Walk Two Moons

28 THE BLACK HILLS

When we saw the first sign for the Black Hills, the whispers changed and once again commanded, rush, hurry, rush. We had spent too long in South Dakota. There were only two days left and a long way to go.

“Maybe we should skip the Black Hills,” I said.

“What?” Gramps said. “Skip the Black Hills? Skip Mount Rushmore? We can’t do that.”

“But today’s the eighteenth. It’s the fifth day.”

“Do we have a deadline someone didn’t tell me about?” Gramps asked. “Heck, we’ve got all the time in the—” Gram gave him a look. “I’ve just gotta see these Black Hills,” Gramps said. “We’ll be quick about it, chickabiddy.”

The whispers walloped me: rush, rush, rush. I knew we wouldn’t make it to Idaho in time. I thought about sneaking off while Gram and Gramps were looking at the Black Hills. Maybe I could hitch a ride with someone who drove fast, but the thought of someone speeding, careening around curves—especially the snaking curves down into Lewiston, Idaho, which I had heard so much about—when I thought about that, it made me dizzy and sick.

“Heck,” Gramps said, “I oughta turn this wheel over to you, chickabiddy. All this driving is making me crazy as a loon.”

He was only joking, but he knew I could drive. He had taught me to drive his old pickup truck when I was eleven. We used to ride around on the dirt roads on their farm. I drove, and he smoked his pipe and told stories. He said, “You’re a helluva driver, chickabiddy, but don’t you tell your Momma I taught you. She’d thrash me half to death.”

I used to love to drive that old green pickup truck. I dreamed about turning sixteen and getting my license, but then when Momma left, something happened to me. I became afraid of things I had never been afraid of before, and driving was one of these things. I didn’t even like to ride in cars, let alone drive the truck.

The Black Hills were not really black. Pines covered the hills, and maybe at dusk they looked black, but when we saw them at midday, they were dark green. It was an eerie sight, all those rolling dark hills. A cool wind blew down through the pines, and the trees swished secrets among them.

My mother had always wanted to see the Black Hills. It was one of the sights she was most looking forward to on her trip. She used to tell me about the Black Hills, which were sacred to the Sioux Indians. It was their Holy Land, but white settlers took it as their own. The Sioux are still fighting for their land. I half expected a Sioux to stop our car from entering, and the thing is, I would have been on his side. I would have said, “Take it. It’s yours.”

We drove through the Black Hills to Mt. Rushmore. At first we didn’t think we were in the right place, but then, jing-bang, it was right before us. There, high up on a cliff face, were the sixty-foot-tall faces of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt, carved right into the rock, staring somberly down on us.

It was fine seeing the presidents, I’ve got nothing against the presidents, but you’d think the Sioux would be mighty sad to have those white faces carved into their sacred hill. I bet my mother was upset. I wondered why whoever carved them couldn’t have put a couple Indians up there too.

Gram and Gramps seemed disappointed as well. Gram didn’t even want to get out of the car, so we didn’t stay long. Gramps said, “I’ve had enough of South Dakota, how about you, chickabiddy? How about you, gooseberry? Let’s get a move on.”

By late afternoon, we were well into Wyoming, and I added up the miles left to go. Maybe we could make it, just maybe. Then Gramps said, “I hope nobody minds if we stop at Yellowstone. It would be a sin to miss Yellowstone.”

Gram said, “Is that where Old Faithful is? Oh, I would love to see Old Faithful.” She looked back at me. “We’ll hurry. Why, I bet we’ll be in Idaho by the twentieth without any problem at all.”