Navajo Sunrise. Elizabeth Lane

night’s encounter had been humiliating for them both. He would not welcome the sight of her—no more than she should welcome the sight of him.

      “Violet, where are the other officers’ wives?” she asked in an effort to make polite conversation. “I thought we might be meeting some of them this morning.”

      “Why, bless you, they’re gone. What few there were could not abide this place. They transferred out with their husbands when the garrison was cut back here. Now there’s only me. And, frankly, my dear, I’m counting the days until those filthy Navajos are shipped off to the Oklahoma Territory so Mr. Marsden and I can leave, as well.”

      “And when’s that to happen?” Miranda asked, her interest suddenly roused.

      “Who knows?” Violet shrugged daintily. “The rumors have been flying for months, dear, ever since General Carleton left. No one believes it’s possible to keep the Navajos here another season, not when their crops have failed three years’ running. The poor wretches are starving here, and the Indian Bureau can’t afford to keep feeding so many thousands of them! Something’s got to change, and soon, or they’ll all be dead!”

      We take care of our own!

      Ahkeah’s defiant words echoed in Miranda’s memory as she recalled his proud refusal to accept her cloak for his elderly aunt. What was it costing his pride to stand in line, as he was standing now, waiting with his people for his handout from the U.S. Government?

      Miranda’s gaze wandered down the wretched line of people. Many of the Navajos lacked coats or blankets to protect them from the biting desert wind. The children were thin and ragged, the old men and women little more than hollow-eyed human wrecks with barely enough strength to walk. The sight of them tore at her heart.

      “What are you looking at, Miranda?” Violet’s childlike voice broke into her thoughts. “Your father’s over there, at the end of the table. Do you see him?”

      “Yes.” Miranda had already spotted Iron Bill, seated at the long plank table set up in front of the issue house. Behind him a platoon of blue-clad soldiers stood at rest, carbines ready in case trouble should break out and their commander gave the order to fire.

      Other figures, as well, milled about the table. A bespectacled clerk was spreading pens, inkwells and a huge ledger in his allotted space. Navajo youths, pressed into service as helpers, scurried back and forth fetching chairs and supplies.

      A cynical-looking man in a houndstooth check jacket stood to one side, scribbling with a pencil in an open notebook. Miranda had seen plenty of newspaper reporters during the war, and she bore them no liking. They were like hyenas, slinking along the sidelines of history, watching for the strong to fall so they could swarm in for the kill. What would a reporter be doing in a place like this? What was he waiting to see?

      “We can sit just inside the door,” Violet said. “That way we’ll be out of the sun and wind. I’ll have one of Mr. Marsden’s assistants get us some chairs.”

      “Thank you.” Miranda’s awareness bristled as she followed the plump figure toward the door of the vast adobe building. Her decision to come here and watch the Navajos get their rations had been a reckless impulse. Now, too late, she realized she was guilty of the same insensitivity she had so long despised in others. She should never have come here. But trying to leave now would only make matters more awkward. She had little choice except to sit and watch the humiliation of a proud man and his people. Ahkeah would hate her for it, but that was his choice, something she could not change.

      Feeling his gaze on her, she raised her chin and strode toward the open doorway of the issue house.

      Ahkeah’s eyes narrowed as he watched Big Hat’s daughter cross the parade ground. He should have known she would come to watch—to see the grim spectacle of eight thousand people lined up for food. Well, let her watch! She was bored here, most likely, and this was the only entertainment in fifty miles!

      He watched her follow the small, plump sparrow woman to the issue house and disappear inside. He hated ration days, hated the shame of seeing his people lined up like so many sheep, swallowing their pride for the sake of their children and old ones, who would starve without these weekly handouts from the government storehouse.

      Most days the quantity of food they had was barely enough to keep a dog alive. That it be wholesome and appetizing as well was far too much to ask. Lately, more often than not, there was nothing but moldy flour, which the Diné had difficulty cooking because they had so little firewood. They had been given flour for the first time just before the start of the Long Walk. Never having seen it before, they had made it into gruel, like the familiar ground corn it resembled. The gluey mess, which they’d had no choice except to eat, had sickened them so severely with cramps and diarrhea that many had died or been shot by the soldiers because they were too sick to march.

      Even now, the memory of those hellish days caused Ahkeah’s jaw to tighten, triggering a throbbing pain in his injured temple. He would have been better off resting, he knew. But duty compelled him to be here.

      Glancing toward the issue house, he saw that the two women had settled their chairs in the shadow of the doorway, where the desert sun would not burn their delicate skins. They were chatting animatedly, as if eager to watch the sad spectacle. His gaze lingered on the major’s silver-eyed daughter, as prim as a preacher-lady in her dark dress and white lace collar. Go ahead and watch, bilagáana woman, he thought. See us for what we are and for what your people have made us!

      He was still struggling with his anger when he felt a light tugging at his sleeve. Something tightened around his heart as he glanced down into the liquid eyes of his six-year-old daughter. She did not speak, but her small fingers crept into his palm, seeking reassurance.

      “Nizhoni.” He murmured her name as his hand tightened around hers. Nizhoni was too young to remember their life before the Long Walk; too young, even, to remember her mother’s smile and the sound of her voice. This white man’s purgatory was the only life that she, and so many other Diné children, knew.

      What would Nizhoni’s life be like if the Diné were sent to the Oklahoma reservation? Would she ever know the joy of standing between the four sacred mountains and watching the morning sunlight steal over the peach-colored walls of Canyon de Chelly? Would she celebrate the dawn of her womanhood by blessing her people as Changing Woman?

      Or would she go to the white soldiers, as so many had done, and offer her young body in exchange for a meal and a warm bed?

      Instinctively he drew his little girl closer, as if to shield her from sight. She was only six, little more than a baby. But the years would fly, and before he knew it she would be a beautiful young woman. How long would he be able to keep her safe?

      “Ahkeah!” Someone near the front of the line had hailed him. Trouble already, and, as usual, he was being called upon to straighten it out. The new Navajo agent, Theodore Dodd, was the first decent administrator to serve at the fort, but Dodd was a white man and, for all his good intentions, he was no miracle worker. For the Diné, little had changed. The problems continued as always.

      “Ahkeah!”

      “Here.” He thrust Nizhoni toward his aunt, then broke from the line and hurried forward.

      Miranda edged her chair back into the shadows as Ahkeah strode toward the table. She had seen some kind of argument break out between the first Navajo in line and the small, efficient-looking man in civilian clothes who was seated at the table and appeared to be in charge. Clearly, there was a problem, but the two of them could not speak enough of each other’s language to make themselves understood.

      “The man at the table is Theodore Dodd, the new Indian agent,” Violet whispered. “The Navajos call him Little Gopher. You can certainly see why, can’t you?”

      Miranda nodded, straining to hear what was going on at the table.

      “They have their own names for many of us,” Violet continued. “Your father is Big Hat. My husband is Lame Bear because he has a bad knee. Even I have a name. They call me Sparrow Woman.”