Summer 1990 • Vol. XII No. 3 Fiction |

Big Fish Water

I came to know Chief Willy George of the Lemhi Indians in the late years of the decade, just before the great Depression. He came in slung on his . mother's hip, as a youngster, tied with an old shawl; into my father's hardware store where I was most likely swinging in the silver scoop of the scales or rattling nails out of the bin onto the dusty, concrete floor like my own kids did when they were small. Being two years older, I was past being Momma's calf. I'd entice the dark-haired boy down, yanking on his soft, brown pant leg or a dirty, brown foot, to run around the store with me while Whisper through the Trees, his mother, traded her moccasins and buckskin coats for wire or a shovel or an ax or some such thing, much like I trade with Willy George and his wife, Beatrice, now. I'm the only business in Salmon, Idaho, these days that doesn't demand cash money from the Indians, but Willy George and I go way back. I'm a partner with my father in the store: Norris Equipment. Old E

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Steps Out

By Abby Frucht

I came to know Chief Willy George of the Lemhi Indians in the late years of the decade, just before the great Depression. He came in slung on his . […]

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