Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel

wife.” Jesse’s tongue had felt dry, the words like chips of wood inside his mouth. He’d stumbled on, explaining that he’d had a fine crop this season, surplus oats and alfalfa to sell at the Mercantile, not mentioning that he’d used the profit to purchase the gifts. He had enough logs to finish the house he was building for her.
    Stands-Alone was quiet a long time. Finally he struck the edge of the table with the palm of his hand. “You are a fool, Jesse White Owl. Do you think she cares about your crops and livestock and log house? She has her own allotment next to the land our father gave to her, with a fine house the relatives have built for her. She will go to the house when she marries.”
    â€œI wanted to give her a gift.” Jesse had blurted out the words.
    â€œYou wanted to show her what a great man you are.” Stands-Alone got to his feet and leaned over the table, angry white light flicking in his dark eyes. “You speak too late. Another man will marry her.”
    The icy hand squeezed his heart. Jesse had to fight for the next breath. “The white man,” he managed.
    â€œHe has been courting her, meeting her outside the Mercantile when they didn’t think anyone was watching. While you were in Omaha selling your cattle, he came with a wagon-load of gifts, thinking he could purchase my sister.” Stands-Alone threw back his head and guffawed. Another snicker erupted from the corner. “I told him to leave,” Stands-Alone said. “Who is he? A stranger from a farm in Nebraska comes here to Indian country and gets himself a job at the Mercantile—that’s all he is. He has nothing to give her.”
    â€œYou told him to leave?” Jesse asked, his face warm with the flush of hope.
    â€œAunt Sara came to me and said, the girl is crying. Refuses to eat or leave the cabin. She said to me that Bashful will die if I don’t allow her to marry the man she loves. What could I do?”
    Jesse remembered leaving the cabin, legs wobbling beneath him.He’d managed to hoist himself onto the wagon bench and pull away, not looking at the cabin where she lived. He did not go to the wedding. He’d tried to stop up his ears when people gossiped about how Bashful had worn her mother’s dress, deerskin as soft as silk with beads across the top and fringe along the hem of the skirt. Her black hair was pinned up with beaded combs and an eagle feather. She and the white man had gone to St. Francis church where the priest said they were now man and wife; but afterward, they’d gone to the two-story house that her family had prepared for her. She had stood in the doorway and invited the white man inside, the way her mother had invited her father inside the tipi her family had given her. The moment the white man had stepped across the threshold, they became man and wife in the Arapaho Way. All the relatives had crowded into the house, and Stands-Alone had spoken to Bashful and her husband in Arapaho. They should love one another, he’d said. They should live in peace; they should follow the white road and the good red road. They should love their children.
    Now Jesse rocked back on his heels, his gaze fastened on the flowers, drooping and fading over the mound. He could feel the wetness on his face, taste the warm, salty moisture on his lips. It was his fault that she was dead. He saw the sequence of pictures, one after the other, like shadows flitting over the mound. He hadn’t asked for her soon enough, and she had married the white man, who brought her and the child to Curtis’s village. And there she was, cradling her child, when the fool . . .
    The fool, Thunder, playing at being a warrior, riding down slope with the other fool warriors, shooting rifles into the air. Into the air! Except for Thunder, galloping through the village, forgetting it was a game, rushing toward her tipi and firing, firing. When was it? At