Read Online Code Talker by Chester Nez - Free Book Online Page A

used to make the design. They used a big wooden comb to pack the horizontal wool down, giving the end product a tight weave. Auntie and Grandma kept busy with the task all winter.
    Great-Grandmother had been an especially fine weaver. The trading post owner judged the quality of the rugs with an expert eye. He traded goods the family needed, like coffee, flour, or salt, for rugs. He trusted his customers, and gave products on credit, keeping a ledger of what was owed. When my family didn’t need any products from the trader immediately, he exchanged woven goods for aluminum coins, or “chips,” in twenty-five-cent, fifty-cent, and dollar denominations. These were stamped with the name of the trading post. My family used the post “money” when they needed it—for rope or sugar, candy or saltines, or dozens of other things the trader sold.
    Under the cover, I pressed a cold foot against my leg for warmth. At home, I had warm clothes that Grandma and my aunties made for me. From big squares of sheepskin they made shoes, folding the fur on the inside and wrapping it around my feet, securing it with twine. My winter pants and shirt were also sheepskin. Wet sheepskin, beaten with rocks and rubbed with sticks, grew soft. Then, as with the water bag, animal grease applied to the leather side of the skin made it water-repellent. The cozy clothing had thick, warm wool on the inside.
    I shivered. I couldn’t wait for summer break.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Bullies and Religion

Late 1920s, Early 1930s
    Rain streamed down the dormitory windows, showing no signs of letting up. The weather had warmed a bit, and plants had begun to grow, but we probably wouldn’t get to go outside all day.
    Pretending disinterest, I watched the two older boys who’d been called to the dorm to babysit. The matrons always left for the weekend. When it rained and we couldn’t go outside, we smaller boys were at the mercy of our older schoolmates. Despite the strict discipline at school, or perhaps because of it, many bullies had sprung up among the school population. The teachers and administration usually ignored them, apparently preferring to stay out of their way in a safe classroom or office.
    The taller of the two boys commanded, “Line up.” He gestured with two hands. “Both sides.”
    We scuttled to the sides of the room, our heads hunched into our shoulders.
    The empty middle of the room seemed huge. Tall Boy grinned at his friend. He tossed him a baseball, keeping one for himself. “Cross over,” he said quietly.
    We raced, protecting our heads with our arms. The very smallest cried as they stumbled across the room. Both big boys fired baseballs at us, cheering when they hit their targets.
    I dodged and aimed a stare, sharp as a blade of yucca, at one of the boys. I’d never been hit. I hated to see the smaller children cry, but I didn’t dare help them. We’d played this game before, and the bullies attacked anyone who tried to help.
    Someday, when I’m big, I’ll pay them back.
    Â 
    Â 
    I stood under the steady flow of the shower, the matron watching to be sure I got clean. Water puddled at my feet. I remembered carrying water by bucket at home in Chichiltah. A waste. All this water.
    Standing under the warm flow, I yawned, although the five-thirty wake-up was no problem for me. At home I often got up earlier than that. While the matrons were waking any stragglers I’d made my bed. At home I slept on the ground. Life at school, if you only considered the amenities, was much softer than life on the Checkerboard.
    I soaped what was left of my hair and rinsed it, turning to glance at the frowning matron. She gestured for me to hurry.
    As I pulled on my uniform, I hoped there wouldn’t be a fight in the cafeteria that morning. The normal breakfast—oatmeal and prunes—wasn’t bad. But leaving the cafeteria . . . That was another story entirely.
    The older