Nice White People
Dovetail was just a post office. And that was open only three days a week. It was thirty miles beyond Carlis into the mountains. Carlis was larger; it had a feedstore and a church.
That far up you’d find some Indians. They had roots there. And you’d find some old trappers and prospectors. They were too stubborn or crazy to leave. That was about it. Until Michael and Gloria Johns came from back east to discover the land and return to nature.
The Johnses bought a cabin which had been built and occupied for many years by an old prospector. They purchased the property from an outfit called High-up Realty. The Indians called it Throw-up Really. Michael and Gloria came from just outside Boston, from Newton and a condo to a one-room shack just larger than its outhouse. The Indians thought the Johnses were nice. Odd, maybe. A little stupid, certainly. But nice. In fact, they called them the ‘nice white people.’
Michael and Gloria arrived in the spring. They settled in and, first things first, they set to patching up the outhouse. That’s when an old gray-haired Indian stopped by.
“How are you nice white people?” asked the man.
Michael stopped and called Gloria over. “We’re fine.” He pushed his hand forward to shake. “I’m Michael Johns.”
The Indian took the hand firmly and pumped it up and down. “I’m Old Sherman.”
“This is my wife, Gloria.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Gloria.
Old Sherman nodded and looked around. “Here for a short stay?” he asked.
“Spring and summer,” said Gloria.
Old Sherman looked at the planks and at the saw in Michael’s hand. “Fixing up your craphouse?”
“Yes,” said Michael.
“Gonna leave it where it stands?”
Michael looked at the structure. “I suppose.”
The old man scratched his head. “Pete, the old miner who lived here, built the place, put that craphouse there fifty years ago. Never moved it. Might be full.”
Michael turned to Gloria.
“What happened to Pete?” asked Gloria.
“Drowned.” Old Sherman stretched and looked at the sky. “Well, you nice white people have a good day. Don’t work too hard.”
Michael and Gloria moved the outhouse.
Many of the Indians in the area raised rabbits as a cash crop. So, when a man in a truck came by selling them Michael and Gloria thought it would be a good idea to buy some. They bought twenty and several ready-made hutches, knowing that they would certainly need to build more. Indians came by and oohed and ahhed over the animals, nodded at each other and smiled at the Johnses.
“You know these are pretty fancy bunnies you got here,” said a tall man.
“Oh, really?” said Michael.
“Yep,” said the man. “You can’t feed these fellas the wet stuff you’ll be pulling up from your garden.”
“No?”
Several Indians came and listened to the conversation. “No,” said another, a woman with hair that fell past her hips. “They’ll get the plague.”
“These pure-bred bunnies ain’t as sturdy as mutts,” said the tall man.
“Then what should we feed them?” said Gloria.
“Rabbit chow?’ said the woman.
“Rabbit chow,” said the tall man.
“The little pellets,” said another.
And so Michael and Gloria would pick up a forty-pound sack of feed for the rabbits each week down in Carlis.
A couple of weeks went by and Gloria noticed something odd about several of the rabbits. Their coats seemed to be thinning. Little tufts of hair floated about the hutches. She called out for Michael.
He leaned the ax against the woodpile and went to her. “What is it?”
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Look.” She pointed. “Look at the hair.”
Michael leaned forward and studied the animals.
“I think maybe they’re losing their hair, Michael.”
“Don’t get upset. I’m sure it’s common.”
By the time the veterinarian arrived a week later, the rabbits had all lost their fur from their necks to their rumps. Patches of hair remained on the hindquarters.
The vet frowned as he held a rabbit up to the sun.
“Well?” asked Michael.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything just like it. It ain’t mange, but it must be.”
“It is serious?” asked Gloria.
“Like I said, I don’t know.” He put the rabbit back into the hutch. “I wouldn’t eat any of them right now.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Well, I did bring some mange medicine. Maybe it’ll help.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a large can.
“We have to put it on each one?” asked Gloria.
“I believe so,” said the vet. “Unless you can talk them into doing it for each other.” He laughed.
“OK, thanks, doc,” said Michael.
The vet closed his bag, then looked at the Johnses. “By the way, is there any reason you don’t have any males?”
“We have two,” said Gloria. She looked into the cages. “Well, one used to be black and white.”
The vet shook his head.
Gloria sighed.
“All you got is a bunch of gals.”
Gloria stepped away into the house.
Michael walked the vet to his truck.
“So, how are you liking it here?” asked the vet.
“We’re getting used to it.”
“Planning to stay through the winter?”
Michael took a breath. “I don’t know. It’s been a thought.”
“Gets cold.”
“We’re from New England.”
“Uh huh.” The vet got in his truck.
“Thanks for driving such a long way.”
“It was the only way to get here. Sorry I wasn’t of more help.” He started the engine. “Let me know how the salve works.”
Michael watched the truck bounce down the road and disappear around the bend.
Old Sherman’s brother, Pap, was looking to sell at least one of two horses. And one of them limped.
“I guess you don’t want this one,” said Pap.
“I don’t think so,” Michael said.
So, Pap had his son lead the lame horse back into the barn.
“But this one looks in good shape,” said Michael, walking around the horse.
“Look at his teeth,” said Pap.
“How old is he?”
“Look at his teeth.”
Michael looked at the horse’s teeth. “Is he ten?”
“Look at his teeth.”
“Younger than ten?”
“Look at his teeth.” Pap spat on the ground between his feet.
“What is he, about four then?”
“Some teeth, eh?”
Michael paid seventy-five dollars for the animal and walked him over the hill and home to Gloria.
“I got a good deal on him from Pap,” Michael told her. “Seventy-five dollars. He’s only four and we can re-sell him.”
“Do you really want to stay here through the winter?” asked Gloria.
“If you’re up to it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if you think you can take it, we’ll stay.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me, what?”
“Can you take it?”
“I can take it.”
“Then I can take it.”
“Fine. Then, we’ll stay.”
The horse wouldn’t budge if a person sat on his back. And he followed Michael around as a dog would. He followed him to the woodpile, to the outhouse, and everywhere else. Some days, the Indians would sit along the top of the ridge and laugh. Then, Old Sherman came by.