Virginia's Vocation

by Zina Abbott

  Mr. Porter stepped forward and jabbed his finger in Avery’s direction. “There! There! You do have it within you. Take that passion you just exhibited rising to Miss Atwell’s defense and put it into your writing! Let the fire and dedication for your subject show through in your words and writing style. Maybe then I will give your submissions a second look.”

  Lips parted, Virginia turned to Avery as, taken aback at the publishers’ words, he inhaled deeply several times. He dropped his hand to his side and responded in a calmer voice. “Sir, I give you my word of honor. I will merely accompany her to see to her comfort and safety.” Avery paused and looked down at his feet. Next, he glanced at Virginia, and then he looked up to meet Mr. Porter’s gaze with his own. “It is never a pleasant experience to be criticized in the manner in which you detailed the failings of my writing. However, I asked you to tell me why you did not accept my submissions. I appreciate you giving me your honest opinion.”

  The publisher softened his demeanor as he studied Avery. ‘Like I said, Mr. Wilson, perhaps you should write for academia. You may be the writing instructor at Oberlin. However, if you wish your articles to be accepted for my publication, you need to learn from Miss Atwell. Her passion shows through in her writing and motivates my readers to at least think, if not to act. For one thing, after you finish writing your rough draft, go through and underline every word that has four or more syllables. Try to replace each of them with another word that only has two or three syllables.”

  Thank you, sir. I’ll take that advice to heart. Now, will you allow Miss Atwell to accept the assignment you had in mind with the understanding that I will accompany her and see to her safety?

  “Humph! She’s the Missourian who knows how to use a gun. I suspect in the event of hostilities, she may need to be the one to see to your safety.”

  Virginia suppressed a chuckle. She bit her lip in anticipation.

  Mr. Porter leaned back and slapped his palm to his forehead while he thought for several seconds. He wiped his palm down his face and his focus shifted several times between Avery and Virginia. “I no doubt will be declared insane for what I'm about to agree to. Yes, Mr. Wilson. If you agree to accompany Miss Atwell on her assignment, I will make the arrangements for her to visit the Kaw Reservation. She may write the article.” He stopped and jabbed his finger in Avery's direction. “However, if I see even the merest taint of your current writing style in her article, it will be the last submission I will accept for consideration from either one of you. You let her write without your interference.”

  Virginia glanced at Avery to see his gaze upon her. She watched him turned back to Mr. Porter.

  “I will do as you instruct, Mr. Porter. I will assist her with travel and in any research she might need. I will not attempt to influence her writing.”

  Full of gratitude for Avery’s acceptance and willingness to sacrifice for her success as an author, Virginia turned to smile at Avery. She dared not to hope the expression on his face reflected the love and gratitude she felt for him.

  “All right. We will go with this understanding and hope for the best. Another problem, Miss Atwell. You cannot portray yourself as Mr. Wellington.”

  Wearing a joyful smile, she turned to Mr. Porter. “No sir, I cannot. I believe our best tactic will be for Mr. Wilson and me to go using our own names. If you will, please give us a letter of introduction so we may present ourselves as investigators for your publication. Neither the Indian agent, nor the Kaw people need to know in advance Mr. Wellington will write the article. They will learn it soon enough when it is in print.”

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  Chapter 22

  ~o0o~

  Kaw Reservation, West of Wichita, Kansas Territory – mid August, 1859

  M r. Dickey, the Indian agent, finished reading the letter of introduction before he handed it back to Avery. “Explain to me again. Why do you wish to know more about the Kaw Reservation?”

  Virginia offered him a smile. “Sir, we have heard there are many white American families who have squatted on part of the land that was bought by the Kaw for their reservation. Because of a disputation in the boundaries, they anticipate the government will make a new arrangement to move the Kaw to different land so they might exercise their squatter’s rights to buy the land once the Indians live elsewhere. We were sent by a prominent writer to investigate and provide him with our findings. He…” Virginia experienced a stab of conscience because of the deception. She cleared her throat. “He wishes to publish the truth of the matter.”

  Mr. Dickey frowned at Virginia. In spite of his claims of sympathy for the Kaw people, she suspected that when pushed to choose his loyalties, he thought as a government agent first. “He sent you to investigate, Miss Atwell? I assumed it was Mr. Wilson who came to investigate. Although I understand you two are engaged, why he needed to drag a woman into this affair is beyond me.” The man looked off into the distance. “To take notes, I imagine.”

  Virginia bit back her retort. To take notes, indeed. She refused to be dismissed because of her gender. She kept her words soft. “Mr. Wilson and I agreed to investigate together. We would like to speak with some of the residents of Council Grove. In addition, we would like to speak to some of the Kaw leaders themselves.”

  Ignoring Virginia, Mr. Dickey turned to Avery. “Is this correct, Mr. Wilson? Since I am the Indian agent for this region, I would think the information I provide you would be sufficient for your needs. For one thing, I do not believe it is healthy for you to go among the natives. This year has been a bad one for them. More than usual have suffered from consumption and there have been several deaths.”

  Virginia watched Avery glance at her before he responded. “You have been extremely helpful, Mr. Dickey. However, I am afraid we will need to speak to a sampling of all parties affected by the disputes over the land boundaries. That way, we can present a balanced report.”

  “And, if I decide to not allow it?”

  Virginia’s gaze met Avery’s, and an understanding passed between them. She allowed him to respond. “Then, sir, your objections will be noted. Of course, the question will then arise—what are you trying to hide? It is the author who will raise that issue, sir, not me. We will merely present him with the information we were able to gather.”

  “I see. I’m not trying to hide anything. If you understood what it was like living and dealing with these people, you would understand the difficulties the white population faces.”

  “Why do you have a white population living on Indian reservation land, Mr. Dickey? With only twenty square miles allotted to the Kaw, I would think that barely enough for the Indians. Should the non-Indians not find somewhere else to live?”

  The Indian agent stared at Virginia who had raised the question. “Even though surveyors established the precise boundaries of the reservation in 1856, many whites who live here still dispute it.” He grimaced and shook his head. “We really do not need any more problems here than what we already have. I have been working with the government to resolve some of the complaints of the Kaw, but the process is slow.”

  “Why so slow, Mr. Dickey? If the correct boundaries were confirmed in 1856, and this is 1859, should not those here illegally been told to leave by now? And, what about the Kaw themselves? What is their stand on illegal squatters being allowed remain on their reservation land?”

  Milton Dickey offered Virginia an indulgent smile. “I won’t burden you with the details, Miss Atwell, other than to say it is complicated.” The Indian agent for the Kaw sighed in resignation. “I have an old Indian chief I think I can get to talk to you. He doesn’t speak English. I’ll have to see if that half-breed who is gone half the year has returned to the reservation and rejoined his family. If so, he can translate.”

  She and Avery stopped by the outfitter’s store in Bonner Springs before coming to the Kaw Reservation. She knew about the mixed-blood scout who worked for the owner’s freight
ing operation. Virginia already suspected of whom Mr. Dickey spoke. She offered him an innocent smile. “And who might that be?”

  “Calls himself Charlie Gray Cloud.” He turned back and addressed the balance of his remarks to Avery. “Mr. Wilson, you must keep in mind these people are not civilized. It is imperative that you stay within the confines of white civilization. I will make arrangements and guide you to the people you need to talk to.”

  Avery nodded in agreement. “That would be appreciated, Mr. Dickey.”

  ~o0o~

  That night, as the dusk began to deepen, Virginia sat outside the two tents that had been set up for them—one for her and one for Avery. She stared into the flames of the fire she built for the two of them while he had carried their supplies into their tents. Although she found little comfort in the folding camp stool, she preferred it to a blanket on the ground.

  Avery joined her, placing his stool within a foot of hers.

  Taking advantage of the physical closeness, Virginia turned to him with a smile. She shared her opinions of their day of investigation. “Did you get the impression our Indian agent friend is not being as forthright as he could be? I believe he intends to restrict us to the information he wishes us to hear.”

  “I have never been trained in journalism, Virginia, but it is my suspicion most people do not care for people like us snooping around and ferreting out details many consider best left undiscovered. I agree. That appears the case here.” Avery paused. “I must admit, I never paid much attention to the subject before, but I noticed how Mr. Dickey seemed to resent your presence. I apologize, for I fear we men are often guilty of disregarding women.”

  “It happens constantly, Avery. Men consider it their due to think of women in that manner. To protect us, you understand. It annoys me that, although he barely tolerates you being here, I know he would have refused to offer me any information if I had come alone.” In the soft light of the fire, Virginia drank in Avery’s face as he leaned toward her. The wish for him to kiss her danced through her thoughts. She struggled to push the longing she felt back into the recesses of her mind so she could focus on the business at hand—a difficult task, since her heart refused to cooperate.

  “What do you wish to do about speaking with others?”

  Virginia broke eye contact and stared at the flames. She must focus on his question. She knew no other means to shift her thoughts away from the man sitting so close to her she could almost feel his body heat reach out to her. “I wish to interview some of the white people who live in Council Grove. It is my hope if I approach a few women by myself, they might open up and share their thoughts on the situation. I know they have no say about what their husbands’ do, but women understand more than men like to believe. I also wish to speak with some of the Kaw—perhaps one of their prominent men. I suspect the chief Mr. Dickey is arranging for us to meet will be coached to tell us what the government wants us to hear, not the full truth.”

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  Chapter 23

  ~o0o~

  C harlie Gray Cloud, known to his people as Gray-cloud-speaks-thunder, sometimes resented his people’s expectations his name promised. He had barely returned from scouting for and guiding his father’s train of freight wagons. This year, due to the discovery of gold, they traveled the Smoky Hill Trail to the Pike’s Peak region instead of their usual trip to Santa Fe. Due to the scarcity of water beyond the headwaters of the rivers that ran west to east through most of Kansas Territory—the Kansa bison-hunting grounds—the men and oxen alike suffered periods of extreme thirst. Then they encountered the threat of attack, first by the Cheyenne, and then by the Arapaho who had been pushed east by gold miners. It had been a longer, more difficult journey than previous years traveling the Santa Fe Trail.

  Once he returned, Charlie had looked forward to spending time with his wife and young family. Instead, his father-in-law, Spotted Horse, advised him he needed to meet with the Indian agent in order to translate for some Easterners who had come to the reservation to snoop around. It meant wearing his buckskin trousers and long-sleeved calico shirt instead of his much-cooler breechcloth and beaded neck medallions.

  Charlie had asked why Joseph James, or Jo-Jim, as he was known, a mixed blood like himself, could not interpret. He was the official government interpreter. Spotted Horse told Charlie the visitors were not from the government. They asked about a new treaty the government wanted to make with the Kaw. A man would write it in one of their books the white Americans liked to read. Those in the tribe who held to the traditional ways wished first, to know what was being told the white visitors. If possible, they also wanted them to hear the true Kaw viewpoint.

  As Charlie approached Mr. Dickey’s property, he noticed people and tents in the field surrounding the agent’s house. He assumed the Easterners would have sought shelter in the Dickey home or in a hotel in Council Grove. Perhaps not. Before he spoke with Milton Dickey, he would see for himself who camped in the man’s yard.

  Charlie walked his pony into the light of the campfire. Unlike the Kansa who sit on mats, a man and a woman sat on wood and cloth stools. As soon as he knew the couple saw him, he slid off the horse and walked toward them. The woman straightened her back, but remained seated. The man stood up and stepped between her and Charlie. Charlie flashed what he called his “white man’s smile.” With his black hair and eyes, his skin darkened by the sun, and his features that favored his Kansa mother, he knew when he dressed as a Kansa, he looked more native than white. However, he also knew his gray eyes and his smile displaying a wide jaw and large teeth like his father revealed his white ancestry.

  Charlie stepped forward, but stayed on the opposite side of the fire from the couple. He spread his hands, palms up, to show he carried no weapons. “Good evening. My name is Charlie Gray Cloud. I am looking for a man and a woman who wish to learn more about the Kansa people. Perhaps you know us as Kaw.”

  The two glanced at each other. As the woman stood up, Charlie noticed the leather bag she wore hanging from a strap that rested on her left shoulder and draped across her chest. The attached bag rested against her right side. He narrowed his eyes as he studied it.

  “Yes, Mr. Gray Cloud. I recognize your name. Mr. Dickey told us you would help interpret. My name is Avery Wilson and this is my fiancée, Miss Atwell.”

  Charlie turned to the man who had addressed him. He spoke and dressed like an Easterner. “Please just call me Charlie or Charlie Gray Cloud. No mister.”

  Atwell. Charlie had heard that name before. “Why do you camp in white tents like the Army? Why do you not stay in a hotel in Council Grove?”

  The couple looked at each other and the woman, not Mr. Wilson, answered for them both.

  “We wish to talk to all parties involved with the coming changes to the reservation. I did not wish to align ourselves with one group or the other by staying in town. I…we decided the Indian agent’s property would be the most neutral ground where it still would be reasonably close by and safe.”

  Charlie turned to the woman and nodded. When she spoke, she sounded more like she came from Missouri, just across the river from where he lived with his father before he rejoined the tribe. “I see you own a carrying bag made by the Kaw.”

  “Yes. The owner of the outfitter’s store in Bonner Springs sold me this possibles bag when I traveled through with my family over a year ago. I would not be without it. He spoke well of you, Charlie Gray Cloud. He said you scout for his freight train?”

  Once she moved the bag in front of her so he could better see the front flap in the firelight, he recognized the bag. “Yes. I’m happy you are pleased with the bag, Miss Atwell. My wife will also be pleased. She made it.”

  Charlie held her gaze as the woman’s breath caught. Then she smiled.

  “Please tell your wife how much I enjoy the bag. The design is beautiful, and it is so practical.”

  “I will.” A memory popped into Charl
ie’s mind. Atwell was the name of the family who now claimed the land next to where his people crossed the Smoky Hill River on their way to the plains to hunt. Last year, there had been three men plus a woman. She wore a yellow sunbonnet. At first, she hid in the trees. Later, she joined the men to watch his people as they passed. When he came to his father’s store to guide the freight wagons, Charlie had learned the family stopped there on their way back to Missouri. The woman asked his father many questions about the Kansa and why they left the reservation to hunt bison.

  This year the Kansa would travel the traditional Kaw Trail farther south to the bison hunting grounds. With so many greedy white men using the Smoky Hill Trail to reach the gold fields in Cherry Creek near what the whites called Pike’s Peak, traveling that far north to hunt was no longer safe for his people. They must restrict themselves to an even smaller hunting area around the river the whites called Arkansas and hope the Cheyenne who hunted the same land did not cause them trouble. While Charlie had been gone working for his father, the tribe had already lost too many members of the tribe to consumption. They could not afford to lose anyone else to warfare.

  If he recalled last year’s conversation with the Atwell men correctly, the family should have already moved to their new houses near Salina. He did not see them since he was already with the freight train. His wife told him that spring they had seen whites in wagons near the river crossing. Yet, this woman, a member of their family, was here on the reservation with a man from the East.