In one voice and by an assumed relationship the two Indian men addressed her. “Aunt, I shake hands with you.” Again Blue-Star Woman remarked, “Oh, indeed! these near white men speak my native tongue and shake hands according to our custom.” Did she guess the truth, she would have known they were simply deluded mortals, deceiving others and themselves most of all. Boisterously laughing and making conversation, they each in turn gripped her withered hand.
Like a sudden flurry of wind, tossing loose ends of things, they broke into her quiet morning hour and threw her groping thoughts into greater chaos. Masking their real errand with long-drawn faces, they feigned a concern for her welfare only. “We come to ask how you are living. We heard you were slowly starving to death. We heard you are one of those Indians who have been cheated out of their share in tribal lands by the government officials.”
Blue-Star Woman became intensely interested.
“You see we are educated in the white man’s ways,” they said with protruding chests. One unconsciously thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his ill-fitting coat and strutted about in his pride. “We can help you get your land. We want to help our aunt. All old people like you ought to be helped before the younger ones. The old will die soon, and they may never get the benefit of their land unless someone like us helps them to get their rights, without further delay.”
Blue-Star Woman listened attentively.
Motioning to the mats she spread upon the ground, she said: “Be seated, my nephews.” She accepted the relationship assumed for the occasion. “I will give you some breakfast.” Quickly she set before them a generous helping of fried bread and cups of coffee. Resuming her own meal, she continued, “You are wonderfully kind. It is true, my nephews, that I have grown old trying to secure my share of land. It may not be long till I shall pass under the sod.”
The two men responded with “How, how,” which meant, “Go on with your story. We are all ears.” Blue-Star Woman had not yet detected any particular sharpness about their ears, but by an impulse she looked up into their faces and scrutinized them. They were busily engaged in eating. Their eyes were fast upon the food on the mat in front of their crossed shins. Inwardly she made a passing observation how, like ravenous wolves, her nephews devoured their food. Coyotes in midwinter could not have been more starved. Without comment she offered them the remaining fried cakes, and between them they took it all. She offered the second helping of coffee, which they accepted without hesitancy. Filling their cups, she placed her empty coffeepot on the dead ashes.
To them she rehearsed her many hardships. It had become a habit now to tell her long story of disappointments with all its petty details. It was only another instance of good intentions gone awry. It was a paradox upon a land of prophecy that its path to future glory be stained with the blood of its aborigines. Incongruous as it is, the two nephews, with their white associates, were glad of a condition so profitable to them. Their solicitation for Blue-Star Woman was not at all altruistic. They thrived in their grafting business. They and their occupation were the byproduct of an unwieldly bureaucracy over the nation’s wards.
“Dear aunt, you failed to establish the facts of your identity,” they told her. Hereupon Blue-Star Woman’s countenance fell. It was ever the same old words. It was the old song of the government official she loathed to hear. The next remark restored her courage. “If anyone can discover evidence, it’s us! I tell you, aunt, we’ll fix it all up for you.” It was a great relief to the old Indian woman to be thus unburdened of her riddle, with a prospect of possessing land. “There is one thing you will have to do—that is, to pay us half of your land and money when you get them.” Here was a pause, and Blue-Star Woman answered slowly, “Y‑e‑s,” in an uncertain frame of mind.
The shrewd schemers noted her behavior. “Wouldn’t you rather have a half of a crust of bread than none at all?” they asked. She was duly impressed with the force of their argument. In her heart she agreed, “A little something to eat is better than nothing!” The two men talked in regular relays. The flow of smooth words was continuous and so much like purring that all the woman’s suspicions were put soundly to sleep. “Look here, aunt, you know very well that prairie fire is met with a backfire.” Blue-Star Woman, recalling her experiences in firefighting, quickly responded, “Yes, oh, yes.”
“In just the same way, we fight crooks with crooks. We have clever white lawyers working with us. They are the backfire.” Then, as if remembering some particular incident, they both laughed aloud and said, “Yes, and sometimes they use us as the backfire! We trade fifty-fifty.”
Blue-Star Woman sat with her chin in the palm of one hand with elbow resting in the other. She rocked herself slightly forward and backward. At length she answered, “Yes, I will pay you half of my share in tribal land and money when I get them. In bygone days, brave young men of the order of the White-Horse-Riders sought out the aged, the poor, the widows and orphans to aid them, but they did their good work without pay. The White-Horse-Riders are gone. The times are changed. I am a poor old Indian woman. I need warm clothing before winter begins to blow its icicles through us. I need firewood. I need food. As you have said, a
