Indian Footsteps

Indian Footsteps By: Millicent Michelle Pepion

It was a simple cottage really. George had not put much thought into it when he and his brother had built it nearly 35 years ago. One living room, one bedroom and one stove right in the middle. A wall separated the two rooms and there were only two doors. One door was the front door, where Mary was sitting now. The other door was their bedroom door, where on the other side George lay dead in his bed. Mary had since thrown a blanket over him since he was beginning to smell. She was scared to go outside and inform others of his death, actually his murder, since the Indians who took his soul were still outside. Mary, on the other side of the door, knew they’d be coming for her next.

It was dawn and the cold sun was just beginning to peek over the hill tops of their 20 acre farm. Mary sat with her rosary almost singing her prayers. She had stayed up all night praying for salvation. Praying the Indians would leave her alone. They had been quiet for a while now.

She hadn’t heard anyone running around her house since she moved next to the front door. She thought she heard George wake up a couple of times and ran to the room only to find him still lying there, lifeless.

She had said another complete rosary when she decided maybe she should check on old George again. He might wake up this time. She could tell him those damn Indian boys were banging on their window again. She could tell him about the footsteps that she heard leave the balcony when he died. She could tell him about the war cry she heard when she discovered him on the bed, dead.

So Mary crept to the back room, bones creaking, to tell her husband these things that had happened when she heard those Indian boys knocking again. They must have heard the creaks of the wood as she walked to the back bedroom. She stopped in her tracks to hear them laugh. One would knock and the other would laugh. She started walking again, slowly, so they wouldn’t know where she was. Then she heard louder, heavier footsteps approach the front door. She looked to see if it was locked. She couldn’t see. Her sight had left her about a decade earlier along with much of the rest of her senses. She studied the door for a while as she heard the footsteps approach. Then they stopped and watched the front door groan open. She started hobbling to George again; this time faster because there was more at rise-her life.

She slammed the door behind her and slid down to the floor, holding it shut with all her might. She looked around to see what she could prop in front of it so she wouldn’t necessarily have to stay there. She could probably use the big oak chair George had made for her 20 winters ago, or she could use George himself. He would do that if he were alive. Why would he not want to do since he was dead?

“You worthless piece of shit George, now what am I supposed to do?” She slowly peeled herself off the ground and put her good ear up next to the door to hear what was going on the other side. There was more than one. It sounded like a man, a woman, a woman her age, and some children. They were breaking her dishes “like the savages they are” she thought as she inched towards George’s body still facing the bedroom door.

“George, do you think they’ll find me here. I’m scared.” She was 20 when she said this.

She was young and he was alive. “I didn’t think they’d know it was us. How did they find us George, it’s been years and years. We were kids. We didn’t know. I didn’t know you were going to do that. Matt shouldn’t have done that! Damn you George, what should I do?” She was old again by the time she said had finished. She started to pray vigorously. She could feel death standing on the other side of her bedroom door.

She started backing towards the bed. She was saying prayer after prayer after prayer. She prayed for George and for herself. She prayed for God to forgive them for their sins. She prayed for the Indians. She prayed for the little Indian boys knocking on the window. She prayed until she had backed herself onto the bed.

“George, scoot over!” But his body didn’t move. It didn’t even slightly move when she tried to push it. She tried to push it again then the door burst open. A tall Indian man was standing stoic in the doorway, just as handsome as he was 40 years ago when Mary had shot and killed him.

“You already took him from me, now leave me alone! I told you I’m sorry for what I did and if you can’t accept that then… then you’re just as dumb as any other Indian who deserved to die!” By this time Mary had dug her nails into George’s decaying arm. She could feel his wrinkled skin sink into her fingernails as they broke. The Indian stood and looked at Mary. Then he shook his head and walked towards her. She started to scream.

“I’m sorry damn it! I didn’t want to do it! George made me! I didn’t want to, I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes and she was 20 again.

America is Moving West! That was the title of the newspaper Mary had picked up before they had left town that morning. George had successfully convinced her to come out west with him and his brother Matt. They were going to find gold and prosperity. “We’re going to be filthy rich and have a million slaves. When we come back east no one will even be able to recognize us through all our money.” George said to his new wife. Mary was so excited. She always wanted to be the wife of a prominent business man. She held onto George with one arm and in the other she held the newspaper while the wagon headed straight towards the sunset. In her head she dreamed about her new life out west.

“Better watch out for them damn Indians Mary” Matt warned sprawled across the luggage they had packed in the back. He was chewing on a piece of jerky and holding a gun out to the forest, aiming at nothing but ready to shoot anything.

“What Indians?” Mary asked popping out of her dreams and back into reality.

“Oh Matt, shut your pie hole. Don’t be scaring my wife like that.” Mary remembered they had gotten married. “It’ll be okay Mrs. Mary. I’ll protect you from anything, especially savage Indians.” Mary squeezed her husbands’ arm and fell back into dreamland where she was a mother of George’s four beautiful sons.

“I’m just saying you can never be too prepared that’s all.” Matt said this as he set the gun down in his lap and looked at the forest edge for any sign of life.

“We should set up camp. The sun’s about to set down and we don’t even have a fire.”

George said as he pulled the reins of the horses and began to come to a stop. “This looks good right here, right Matt?”

“Yeah this looks good. Looks like we won’t have to kill too many Indians out here.” Then Matt jumped out the wagon. “I’m going to go find water.”

“George,” Mary whimpered, “There’s not really any Indians out here, are there? I mean they’re not going to hurt us if they find us right?”

“Now I told you Mary, I will protect you. No Indians are going to hurt us because we’re going to hurt them first and you believe that. Me and Matt are both experts with sharp shooting.

Hell Matt beat the sheriff last year! But don’t you be worrying about that now. You worry about getting our camp ready.”

She was looking at the fog creeping out of the forest. “Here you can have this gun and I’ll just use my shotgun.” George gave Mary a kiss and jumped off the wagon. Mary stared at the gun for a bit then jumped into the back of the wagon to prepare the food.

That night went by slow. Matt kept talking about Indians. He talked about people he knew who had killed some Indians. He talked about people he knew who had been killed by them. Occasionally George would intervene but that’s only when he could see that it was really affecting Mary, otherwise he would let him ramble even though he knew the stories Matt was telling were mostly made up. He liked it when Mary would on to him scared. Then they went to bed that night staring at the stars and dreaming of gold; Mary had added Indians to her dreams and went to bed clinging on to George.

Matt woke them up early the next morning. “I heard some people walking around. I think it’s the Indians but either way we should go check it out George.”

“What… Indians? George, I’m scared.” Mary was wide awake.

“Damnit Matt shut up with all that injun talk! You’re frightening Mary and she don’t need to be all shook up!” Then he heard the footsteps Matt was talking about. Matt put his index finger up his lips and he pointed towards the noise.

“I think they’re by the water.” He whispered as he crept towards the footsteps.

Mary watched as George got dressed and grabbed his shot gun.

“Take this Mary.” George handed her the gun he had given to her the night before. “Don’t be afraid to use it on these damn savages. Stay here I’ll be right back.”

She watched as Matt and George took off in the midst.

She looked at the dying fire afraid to move. She could hear people but she couldn’t see anything. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw them; a young Indian woman about her age holding a little boy with another little boy scurrying behind them.

Mary didn’t move she just watched as the young lady walked past her cradling her youngest son. She could see she was dressed just like the newspaper had described. A long leather dress beaded with jewelry. She was tall and beautiful with two long braids streaming from her head. Then gun shots were fired. The woman looked and saw Mary sitting there. She was staring right into her eyes when George ran up behind Mary and shot the Indian woman in her head. Mary watched as the youngest boy flew out of her arms. The other boy stood there crying for his mother. Then Matt ran up and shot the two kids.

“Damit Mary I told you to shoot any Indian. Now hurry up there’s still one after us.”

Mary couldn’t move. She saw the woman still standing there in her head. She looked at Matt before she looked at George and saw an Indian man creeping up behind him.

“Get down!” Mary said as she shot the gun towards George’s direction. George ducked low to the ground before he turned around and saw the dead Indian man lying there on the ground next to him. Mary had shot and killed him.

“What were they doing down there George” She said with the gun shaking in her hands still pointed in the direction the man was laying.

“It looked like they were doing the same thing we were doing, only going the other direction.” Said Matt as he walked cheerfully over to the woman now dead on the ground.

“Damn George you nearly shot this ones brains out. Did you see that grandma I shot?

Man that was a good shot, almost as good as Mary’s. Say Mary when did you learn to shoot like that?”

“George taught me.” She said. George looked up at her. He knew she felt bad for what they had done. He tried to convince in subsequent years that they deserved to die, but Mary never forgot. She couldn’t forget.

“I’m sorry I killed you but you deserved it. George told me you deserved it! You were just a bunch of wild Indians. None of you deserve to live.” She was back on the bed crying, holding on to her husband’s rotting arm. The house was empty and the doors were open. Mary could feel the morning breeze as she clenched onto her rosary and left the bed.

Then she walked to the front door and shut it.