Chapter 81

I received a bitter lesson that day; one I should have learned at my father’s knee. I was an Indian. Nothing more; nothing less. It didn’t matter that I was educated. Or had European blood. Or that I was a landowner. Those were just adjectives in the white man’s language. I was still an Indian. That was the noun. I wasn’t even a citizen of this land which had belonged to my ancestors. What was it that Union general named Sheridan had said? “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.” And he’d been in charge of packing us onto reservations.

Nor did it matter that Caleb was the owner of the largest mercantile establishment in the territory or that Timo had done business with everyone in town or that Andre was a successful farmer. When Major Irons admitted us to his presence, he was inflexible. His duty was clear. A credible identification had been made, and he was obligated to act on that information.