“Evening, Ma,” he said and pulled off the cracked, square-toed, lady-size cowboy boots. And, more tiredly, under his breath:
“Evening, Maverick,” and he glanced once at the Mandan who squatted by the dusty blanket hanging from the foot of the bunk. The black hair hung over her face.
The woman at the wood stove shook the skillet and it spit on the red iron.
“What’s the matter, Ma, you out of sorts?”
“Not so’s anybody’d see.”
Luke lay back on the pile of covers and, lighting a short end of cigarette, flipped the wooden match to a tin can of water on the far side of the room. A pair of antlers, patches of hair and dried skin stuck to the yellow bone chip of skull, hung crookedly on the wall above the can. An old branch lay cradled in the horns. Luke rubbed his feet together — even in summer he wore thick-woven socks — and, with the toes of one foot sticking through a long raveling hole, scratched. The Mandan, crouching out of sight and never smiling, reached up one dark arm and with a long stem of hay tickled at the bare toes. But the black little feet, tough with rocks and hot with sand, did not feel it. He went on smoking.
“At least you could make her help. Me doing all this heavy work.”
“Go on, Maverick, give her a hand.”
The Indian climbed slowly to her feet, pulled down her red sweater, smoothed her faded, straw covered plaid skirt and padding to the open shelves, reached for thick lipped cups and plates. Her charm bracelets jangled as each piece of china was set heavily on the dark planks of the table. She kept out of the stove woman’s way.
“That’s the one job I like doing myself.” Ma splattered onions in the pan. “Light work. And I never get to do it.”