pane as she used to do back home in her hills. She ignored the clutter that was still in the house--the piles of mending, the empty water bucket, and the unwashed dishes and pots left from her menfolks' breakfast. Her glance outside did nothing to cheer her. Instead of comforting, protecting hills, she saw space--unending openness that still frightened her even after living four months on the prairie. Except for the few acres of plowed ground showing black in the vastness of gray-green grass where her sons had labored all week, all she saw was miles of dried prairie grass, bent over and whipped by the southwest wind. No matter how much she squinted her slightly myopic eyes to see better, she couldn't see over the many miles to the green hills of Missouri. She couldn't even see the narrow line of cottonwoods down by their creek. Nothing but waving grass whose constant motion tired her.

"Only that dreadful wind," she said again.

Betsy pushed aside her wish to be back in her shaded hills to concentrate on her daughter. Pride in little Mamie overshadowed her dislike of this alien country. After four sons, she had almost despaired of raising a girl. A brief sadness coursed through her as she thought of the two baby girls lost in infancy before Mamie came.

She reached over the table for her sharp knife and one of the hot loaves. She sawed lightly through the steaming bread to avoid mashing the fat slice that curled off. Then she spread some freshly-churned butter over it. As always, the child's eyes crinkled with pleasure to watch the chunks of yellow butter melt away and sink into the finely-grained bread. Not until the butter had disappeared into the slice did Mamie take little bites around the crusty edge, saving the soft buttery center for last.

Betsy pulled a comb and brush from her apron pocket and began unsnarling the tangles in the little girl's golden curls. Mamie screwed up her face and pulled away, dreading the morning ritual. Betsy's stern look made the child sit still. Betsy took extra pains to part the hair in the middle. She brushed each ringlet that twined around her finger so that the mass of curls hung just below Mamie's ears.

This was a futile endeavor. The first toss of the active child's head tumbled the ringlets into their usual disarray. Even with her bonnet tied securely under her chin, the wind would force the bonnet off her head to hang down her back by its strings. But not even the wind could blow out the curls. They always bounced back.

Not like the hems in her bed sheets. When she thought of the comparison, Betsy grunted, admitting her defeat. While the sheets dried on the line, the wind blew the hems from them no matter how many times she mended them. They never bounced back.

Comforted by her daughter's presence, Betsy sighed. The more time she spent with her, the longer she could rest before tackling the rest of her morning chores. At least she would not have to fix dinner today. At noon she and Mamie could have a little picnic with thick slabs of roast deer between slices of the fresh bread. It would be fun with just the two of them, and the baby, of course. The Colonel and the boys would be gone all day, riding the twenty miles across the prairie to Mulvane to trade their mules for a yoke of oxen.

Thoughts of the mules caused a moment's regret. Betsy loved each of their animals and grieved to part with the faithful team that had pulled the family safely for so many miles. But she consoled herself that Pat and Jeff would be better off not having to strain so hard to pull the plow through the unyielding sod. She had seen Pat fall to his knees trying to obey the Colonel's command when all his strength could not move the plow that was enmeshed in the tough sod.

And the mules' poor cut legs! Even wrapping strips of Betsy's good counterpanes around their legs did not protect them from the sharp grass blades. Their legs bled and flies bit them unmercifully. Stamping and swishing their tails to discourage the pests only wearied the animals more quickly without easing the bites and stings. Strong and willing as they were, the mules were not equal to the task of breaking the virgin sod. The Colonel traded them for oxen.

With a guilty feeling of freedom, she shook off her momentary depression and looked forward to the day with less work to do. But with the men gone, she was more aware than ever of the emptiness of the prairie. To fill the void and lift her spirits, Betsy began to hum.

Finished with her bread snack, Mamie grabbed a wilting sunflower from the bouquet and pulled off the petals one by one. She counted up to ten, paused, her eyebrows crinkled in thought, and looked to her mother for the next number.

"Eleven," Betsy said laughing, prompting her with the number that came next beyond her ten fingers. Betsy beamed proudly at her. None of her boys learned to count so young. This child was such a blessing. "Come here, sweetness, let's change your dress."

She slipped off Mamie's dirty and patched frock. Though she could not explain why she did it, she got out her Sunday dress with the white tatting on the collar. Its blue color brought out Mamie's sky-blue eyes. She even put on her white stockings and only pair of shoes, instead of letting her go barefooted as usual. Then she admired the picture-perfect girl.

"We going someplace?" Mamie asked.

"No, sweetness. We're not going anyplace. I just wanted to see something pretty in all this sea of dry grass."

Mamie giggled. "Am I pretty?"

Betsy held her at arm's length, studying the effect. Pretty? Her daughter was the flower of her life. She frowned slightly, thinking about her answer. She started to say the truth, "Very pretty," but changed her answer to, "You'll do." With her adoring big brothers always bragging on her, Betsy felt she should give Mamie some balance to prepare her for the realities of life. "You're pretty enough that the boys won't throw mud at you."

The precocious child laughed at her mother's teasing. As she twirled to show off her dress, Betsy unintentionally held on to Mamie's left hand. Mamie puckered up to cry from the pain in her little finger, but held back the tears.

"See, Mama," she held up the crooked finger, "Mamie's finger is almost well. I can move it now." To prove her point she wiggled all her fingers at once.

Betsy hugged Mamie. She gently massaged the small finger, feeling the little bumps where the bones had been crushed. Mother and daughter rocked for a few minutes until the never-still child squirmed down to play with her stuffed dolls and the stick furniture her big brothers had made for her.

Still unwilling to resume her work, Betsy watched Mamie play. She sighed again. Nothing about this move to central Kansas was good. There was the wind that sapped the energy from all of them, the oppressive heat, swarms of insects, and the stubborn sod that refused to be broken. And now trading off the faithful mules! Betsy hated almost every minute of it, though she said nothing to her husband, who, as always at the beginning of each of their many moves, was optimistic that this time would be the best of all. He had assured her that Kansas would be their permanent home. Even in the pre-dawn light this very morning, after admitting that his prized mules could not get the sod plowed in time to sow the winter wheat, he was optimistic that the oxen would be the answer.

Betsy clamped her lips into a thin line and pushed into the bun on top of her head the strands of loose brown hair that stuck to the perspiration on her neck. Why can't he see that this land is not for us? She knew it would take more than Mamie's crushed finger to convince him. His recital of the benefits had not changed her mind, and what they'd gone through since moving here had only reinforced her dislike. She must be patient until he agreed to return to Missouri. Or, she admitted the more likely result, she needed time to come to terms with the land.

Betsy rocked idly in the chair. The sounds of the wooden rockers creaking on the wide floor boards gave a homey accompaniment behind the child's constant chatter to her dolls and the cooing from the baby's cradle. Now that baby brother was awake, Mamie ran to him and stuck out her left hand. The baby grabbed her crooked finger, making her cry out briefly. She pulled it back, but smiling again shook her head. "No, no, baby. Finger hurts." She gave him her other hand.

Betsy's thoughts went back four months to Mamie's accident, the first omen that seemed to doom the family's move west. In their canvas-covered farm wagon, they had not yet left the Missouri hills on their trip to Kansas. The rain drops glistened on the new leaves and formed puddles in the rough trail. Water collected in the folds and depressions of the wagon cover to trickle down the rounded sides and drip off the wagon.

The Colonel, Betsy, and the baby were on the high wagon seat. Mamie and the four big boys in the back were rowdy as usual. "Quiet down there, boys." The Colonel had to reprimand them several times. For a time the boys played games that Mamie was too young to join. She watched the water form into the depressions in the wagon cover above her and poked the low places with her fingers. She laughed to feel the dampness seep through the canvas onto her hand and drip down her arm.

Wearying of that she looked out the side under the cover that was looped up several inches for ventilation. "Pretty," she said smiling at the blooming dogwood and redbud trees that brushed against the wagon. She jabbered her pleasure at the myriad spring wild flowers beside the trail.

The boys were lulled to sleep by the monotonous motion of the lumbering wagon and the rhythmic beat of the mules' hooves on the rocky trail. Her oldest brother, Frank, was sprawled across the back opening so that Mamie could not tumble out.

Betsy glanced back at the wide-awake child. Mamie thrust out her hand to feel the rain and grasp the shiny-new vegetation within her reach. She pulled off some leaves. When she grabbed an especially interesting, still tiny, glove-shaped sassafras leaf, she added it to those she already had. "Mamie'll take care of you," she said to each leaf that she rescued from the storm. Her brothers had taught her the names of the trees. "Sassy, Doggy, Hick'ry, Oakie," she said placing each leaf carefully in a line.

The wagon rumbled on. The boys slept soundly. The Colonel concentrated on the mules to avoid the large rocks and chug holes in the narrow trail. Betsy finished nursing the baby who was finally asleep after a fretful afternoon. She pulled a light blanket across his face to protect him from the light mist that continued to fall and leaned against her husband to support her back. When she scooted closer to him the Colonel smiled at her and nodded briefly, not able to take his eyes from the trail too long or his hands from the reins. His smile and bright eyes showed his excitement of traveling toward the new home he had traded for.

"Just think, Betsy," he said to encourage her to share his enthusiasm, "a whole section of virgin land. Six hundred and forty acres all ready for the plow without having to clear it first." He mulled over that wonder for a few seconds. "More land than we ever dreamed of owning. Rich soil, a creek and some buildings. No soddy, but a real wooden house. We can move right in!"

Betsy smiled and nodded to show her support. "That's nice," she said. If that was what he wanted, then she did too.

The wagon gave a sudden lurch as the front right wheel hit a big rock. The mules jumped slightly. "Easy there, boys. You're doing good, Pat. Steady there, Jeff."

Betsy tightened her grip on the baby with one hand and with the other held on to the iron railing of the seat to avoid being thrown forward under the team's hooves. After the lurch, the wagon rolled smoothly. Nothing unusual. Since they had many such jolts, neither paid much attention to this one. The boys did not waken. The mules plodded on as Betsy and the Colonel resumed talking.

A few miles down the trail Betsy realized it was too quiet in the back of the wagon. No boys talking. No Mamie with her constant chatter. She peered back through the opening of the wagon cover. In the dim light she saw the four boys sprawled out asleep. For a moment she relished the unusual quiet. Even the rain that had splattered on the canvas cover was now only an easy light mist, and since they had descended into a valley from the rocky ridge, the mules' hooves were muffled in the loamy soil.

The unnatural quiet alarmed Betsy. Her eyes swept over the boys and the bundles of gear stacked all around them. No Mamie.

"Stop," she screamed. The mules halted even before the Colonel pulled back on the reins. The boys sat up, blinking and confused. "Where's Mamie?"

The boys pawed through the baggage. The Colonel jumped down, ran around to the back, and opened the end gate to find the hidden child. No little girl, only her leaves arranged in a neat row on a roll of blankets.

"I should have checked," Betsy moaned.

"You boys were supposed to watch her," the Colonel scolded. "Can't we trust you even to do that?"

"When did you last see her?" Betsy shook Frank in her anxiety.

"She was playing with her leaves," Frank said, almost crying. "I guess I went to sleep."

"She must have fallen out when the wagon lurched," the Colonel said. "How far back was that?"

No one knew.

The Colonel quickly turned the wagon around. He did not slow for rocks or potholes but urged the weary mules to lope back up the ridge. Everyone searched for the brown-clad child who would be difficult to spot either in the road or in the trees and brush on either side. The fearless little girl might wander off into the woods to pick a pretty flower or chase a bird or rabbit. Even a snake!

Betsy barely breathed during the mad flight back as she thought of many possibilities. The fall from the wagon killed her or a wild animal found her. Maybe someone picked her up. No, they had not met anyone on the trail all afternoon.

Numb with fear that she would lose still another child, Betsy held the baby to her chest so tightly that he began to squall.

They rumbled several miles before Frank called out, "There she is!"

Mamie was lying in a puddle, her dress blending in the ground colors. Her golden hair was the one distinguishing bright spot in the dim forest light. Her left arm was thrust out with her hand in the wagon track. The Colonel jumped down before the mules stopped. Betsy was beside him as they kneeled over their unconscious daughter.

Betsy wiped mud off the child's face and pushed back the mass of mud-splattered curls that covered her eyes.

"Is she dead?" the youngest boy whispered.

"No," his father said, his voice almost cracking. "I don't think she's hurt badly. But we must get her to a doctor."

"What happened?"

"She must have fallen over the side," Frank said.

"And when the wagon lurched on that rock she fell out," the Colonel said, gently lifting her up, "She tumbled out with her left hand falling between the wheels." He lifted her head off a flat rock.

Skilled from his experience on the battlefield during the Civil War, he examined her body for injuries. In addition to the bump on her head, the only other injury he found was her little finger.

While Betsy held the unconscious child tightly in her arms as she sat unmoving and stiff on the wagon seat, the Colonel urged the weary team back to a small town.

"The knock on her head isn't serious," the doctor said. "She'll come to soon, but her finger is crushed. I'll have to take her finger off."

Betsy cried, "No, no, no."

Then Mamie stirred. She opened her eyes and looked at her parents and then at the doctor. "Don't cut off Mamie's finger," she said.

With tears in his eyes, the Colonel comforted Mamie, "We won't."

The doctor cleaned out the mud, eased the tiny bones into place, splinted and wrapped the finger. He did not cut it off.

In the August heat of her kitchen, remembering how close they came to losing their daughter, Betsy let the tears she did not shed at the time course down her cheeks. Why couldn't the colonel see that accident as a warning? Instead, he viewed it as a blessing that Mamie was not killed.

Betsy wiped away her tears with her apron and straightened her shoulders. No more of this. She had promised to follow her man when she married him while he was still fighting for the Union during the Civil War. And she had done that, always by his side as he moved from Indiana to Arkansas, to Missouri, and now to Kansas.

Maybe he was right.

She could not allow herself to rest any longer. Too much time lost already. She reached for one of her twelve dry diapers to change the baby. Since the one she removed from him was only wet, she stepped outside to a makeshift line to hang it up to dry. As she pinned the muslin diaper on the line and watched it flap insanely, she grinned. The wind was good for something, anyway. The diaper would be dry in minutes.

She laid her hands on the loaves of bread. Still too warm to put away. She started clearing up the breakfast dishes. She removed the dipper from the empty water pail and grabbed its wire bail. "Mamie, watch Baby while I run to the creek for a bucket of water."

The brief rest cheered Betsy. Humming she pulled open the kitchen door. Her tune caught in her throat as she stopped suddenly, her bucket clattering against her leg. In the doorway, grinning and jabbering were five Indians who towered over her. Behind them she could see their ponies ground-tied in the unplowed area beyond the yard gate.

Betsy swallowed a scream before it escaped and spread out her arms in a futile attempt to block their entrance. A man with a red feather in his hat pushed her aside and marched straight to the table, the other men behind in single file. They grabbed the warm loaves of bread and broke them open with their hands. As the steam escaped, they murmured with pleasure and gobbled the soft, fragrant chunks with loud smackings of their lips. Mouths full of bread, they chattered to one another, grinning with delight. Though their attention was on the bread, the leader also kept an eye on Betsy as he blocked her against the wall.

The children! She had to save them.

The bread did not matter. Hospitality in the West required feeding any stranger that came by. She sent an anguished glance out the door to see if her husband and the boys might be back, though she knew it was much too soon to expect them. What had she heard about the local Indians? "Usually harmless," her neighbor had said, "and poor as church mice."

Usually harmless? Did that mean that sometimes they were dangerous? She didn't know. She shivered, but showed no outward fear to the leader who eyed her carefully.

She had seen a few tribesmen in the towns as the family came through eastern Kansas. Although these men wore no war paint nor exhibited any hostile actions, she was not sure that they were harmless. They were five young, strong, and armed men against Betsy, a small woman alone with two little children and no protection closer than a neighbor two miles away. But all they seemed interested in was the bread.

While her initial fright subsided, Betsy tried to edge over to the children. Red Feather stepped in front of her and motioned her back into her corner. Then, as if for the first time, he noticed the children.

Mamie peered boldly into his face. She studied him as he did her, not once lowering her eyes. Though used to seeing men with guns, she was fascinated by the hatchet he had thrust into his waist band. His trousers and wide-brimmed felt hat were like those her brothers wore, though his tall red feather intrigued her. She pointed to the feather. Mamie and the man both smiled.

Red Feather stooped down and swept her into his arms. Betsy used all of her self-control to keep from screaming. The man's large, brown fingers caressed Mamie's silky, golden hair. He grinned at his companions and pointed to her curls. The others were equally impressed.

Pleased with all this attention, Mamie stared into Red Feather's black eyes, her smile replaced by lowered eyebrows as she studied his features. He pulled out one of her curls and until it reached her shoulders. When he let it go, the hair bounced back into the original ringlet. The men laughed in pleasure. Each one in turn pulled down a curl to watch it spring back.

Keep calm, Betsy warned herself. She clamped her lips together and clenched her fists to keep from throwing herself at the man and tearing Mamie from him. Helpless, she thought, If ever there is a time to pray, this is it. She remained still, not even giving a mental prayer. Perspiration darkened her blouse.

The men pointed to Mamie's blue eyes and the faint line of blond eyebrows and curving eyelashes. They moved their hands over her white, plump little arms and fingered her lacy collar. Mamie glowed under the attention.

"See my Sunday dress and shoes," she said, holding out the skirt for them to get the full benefit of the blue material. She twirled and held up one foot for them to admire her shoe. The men laughed and slapped their hands on their sides as they spoke rapidly to one another.

By this time the men had eaten all the bread they wanted. The leader stashed the remaining loaves into the bag slung over his shoulders and gave an order to the others. One by one the men streamed out the door. Only Red Feather with Mamie in his arms stayed. When the leader called out to him, Red Feather bolted out the door with the child.

Trembling with fear, Betsy watched them go. Red Feather walked through the gate with Mamie, shut it, and slipped its bar with his left hand before joining the others who were at their ponies. Instead of mounting, they circled around him. Helpless in the doorway, Betsy watched the argument between the leader and Red Feather.

Betsy's unspoken prayer was still caught in her throat. At first she thought they debated over which one of them would take Mamie. But when the leader pointed repeatedly from Mamie to the bag where he had stowed the bread and back to the house, she realized that he was trying to convince Red Feather to return her.

Please, dear God, Betsy was finally able to pray when she realized she had an ally, please make the tall man listen. Bring back my little girl. Surely after breaking bread in her house, the Indians would not harm them.

Still unafraid and finished with her scrutiny of the men, Mamie fingered one of her captor's long, black braids. It hung close to her left hand that rested on his right shoulder. She ran her fingers over the braid's shiny surface and then looked at the grease on her hand. She puckered up her nose in distaste and started to wipe it off on her dress. Then remembering she had on her Sunday dress, she rubbed her hand over Red Feather's bare shoulder.

The men laughed. Then the leader and the three others increased their arguments to Red Feather, pointing back to the house. Ignoring them, Red Feather fondled Mamie's left hand. She winched and held back a cry when he touched her little finger. He held out her hand to examine the finger that did not lay straight like the others. He frowned, moving his head slightly from side to side. His companions crowding around him also shook their heads.

Suddenly Red Feather turned and jogged to the yard fence. He hurried to the nearest point in the new wire fence the Colonel had just built. Mindful of the barbs, he leaned over the wire and gently set Mamie down inside the yard. He looked at her and then smiled. Mamie grinned back and waved the fingers of her left hand at him. "Bye, bye," she said.

Red Feather ran back to his companions. They vaulted on their ponies, and with shrill cries, disappeared over the crest in the rolling prairie. The wind that bent the grass blew the ponies' tails straight out behind them. Red Feather's black braids, like arrows, pointed back to the house.

Excited, Mamie raced into her mother's arms. "Indians, Mama, real Indians. They liked me. They thought I was pretty."

Weak with relief, Betsy carried her back into the kitchen. She did not shut the door against the wind but fell into her rocker hugging Mamie to her. Her girl was safe. The wind that played around Betsy's head teased out some loose wisps of hair. It dried her tears and perspiration-soaked dress.

For the first time since Mamie had fallen out of the wagon on their trip west, Betsy did not hate this country. In the last few minutes she knew that where she lived was not important compared to losing one of her children.

The Colonel was right. Mamie's tumble from the wagon back in Missouri was a blessing that saved her little daughter. Mamie, washed, combed, and dressed up, with her fair skin and blond hair produced an ideal picture to the tall dark Indian.

Except for her crooked little finger.

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