Will Weaver casts the reader into the center of an interracial land dispute in this timeless novel. Having fled his family's farm at eighteen with a promise never to return, Guy Pehrsson is drawn back into his past when he receives his grandfather's ominous letter, "Trouble here. Come home when you can." He returns to discover a place both wholly familiar and barely recognizable and is cast into the center of an interracial land dispute with the exigencies of war. Widely acclaimed when first published in the eighties, the timeless novel Red Earth, White Earth showcases Will Weaver's rough ease with language and storytelling, frankly depicting life's uneven terrain and crooked paths. Will Weaver has published nine award-winning books of fiction, most recently Barns of Minnesota and the novel Full Service . Several of his stories have been produced for radio and film. He lives and writes in Bemidji, Minnesota. Red Earth, White Earth By WILL WEAVER BOREALIS BOOKS Copyright © 1986 Will Weaver All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-87351-555-9 Chapter One The summer he was five, Guy saw an Indian woman with four feet. It was June. The ground was finally dry enough to play ball outside. Guy was in the yard pitching his leather softball against the side of the granary, for in that way he could play catch with himself. A car came from the south on the gravel road. Guy stopped to watch. He watched every car that passed the farm. The car, an old, rusted, blue, four-door Pontiac, slowed at the farm driveway and turned in. The car stopped far away from the house and turned around so that its nose faced the road. For a moment nothing happened. In the flat yard, in the bright sunlight, far away a crow cawed. Then the rider's door of the Pontiac swung open with a squeak. An Indian woman got out. Guy picked up his ball and held it. When he looked again the Indian woman was crossing the yard. She was short but straight and walked on four feet. Guy's mouth fell open. Beneath the hem of her long skirt were certainly four feet. The feet moved her across the gravel and onto the grass like some weird insect on the ground beneath the yard lamp only on the hottest, most humid evenings of the summer. An Indian Bug Woman. The Bug Woman came toward Guy. Two of her feet wore shoes like the ones Guy's mother wore. The other pair was smaller, and wore moccasins. As the Bug Woman came closer, Guy watched the smaller feet. He thought of the little safety wheels on some of the farm machinery; if the big wheels went flat or gave way, the little wheels grabbed and kept things from tipping. Guy blinked against the bright sunlight. "Eggs," the Indian woman said to Guy. Eggs. Guy stared. He turned and pointed to the chicken coop beside the barn. There his mother's flock of Leghorns bobbed within the square, chicken-wire yard. "You have extra to sell?" the Indian woman asked. Guy nodded and pointed to his mother's house. There were two houses on the farm. The big, white one was his grandparents', the smaller, brown one his parents'. The Indian woman nodded. Her eyes were as shiny brown as pocket-polished buckeyes and for a moment they gleamed wider and shinier. Then her bug feet propelled her forward. Guy stared for a moment, then let his ball drop and followed the Bug Woman. He circled to one side of her. He saw something more. Not only did the woman have four feet, she had four eyes. Two smaller brown eyes peeped from around her skirt. The lower set of brown eyes could have been woven into the pattern of her skirt, but polka dots did not have black eyebrows. Polka dots did not peep out, then disappear, then peep out again. Guy thought of a chipmunk on a tree. No matter which way Guy or the Indian woman turned, the small brown eyes stayed on the far, safe side of her trunk. Guy's mother brought the eggs out to the front steps. Without speaking, the Indian woman opened the cartons. She ran her short brown fingers across the white crowns of the eggs to inspect them for broken shells. Then she paid two dimes for two dozen, nodded to Madeline, and left. Her extra eyes and extra feet followed her across the yard to the Pontiac where an Indian man waited behind the wheel. Before the Bug Woman was halfway to the car, the Pontiac's engine started up. The door squeaked and slammed. Then the Pontiac's wheels crunched on gravel. Guy watched the car head south, then turn west. It continued across the flat plane of the fields and finally disappeared into the hazy green hills of the inner reservation. In two weeks the Indian car came again. So did the Bug Woman's extra eyes and feet. This time Guy spotted on her a crow's wing of black hair connected to the smaller eyes. Then a brown ear. On each visit Guy saw more parts—a hand, an elbow—of the brown jigsaw puzzle he knew to be some sort of kid. Once, toward midsummer, Guy was tossing his ball against the granary when the Indians' Pontiac came into the yard aga