Native American ONE OF US IS LYING meets SADIE
When another girl is murdered on the Blackfeet Reservation, Mara and her friends doubt the Tribal Police will solve it. If they don’t investigate it themselves, they’ll be the only suspects—or worse—the next victims.
Thursday, July 10, 7:15 p.m.
Something about the beat of the drum makes me stop feeling like such a fraud. Like I’m not a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Or a doe in mountain lion skin. All the blood that matters thrums through my limbs to my feet, telling me I belong. This land is mine too. For better or worse.
The pounding beat vibrates in my chest, and I force myself not to blink in time with it. The cries of the men circling the drum make my throat dry and constrict, like it aches to sing in their rhythm. My muscles tense as they pound the leather-bound sticks against the hide as one, the beat getting faster and their voices getting higher.
The older man, cowboy hat shadowing his face, whacks his stick harder as the others pause. A younger man in a flat-billed baseball cap sings alone, a wail sinking into his undulating voice, and then each of them hit the drum in sync again. Their voices rise to intertwine with his like a united battle cry. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and I sink further into the bleacher bench.
Women in beaded dresses with colorful shawls and men in buckskin regalia with feathered shoulder and back bustles dance to the beat past the drumming group. They have bells strapped around their legs and plumes of feathers in their hands. Some of their faces are painted in the old ways, with black and red, making them look fierce, powerful.