“Come on, Jason.” Mom shoved him down the porch and through a double doorway into the store.
Tall, free standing wooden shelves with all kinds of cans and boxes filled the large interior. Wooden chairs, light fixtures, ceiling fans, farming tools and even toilet seats hung from the high, beamed ceiling above the shelves.
A woman and man stood behind a glass-front counter near the back. Both looked older than Grandma, arguing about something, not yet seeing Jason and his mom.
The woman said, “I don’t want him out there during the week. Weekends are bad enough.”
The man said, “He doesn’t hurt anybody.” He sounded calm, back turned toward the front door. Both had funny sounding accents.
“I don’t care.” She wagged her finger in the man’s face. “He’s got no business selling his junk in front of my store.”
“You know why he’s here.”
“I don’t care! He’s . . .” She stopped talking, seeing Jason and his mom. She smiled and elbowed the man, turning him around.
He smiled.
She said, “Hallo! You must be them Potters from down below.” She seemed friendly now.
The man’s smile looked friendly too. “We’ve been expecting you a couple days now.” He looked down at Jason, taking his time, studying Jason’s face. “Look, Mama, his bright blue eyes. Don’t he look just like his papa?”
“He sure does, by golly.” She grabbed a glass cookie jar and strutted around the counter, spun off the bright red metal lid and held the open jar toward Jason. “Your papa always liked these.” She shoved it closer, insisting.
Chocolate chip cookies; he could smell them.
Jason looked at his mom for permission.
She smiled. “Just take one.”
He found a big one and walked toward the porch. He needed to talk to that Indian.
“Young man!” Mom’s voice stopped him in the doorway, her eyes scolding. “What do we say?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” The old woman smiled and Jason went outside.
Barnabas leaned sideways into the Indian’s legs, still getting his back rubbed.
“Umm.” The cookie was the best ever, sweet and moist. “I never saw a real Indian before. What kind are you?”
“I’m Paiute. My people have lived up here in these mountains for hundreds of years. We’re mostly working for ranchers now, like down in Owens River Valley or over in Walker and Carson. I used to work for your great grandfather.” He slid a couple of hatbands to one side and sat on the window ledge, rubbing Barnabas’s head and ears. He patted the dog’s side, pushed with his knee and Barnabas plopped down in front of him, looking back a forth at John Crow and Jason.
Jason picked up a cool looking beaded leather pouch the size of Grandma’s coin purse. “Wow! What’s this?” Loops and stitches surrounded a braided leather necklace, cinched tight. He squeezed it. "What's inside?"
“We call this a medicine bag.” John took and opened the bag in such a way that Jason instinctively cupped his hands. John poured out a collection of small bones, polished stones, small feathers, and wood chips. Some of the polished stones were clear like glass. Others were gray, green or black. John held the open pouch toward Jason and Jason carefully poured the stuff back inside.
“What’s it for?”
“You’re supposed to wear it.” John cinched the pouch and dropped the braided necklace over Jason’s head. It hung around Jason’s neck to the center of his chest.
Too cool.
“Your father wore one just like it.” John showed him a similar pouch hanging around his own neck. It looked much older. “So do I.”
“What’s it for?”
“Only us Indians are supposed to know that.” He bent down to Jason and spoke softly. “I’ll tell you the secret. Wear it so the spirits know who you are. They’ll protect you.”
“Wow, how much?” He needed to ask Mom.
“Oh, you can’t buy one of these. It has to be a gift or it has no power.” He smiled, serious but friendly.
Barnabas stood up and wagged.
“Come on, Jason.” Mom carried two grocery bags down the steps. The old man followed with two more bags.
Jason followed Barnabas down the steps and Mom handed him one of the bags so she could open the trunk.
“Oh, dear.” She set her one bag between two suitcases and moved other stuff to make room for the groceries. She took and set Jason’s bag inside, completely full now, and closed the trunk.
The old man put the other two bags into the back seat and left the front seat leaning forward so Barnabas could climb in.
Jason snapped his fingers and the dog climbed into the back. Jason got into the front and closed the door.
Mom pointed down the road, speaking to the old man. “So, I just follow this all the way to the end and turn left?”
“Yes ma’am. You can’t miss it. You’ll see.”
“How do we pay for supplies again?”
The old man pointed across the street at Potter Bank and Trust, a city looking building with high windows up near the roof. “Just go in there when you get a chance. They’ll have you sign some paperwork and set up your account with us. Then we can submit the monthly billings directly to your bank. They’ll send you a copy, of course.” He started to turn away and stopped. “Everybody will be in church on the second Sunday next month, just before school starts. They’re all anxious to meet the new Potters from down below.”
“Where is it? How do we get there?”
“Right behind the store here. It's called The Rock. You can’t miss it. Service starts at ten o’clock sharp.”
“Well, we can’t thank you enough.” Mom got in and started the car. They both waved to the old couple, already at the top of the steps, waving goodbye. The Indian had already gone, trinkets and all. Jason hadn’t seen him leave.
“This is called River Road.” Mom drove them down a grassy valley with tall mountains on both sides, sounding like she’d been here before. “It goes all
