Broke into our place. We need the sheriff department.”“Location please.”I did my best to describe our country road location.“We’ll have a unit respond. It may be a while. Our patrol units are elsewhere at the moment.”“Okay, we’ll wait on the road until one gets here.”“If you need to, feel free to call us back. A deputy may call you directly.”“Thank you.”By this time, Jay had a gun. I wasn’t raised around guns, you understand. I was raised in town, and I heard talk, and I watched TV and movies and such, but it wasn’t until I married Jay that I actually got to handle a gun. (No, not THAT gun!) He showed me how to handle them, how to shoot. We had a lot of fun with it. He bought me a particularly evil-looking carbine. Looks like the military’s M-4, short, handy, and I can tear up a target at two hundred yards. I also learned to shoot a pistol and a shotgun.All that goes with being a country girl, I suppose, although the ONE time that I was surprised by a snake, despite my immediate. Injustice was an uninvited guest in the mind of every mourner standing there that day. They mourned another senseless act of hatred and cruelty. They were gathered to bury Jackson Redclay, one of their own. His family stood grim-faced and unmoving, lost in their own thoughts while the words of the white preacher fell uselessly among them. Soon, it was time. Emmett Redclay knelt, and dropped a feathered amulet upon the casket. A scattering of shredded tobacco was followed by a thin, streaming handful of sandy soil, picked up from the pile beside the open grave. Melba Redclay stood with her husband, her face a cold mask. Tears ran in streaks down her cheeks to be flung away by the cold wind.No sound other than low murmurs was heard among the nearly two hundred tribal people gathered. The Redclay family moved away from the open grave and trudged down the slope to their car. Others followed and dispersed. This was not a funeral to celebrate a life lived long and full among the people..
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