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Show page 195 gust fluttered the flame of a lamp on. a hallway table. Chief Matthew Bill Standtall stood at the threshold. He had been whipped by rain and wind, his face and mustache wet and soaking. To the boy he appeared ominous, filling the doorway in his black slicker, his body rigid, his stance as firm as a seasoned oak. Standtall removed his beaver hat and his slicker, shook them, stepped inside and walked through the hallway without speaking to the boy. The boy returned to the kitchen. His sister and Standtall were facing each other, his sister's face pained and quizzical. "I took only the loan checks Jamison was sitting on," the chief said,"money people on the reservation need. Jamison always waits for a letter of confirmation, delays their loans. The people on the reservation need the money now, for seed and supplies." Standtall's words stated cause and effect that the boy could not understand. He edged to his sister's side. Katie looked down at him, her face tired, then placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Get me a horse saddled. You can make it alone for a couple of days. Keep dry." Chief Standtall rubbed a hand of knuckles under the boy' s chin, tilting his head upward. "Get the horse, like your sister said," he said kindly. The boy moved toward the rear door. He was about to step from the porch into the rain when a hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed him. Sheriff J. B. Rhine whispered, "Don't make noise, boy. Get back over near the woodbox." The boy steDoed backward. His foot hit a row of milk cans. The cans |
