James Smith - Hybrid

“Ahhh, those were the days,” he said with a smile. “Everyone feared the Blackfeet—the Shoshone, the Sioux, the Nez Perce.”

“I would guess that the government eventually put a stop to all of the rivalries?”

“Luckily, they didn’t take away our horses, but they did put an end to our culture. Our real problems started with the Baker massacre on Two Medicine River. The government’s never even acknowledged that happened, if you can believe that.”

Dieter quickly sensed an extended story coming on, one that could wait for another time but one he felt he’d better learn about. He switched the subject to the powwow taking place on the outskirts of town. Thanks to Amy, both kids had been looking forward to it for days.

While Dieter strolled that evening amid the hubbub of the powwow he picked up the sweet scent of fry bread. The thumping of drums intensified above a background of singing that seemed like a chant. The annual powwow brought in Indians from the nations and tribes in the tri-state region. Everywhere signs of the original inhabitants of the land popped up—teepees painted with images of bison, bear, wolf, deer, lightning bolts, and symbols depicting the circle of life and death.

Amy placed an arm on Michael’s shoulder. “Listen carefully to the rhythm of the drum. That beating comes from the heart of the people. It has magical powers.”

Michael’s eyes opened wide with the thrill of youth encountering the bizarre. When they reached the drummers sitting in a tight circle, other Indians in full regalia were dancing about as they pounded the earth and spun about in their beaded buckskin moccasins, singing as if in a trance. Bustles and breastplates flashed in the sunlight, each dancing warrior wearing a headdress of feathers that distinguished him apart from the others.

Amy led the way as they weaved through the crowd. Vendors were scattered about selling buckskin jackets with a rainbow of loom beadwork or funnel cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar. Michael’s eyes flitted among the curious sites, then stopped and pointed. “Dad, look!” A group of Boy Scouts surrounded one of the long tables. Michael tugged on Dieter’s hand and pulled him toward it.

Boys and adults stood chatting in khaki uniforms. Golden scarves decorated their necks and shoulders and patches and badges adorned their chests. The babbling paused as their collective eyes caught sight of Amy.

Dieter recognized the scoutmaster from Colter. In his fifties, Leonard Farmington sported a salt and pepper beard on a round plump face. “Hello there, Michael!” Farmington cheered. “Fancy running into you all the way out here. Will we see you next Monday at our troop meeting?” He shot a big grin toward Dieter and Amy.

“Yes, sir,” Michael replied.

“And you haven’t forgotten about the tri-state Camporee next weekend, have you? It’s in Yellowstone, you know.”

Michael glanced up at his dad.

“We have more information packets,” Farmington said. “They’re here on the table if you need one.” He reached over and grabbed a large manila envelope, then turned around and handed it to Amy as he looked at Michael. “Here’s some info for your mother.”

“Oh, no, I’m not his mother, Mr. Farmington. Just his nanny.”

“Sorry, my mistake, Miss.”

“Will there be archery and hiking?” Michael asked.

“You bet. We’re having an overnight hike and a canoeing adventure, too. Permission slips for both are in the packet. Your timing was perfect in moving to Colter, young man!”

No doubt that was coming, but Dieter knew better than to allow a boy of ten to go canoeing on high country lakes or hiking the wilderness no matter how well chaperoned. When they left the booth, he bent down to Michael. “You’ll have to wait at least until next year before taking part in big events like those.”

Michael’s head immediately drooped.

“You know, Dad,” Amy tossed in, “there’ll be boys around Michael’s age attending. The Yellowstone Camporee every year is a rite of passage for all the boys in Colter.”

Thanks a lot, Dieter thought. Once again Amy had butted in where she should’ve stayed away. He understood what she was saying. He also wanted his son to meet other boys and learn about the outdoors. He was a boy once, for God’s sake. There would be plenty of opportunities for all of that when Michael started school on Monday and attended his first Scout meeting after school. He’d meet boys his own age with a slew of interests.

Fran had wanted Michael to go to science camp that summer. She’d already put down a deposit to hold a place for him at Cold Springs Harbor. They couldn’t afford it, but Fran thought it a terrific investment for the boy’s future. She hauled around both kids to movies, children’s concerts, museums; Megan to ballet and tap-dance lessons; Michael to karate and gymnastic classes. On the other hand, what Dieter wanted for his children wasn’t found indoors but in the open air, the fields and mountains and streams. What he wanted for them surrounded him outside the walls of the school at the moment. That was the main reason for the decision to move to Big Sky country. But he wasn’t about to have his kids dive head-on into the vast opportunities available. At least not yet.

Doing his best to smile, Dieter looked down at his son. “Let’s get this straight now, Michael. Overnight hiking and canoeing will have to wait until you’re a little older. But of course you can go to the Camporee.” The thought popped out in words before Dieter had a chance to weigh them, the words saying one thing, his gut screaming another.

Thefollowing morning Dieter parked his pickup at the curb in front of Campanula Creek Elementary, twenty minutes before school was scheduled to start. When he strolled with Michael and Megan up the concrete steps to the entrance, he glanced over his shoulder. A patrol car had pulled in behind his truck. A lone lawman sat behind the wheel with his engine off. It was good to know that the guy was there to keep a watchful eye, especially the first day. After entering, they began the long walk down the hallway lined with army-green lockers on either side. Dieter felt inadequate and out of place. Fran had always taken Michael to school on the first day.

The principal made her way through the shuffling throng of kids and greeted them with an obligatory smile but displayed an extra dose of warmth on learning they hailed all the way from Pennsylvania. By Michael’s request, Dieter didn’t follow him to his class. It was humiliation enough to be seen in the hallway with Dad and little sister. Fran had often confided in him her fears that shy Michael might be bullied by older boys.

As Dieter led Megan by the hand to her classroom he realized that neither he nor Fran had ever worried about Megan. He smiled thinking of his daughter’s enthusiasm for this long-awaited day. She always managed to take charge of any situation, charming everyone around her. He kissed her goodbye at the classroom door and she gave him an anguished hug.

Mrs. Stevenson spoke above all the clatter and bawling inside the room to reassure Megan that she was going to have a great time in first grade.

“But why are so many crying?” Megan asked. The young teacher took her hand and led her quickly inside.

Gallatin County Office of the Sheriff.

Dieter spotted those words on the side of the patrol car when he exited the school. It was still parked behind his truck, the lawman still sitting behind the steering wheel. His nervous system kicked into high gear. He could only think worst case—the incident at the Loudermilk ranch. If there were anything that could destroy his career, it was that. The whole affair had lurked in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach from the minute he pulled out of the gate at the ranch and saw the threat on the oldest woman’s face. Old man Loudermilk had called the law. The hit on him by the youngest woman when he delivered the colt at the ranch would be impossible to defend, just his word against that of the whole family. Everyone in town would assume that where there’s smoke, there’s fire and all that crap.