Page 30 of The Harvey Girls

Twenty-Two

They’d been driving for almost two hours when Will stopped the Packard in the middle of the road—there was no shoulder except sand, and he explained that with so few cars, there was little chance of causing a traffic jam.

He led them to a promontory of rock that afforded a wondrous view both up and down the river, which sparkled pale blue far below.

“The Little Colorado River,” he said. “Sometimes it’s completely dry, sometimes it’s roiling with sediment so dense it’s a river of mud, and they say it’s too thick to drink and too thin to plow. It has flash floods that come out of nowhere, and quicksand in places that can swallow you up.”

Charlotte’s stomach lurched at the thought, and though she stood well behind the others, she backed away another few feet.

Will turned toward her in that moment, studying her.

“But for all its unpredictability,” he went on, his voice slightly softer, as if trying to soothe her discomfort, “the place can be a salvation, too.”

He told them that in 1864, the US government forced all the Navajos off their land and made them walk hundreds of miles through the desert to Fort Sumner, New Mexico.

“The Long Walk, they still call it,” he said, “and it was so grueling that many didn’t make it.

The story goes that a young woman was pregnant, and feeling sure she would die, her relatives hid her in a cave down in the gorge.

When a treaty was finally enacted, and the Navajos were allowed to return, her family threw down a braided yucca rope to help her climb out, and the place was called Pull Up the Baby Canyon after that. ”

“Imagine giving birth all alone in a cave,” said Billie. “She must have been terrified.”

“It was the worst of times for the Indians,” said Will. “Even those who hadn’t been born yet don’t forget it.”

“I wouldn’t forget it, either,” said Henny.

Will’s gaze flicked to Charlotte, then away. “Getting beaten down over and over has a way of sticking with you.”

They reached the Cameron Trading Post in late morning, a large wooden structure with a tin roof. It sat on Route 89 just before a one-lane suspension bridge that crossed the Little Colorado River. Above the door was a cameo picture of an Indian man.

“That’s Roy Huskin. He’s the manager when the owner isn’t here.” The owner was Hubert Richardson, or Naa’ Dootlizhii, as he was called by the locals. “The name means ‘blue eyes,’?” said Will.

The Richardson brothers had built the trading post ten years before, in 1916, as a place for the local Navajos and Hopis to barter wares—blankets, baskets, jewelry, sheep—and dry goods.

There were Indian houses called hogans set up out front for traders to stay in.

Inside the main building was a large room of tables and shelves piled with all sorts of handmade goods.

“It’s like our Hopi House,” said Billie.

“Only giant sized,” said Henny.

“Grand Canyon sized,” murmured Charlotte, transfixed. Like the canyon, she felt as if she could fall into this cornucopia; unlike the canyon, she would enjoy it.

The women wandered through the piles of blankets and displays of jewelry, and Charlotte soon found herself on the other side of the room, not far from the payment counter.

“Sisters?” said a man’s low voice.

“Do they look like sisters?” said another man with a chuckle. It was Will.

Sisters? thought Charlotte. We couldn’t be any more different! She peered over a shelf of pottery.

Standing behind the counter, a large man with brown skin and dark hair that fell around his shoulders shrugged. “They look like white women.”

Will laughed. “Well, they certainly are that.”

“Rich?”

Will shook his head. “Harvey Girls.”

“They’ll buy a little bowl or two, then.”

“They’re saving their pay to send home to their families.” Will gave the other man a pointed look. “Just like you are, John.”

The man gave a snort, as if to say that their circumstances were not the same. And Charlotte supposed he had a point. Besides, she had only herself to think of. Her family certainly didn’t need her paltry tip money.

Her eye caught on a nearby pile of folded blankets that appeared to be made like the one under which she’d slept so soundly in that hotel room back in Williams. Remembering her vow to procure a blanket like that when she had enough money, she picked up the top blanket and walked toward the counter.

It would also prove her to be no buyer of trinkets.

“I’d like to purchase this, please,” she said to the man behind the counter. Now that she had a better look at him, she guessed that he was about her age.

He put on a customer-service smile. “Yes, of course, Miss.”

Charlotte glanced at Will just long enough to see the concern on his face. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

“No problem at all. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“It might be more than you intended to spend.”

Charlotte looked at the man behind the counter.

“It’s eight dollars, Miss. But it’s very fine quality.”

Charlotte opened the folded blanket. The pattern was completely different from the one in Williams, with three large red diamonds in a row on a light brown field.

The design was enhanced by borders of concentric black and beige triangles around the conjoined diamonds and along the edges of the blanket.

“My goodness,” she murmured, running her fingers gently across the weave. “It’s beautiful.” She looked up at the man. “I’m sorry. I don’t have eight dollars. That is, I do, but not with me.” She turned to Will. “Do you think, if I gave you the money, when you’re here next, you could…”

Will nodded. “Can you hold it for her, John? I’ll be back next week.”

“I’d have to ask Roy.”

Will gave him a smirk. “John…”

John’s expression softened. “I suppose I could.”

“Thank you. I’m Charlotte, by the way. Charlotte”—she paused to get it right—“Turner.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m John Honanie.”

“I appreciate your help, Mr. Honanie.”

“I appreciate your eye, Miss Turner. This was made by my aunt. She’s a very good weaver.”

“Please tell her I’m honored to consider myself a patron—one of many, I’m sure.”

John’s gaze cut momentarily to Will, then back to Charlotte. “I’ll do that.”

Charlotte felt a sudden wave of anxiety. Had she said the wrong thing? “Well, I’m going to keep looking around,” she said, and slipped away from the men.

“?‘Honored to consider myself a patron’?” she heard John murmur skeptically before she was out of earshot. “There’s more to that story.”

“None of us was born in the shoes we’re standing in,” replied Will.

Truer words were never spoken , thought Charlotte. It made her wonder about Will’s shoes…. What kind was he born in? And where had they taken him?