“Yes, sir. Understood.”
“He’s definitely replacing me,” Nelson told Rose that evening.
They had driven down to Hot Springs for dinner at the Buen Dia Mexican restaurant, and were taking a walk around town afterward. Nelson had purposely not mentioned his new conviction earlier in order to maintain tranquility during their meal. But now he decided he had to share it.
“How can you be sure?” Rose asked. “Has he said anything?”
“He doesn’t have to say anything. He’s assigned me to acquaint her with all my duties and responsibilities. After I’ve done that, I’m sure he’ll let me go and appoint her to replace me.”
“But what about the museum’s board of directors? Won’t they have something to say about it? Several of those board members are very fond of you.”
“Not enough to overrule any personnel change he recommends.”
“But she’s related to him, for God’s sake! Isn’t replacing you with her going to look kind of unfair? Kind of suspicious?”
“Ordinarily I’d say yes. But in this case it’s a relative who has a doctorate. White himself has only a master’s. The prospect of having a Ph.D. in Native American studies on the staff — and on the museum’s letterhead — is going to be a very impressive factor in their decision. Not to mention that it will carry a lot of weight in obtaining future private and government grants.”
“But it’s so unfair, sweetheart—”
“Nobody ever said life was fair.”
They walked on for a while, along River Street, as usual admiring the many old sandstone buildings that always looked pink in the late twilight. Presently they came to a little public park and sat on a bench.
“What will you do if this happens, Nelson?” Rose finally asked. She was the kind of woman who always wanted to think about what the future might hold.
“I don’t know. I don’t imagine there’s a deep job market for assistant Native American museum curators.”
“We could move away somewhere, couldn’t we, Nelson? Start a new life. Together.”
“On what? I’ve got about sixteen thousand dollars saved. How much have you got?”
“Not very much. Couple of thousand.”
“So together we’ve got a little over eighteen thousand. That won’t take us very far in today’s economy, Rose.”
“Well, there must be something we can do!”
Nelson put what he hoped would be a comforting arm around Rose and drew her close to him. “If you think of anything,” he said quietly, “let me know.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for saying we could move away together.”
For the next month, under the close scrutiny of Martin White Cloud, Nelson tutored Naomi White Cloud in the operation of all the various departments that formed the administration, management, and maintenance of the Great Plains Native American Museum, which was referred to in the National Directory of Private Museums as “the most prestigious monument to Native American history and culture” in the U.S.
As was Nelson Clay’s nature, he did his best to accomplish what he now felt was the curator’s objective, that being to groom the young woman for the position Nelson had held for the past nineteen years. Had he been a person of less character and conscience, he might have slacked off in his teaching, omitting a detail here and there in order to pare down the efficiency of his successor when she assumed the responsibility after his departure. But Nelson Clay loved the big museum, loved every artifact, photograph, diorama, everything, down to the smallest Chippewa arrowhead in it, and from his first day of employment he had loved his job there. It was a position of which he was very proud, and to which he applied himself fully and faithfully. Distressed as he was at the prospect of his post being taken away from him, he nevertheless sincerely desired that his successor perform as capably and competently as he had.
“My God, I never dreamed there were so many practical things to learn,” Naomi admitted toward the end of the month. “I really should find some way to thank you. Perhaps you’ll let me take you to dinner some evening.”
“Sure, if you’d like,” he said, wondering what this was all about. “When did you have in mind?”
“Anytime, really, but let’s wait until after the annual board of directors meeting. My dear uncle has me working on polishing up his presentation. And he’s arranged for me to sit in as an observer at the meeting. I think I’ll find it most interesting. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“I usually attend, yes.”
If I’m still around, he thought.
Several mornings later, when Nelson was perusing the scant few Positions Available classified advertisements in the National Museum Monthly, one of the mail clerks came in and placed a small parcel on his desk. “This was just delivered by some Indian kid on a bicycle, Mr. Clay,” she said.
The parcel, about the size of an average paperback book, was neatly wrapped in plain brown paper, sealed with transparent tape, and addressed simply to: MANAGER, GREAT PLAINS NATIVE AMERICAN MUSEUM, in neat letters. Opening it, Nelson found a small manila envelope wrapped in a single sheet of lined notebook paper, on which was a letter inked in script which read:
Dear Sir,
My name is Nelli Mae Feathers. I am the great-great-great-granddaughter of the Sioux chief Crazy Horse. My grandmother’s name was Shawl-in-the-Sky. I spent much time with her in Oglala and she told me many stories that had been passed down from her mother and her grandmother. Her grandmother was She-Is-Not-Afraid, who was the daughter of Crazy Horse.
I am enclosing in this envelope several small pieces of Crazy Horse’s hand bones in the hope that you can verify their age so I can determine whether the stories I have been told were true. I will be happy to pay any expense involved in this service.
Sincerely,
At the bottom of the letter was an address in Cedar Butte, South Dakota.
Nelson immediately took the material to Martin White’s office. The curator was having coffee with his niece Naomi at his desk. “This is something I thought you should see,” Nelson said.
Martin read the letter, passed it to Naomi, and with soft-tipped tweezers from his desk drawer examined the relics under a magnifying glass.
“How can those be Crazy Horse’s bones?” Naomi asked. “I was under the impression that no one knew where he was buried.”
“That is the general impression, yes,” said Nelson.
“This smacks of some sort of confidence scheme,” said Martin. “As I recall, Crazy Horse did father a daughter, whom he named She-Is-Not-Afraid, but the child died of cholera when she was only two or three. Clearly, she could not be an ancestor of this letter writer. Where exactly is Cedar Butte anyway?” he asked Nelson.
“I believe it’s over in Millette County, about a hundred miles east.”
“So this person doesn’t live on reservation land.”
“Probably not. I think Cedar Butte would be east of the Pine Ridge agency, and north of the Rosebud agency.”
Martin rose. “I don’t expect anything to come of this, but let’s have a closer look as these relics anyway.” He returned the bones to the envelope and handed it to Nelson. “You and Naomi carbon-date them.”