“You are supposed to investigate things and use the brain God gave you, Mr. Leighton,” Miss Jane snapped. “Or did the same shot that took your hand off also somehow remove part of your brain?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Miss Jane winced. Her entire face reddened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Leighton. That was completely uncalled for.”
Leighton ignored her apology. Instead, he asked calmly, “And how would you suggest I investigate these matters, since you claim the newspaper accounts are untrustworthy?”
“Go to Crow Creek with Reverend Dane. Meet the people. See what he has in mind for his family.”
Leighton snorted. “That’s an absurd notion.”
“Why?” Miss Jane said quickly. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it was about mission work that captured your sister’s imagination? Haven’t you ever wondered how the Dakota people won her heart? Anyone would agree that your motive to do the best thing for your sister’s children is good. But you can’t just sweep them away from the life she chose for them without ever having understood it.”
“Idealism isn’t very practical, Miss Williams,” Leighton said abruptly. He held up his hook. “Look what it did for me.” He leaned forward and said slowly, “And it killed my sister.”
Miss Jane met his gaze and didn’t look away. Clearing her throat, she replied, “I don’t deny that idealism plays a role in the missionary’s call—especially if she is young. But idealism is quickly destroyed in the face of reality. Your sister was a woman of purpose, Mr. Leighton, not an idealistic fool. You do her an injustice not to realize that. She accepted reality and gave her heart and soul to it. It’s a pity that her brother cannot follow her example.”
Noting Leighton’s look of surprise, Miss Jane hurried on. “You have a mental image of Indians that you won’t adjust, even when faced with someone like Genevieve LaCroix. You continue to operate on the premise that Reverend Dane is the same self-serving, self-righteous man your sister married, even though you must see that he has changed.” She swallowed and persisted. “The tragedy in it all, Mr. Leighton, is that your bitterness and anger and unhappiness hurt you the most. Your beliefs won’t change the way we all feel about Gen. And they certainly won’t change her devotion to us. Nor will they change Reverend Dane’s commitment to his calling. But you, Mr. Leighton—” She stood up slowly. “If you let these beliefs and feelings continue to burn inside you, they will destroy you.” She laid a gold coin on the table. “It would be a pity for such an attractive, intelligent man to allow that to happen.”
She bid him good day and swept out of the room.
Fourteen
A fool uttereth all his mind.
—Proverbs 29:11
“I’m going with you.”
Simon looked up as Elliot burst into the Whitney’s parlor unannounced. Simon nodded, but gave no indication that he had heard or understood what Leighton said. “Good morning, Elliot. We’re just reading the story of Daniel in the lions’ den.”
Leighton looked down at where Rebecca and Timothy Sutton, the Whitney children, and Meg and Hope sat clustered on the rag rug spanning the space between the two stuffed chairs by the fireplace. He smoothed his wild hair self-consciously and opened his mouth to clarify his intention.
“It’s my favorite story!” Meg interrupted. She grinned up at him. “Father does voices. You should hear it!”
“Indeed,” Elliot said halfheartedly.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Elliot,” Simon said. “You’re welcome to listen—or perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee in the kitchen. I think Nina and Gen are still back there cleaning up from breakfast.” He nodded toward the hall.
Elliot exited quickly, but stayed just outside the parlor door and listened while Simon read to the children. Simon did, indeed, do voices, as Meg had said. At the first high-pitched roar, Elliot peeked into the parlor. Simon was down on all fours, pretending to devour Meg’s arm. The children shrieked with joy and tumbled all over him. He lay on his back for a moment then, panting with the effort to get up, he slumped into the chair. It was a few moments before he caught his breath and by then the children were once again sitting quietly.
Elliot leaned against the wall listening as Simon finished the story without further roughhousing. As the children filed past him and headed outside to play, Elliot was thinking back to something Jane had said to him. He isn’t the same man who married your sister. But you ignore the obvious and maintain your opinion. Reluctantly, Elliot admitted that in the matter of Simon Dane, Miss Jane might have a point. The Simon Dane he had known back in New York years ago would never have stooped to crawling around on the carpet with a bunch of children.
“Come in, Elliot.” Simon appeared at the parlor door and waved him inside. “Thank you for waiting. Did I hear you correctly? Did you say you are going?” He put his hand on Elliot’s shoulder and guided him to another chair. He sat down. “I’ll take Meg and Aaron down to the photographer’s tomorrow so you can take a new print home to Mother Leighton.” He paused. “And, Elliot, you can be assured I will send the children for a visit. It’s just that right now—”
“You’ve misunderstood me,” Elliot interrupted. “I’m not going back to New York. I’m going with you. To Crow Creek.”
Simon blinked a few times, and sat down, trying to absorb the idea.
Elliot shifted in his chair. “I never did understand what it was about missions work that captured my sister’s imagination.” He cleared his throat and looked down at the carpet. “I certainly never understood her love for the Indians.” He looked back at Simon, his gaze steady. “Perhaps I never will. But now it seems even Aaron is caught up in it. I need to see it for myself. Perhaps then I’ll understand. But whether I understand or not, at least I will see with my own eyes where it is you want to take Ellen’s children.” His gaze did not waver. “I don’t imagine I’ll change my mind about wanting them anywhere but with Mother and me in New York. But at least no one will be able to accuse me of making a decision based on third-hand information.”
Simon looked past Elliot toward the parlor door. “Come in, ladies, come in. Elliot and I were just discussing the possibility of his going with me back to Crow Creek.”
The men stood up as Gen and Miss Jane entered the room. Simon noticed the way Gen’s blue eyes were accented by her pale blue calico dress.
Elliot noticed the red curls fringing Miss Jane’s lined face. And the triumphant smile as she nodded approvingly and winked at him.
“When he learns his uncle is going, Aaron is going to be furious with you for making him stay here in St. Anthony,” Gen said quietly.
“He’ll get over it,” Simon replied.
Elliot nodded. “The boy needs his education.”
“Sometimes,” Gen argued softly, “a boy can get a better education outside the classroom.” She looked at Simon, her eyes pleading.
“That may be true in another civilization, Miss LaCroix,” Elliot said. “But it isn’t true for Leighton. Leighton men have always been formally educated. Aaron should be no exception.”
“Have you really considered Aaron’s wishes?” Miss Jane interrupted. “Or are you men just going to battle it out between you, then hand the boy a life and tell him to live it?” She pushed at the fringe of red fuzz around her face with a gloved hand.
“He’s a boy,” Leighton said. “He needs guidance.”
Miss Jane nodded at Simon. “I realize this is not my business—”
“We know you love our children, Miss Jane. We value your opinion,” Simon said.
Encouraged by Simon’s response, Miss Jane turned to Elliot. “You forget, Mr. Leighton, that Aaron has lived adventures the Leighton men never encountered. If you put him in a classroom with a bunch of city boys while you men travel west, he’ll be miserable. He won’t be able to concentrate—”
“He will adjust,” Elliot insisted.
“He needs his father,” Miss Jane retorted, “and his uncle. You’ll be hurrying home to New Yo
rk soon, and what will he have gained from you? You will have been separated and you will have missed a great opportunity to strengthen family ties.”
“It isn’t safe out west,” Leighton protested.
“The Dakota people at Crow Creek love that boy,” Miss Jane said quickly. “They wouldn’t let anything harm him.”
“If the hostile Sioux attack the agency,” Leighton said, “all the love in the world won’t protect him.”
“Elliot is right,” Simon insisted. “It isn’t safe. Not yet. I worried about it the entire time we were there this summer. Lord willing the government will send more troops next spring. Then we can reconsider.” He looked up at his brother-in-law. “If you are willing, Elliot, I’d welcome your company. I’m trying to arrange for some relief supplies to be shipped with us. An extra wagon driver would be a great help.”
Leighton looked down at his hook. “I haven’t driven a wagon since—”
“Well then,” Miss Jane said quickly. “You’d better get to the livery and get some practice.” She touched Gen’s elbow and took a step backward. “You’ve just got time before supper. Try to be back by six.” She headed off down the hall toward the kitchen.
“That woman,” Elliot said under his breath, “should mind her own business.”
Simon smiled and patted Elliot on the back. “Ask for Abe Carver at the livery.”
Only the news that an entire family had been massacred on the Dakota border convinced Simon to travel by steamboat instead of heading off across the prairie for Dakota Territory. The Missouri was so low it was barely passable, and Simon often lamented Elliot’s exposure to passengers who despised Indians—each one seeming to have an awful story to tell.
A man purporting to have killed Little Crow climbed aboard at St. Louis and regaled the men with a bloody story.
“The problem with him,” Simon later told Elliot, “is that his story is a complete fabrication. There was no battle—no shoot-out. Little Crow was shot by a farmer north of Hutchinson. He and his son were picking raspberries when it happened. The farmer didn’t even realize it was Little Crow until later.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
Simon shook his head wearily. “It does no good to argue with men like that. They have their minds made up about the Sioux. They don’t want to be confused with facts.”
Elliot blanched, realizing that Simon could be talking about him as well. One evening as he leaned on the steamship railing staring down at the sluggish Missouri, a man swaggered up. When he looked up at Elliot, recognition shone in his eyes. “Major Leighton?”
Elliot looked down at the man, squinting, trying to remember. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Jensen, sir. Private Brady Jensen.” He gave a halfhearted salute and forced a laugh. “I thought you’d be back with the regiment by now, sir.”
Leighton raised his left arm and slammed the hook on the railing. He studied the waters of the Missouri carefully and drew on his cigar.
Jensen shifted his weight nervously. “Sorry, sir. I—uh—I didn’t know.”
“How is it you came west, Jensen?”
“Reassigned. I’ve been at Fort Ridgely for a few months. Just escorted over a hundred prisoners up to Fort Snelling.”
“Prisoners?” Leighton frowned.
“Mostly women and children. Old men. We’ve been rounding them up all summer. Finally had enough to haul up to the Fort.” He spit again. “Then I got leave to see relatives down in St. Louis. I’m on my way back now.”
“Why would women and children be made prisoners?”
“Oh, I don’t guess they’re exactly prisoners,” Jensen said. “But we got to get them out of the state before someone kills them.” He exhaled sharply. “Leastways that’s what our orders are.”
“So you are headed back to Fort Ridgely?”
Jensen shook his head. “No. I’m done with that place. Can’t stand working with Dakota scouts. Glad to be leaving. I’d rather be a cook at Fort Thompson than a captain if being captain means I got to live and work with them red devils.”
“I didn’t realize the army had employed Indian scouts,” Leighton said, his curiosity piqued.
Jensen spit again. “There’s dozens of ’em. You ought to hear Captain Willets up at Fort Ridgely. He’s fairly in love with his Dakota scouts. Calls ’em in every evening to talk over what the army should do.” Jensen shook his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was part missionary.” He laughed harshly. “Contemptible fools, every one of ’em. How they can justify helping the very people that murdered hundreds of innocent white farmers I’ll never know.”
“I heard some of them saved white families,” Leighton said.
Jensen looked up at him quickly. “Yeah. I heard that too. But I didn’t see it happen.” He stood back from the rail. “You still in the army, Major? I heard they had a new corps for the wounded men—using them as clerks and such.”
Leighton turned to look down at Jensen. His eyes narrowed. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and tossed it overboard. “Fact is, Jensen, I’m traveling with my brother-in-law. He’s one of those ‘contemptible fools’ you were talking about earlier—a missionary. We’re headed for Crow Creek with supplies for the Dakota.”
“Never thought I’d see the day Major Elliot Leighton turned into an Injun lover,” Jensen said.
“And you haven’t,” Leighton snapped. “But I’ve heard reports that the United States Army is starving women and children. That’s not right.”
Jensen mumbled something about “extermination” and backed away. Leighton watched him go. Willing his breathing to even out, unclenching his fist, he pulled a fresh cigar out of his pocket and placed it in his hook while he struck a match. Finally, he took the cigar in his good hand and put it to his lips, taking a long draw and exhaling slowly. He watched cigar smoke drift out over the river and as he did, he remembered the smoke of battle. He hadn’t thought about Antietam in a long time. He swore at Jensen for bringing it back so fresh, so raw that he could almost hear himself screaming as his left hand flew off and landed at his feet only to be drenched in his own blood flowing freely out of the stump still attached to his body.
Fifteen
He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker: but he that honoureth him hath mercy on the poor.
—Proverbs 14:31
Simon sat back in the dust, holding the starving Dakota woman in his arms. He and Elliot had been crossing to the agent’s office to arrange for distribution of their supplies when they noticed the woman weaving back and forth across the trail where a company of mounted soldiers had just passed. She would stoop over, picking at the dust, tuck something into a skin bag at her waist, and then go on a little farther. When she staggered and fell, Simon ran to her. She whispered something.
“What is it?” Elliot knelt beside Simon.
“Soup,” Simon whispered hoarsely. He reached into the bag at the woman’s side and withdrew a few filthy kernels of corn. “She said she was making soup.”
The two men looked around them at the steaming piles of manure left in the wake of the cavalry’s passing. They looked at the woman, limp in Simon’s arms. Her fingers were coated with manure.
“Dear God in heaven,” Elliot whispered, disbelieving.
Pulling the semiconscious woman into his arms, Simon struggled to his feet and headed across the barren earth toward the agent’s quarters. Elliot walked ahead of him. Together, the men burst through the door unannounced.
“What’s this?” Harry Finley looked up from his desk, frowning.
“It’s a starving woman,” Simon said between clenched teeth. He laid the woman gently on Finley’s desktop.
Finley jumped up, wrinkling his nose. “Get this stinking piece of flesh out of here,” he barked. “She’ll have lice crawling all over the place.”
“I want guns,” Simon said tersely. “Guns for fifty men—that is if I can find fifty able-bodied men. I want you to a
uthorize a hunting party to be led by my brother-in-law and myself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Finley snorted. “I’m not going to arm my prisoners!” He lowered his voice. “Be reasonable, Reverend Dane. I know things are wretched. That’s why I’m in the process of contracting locally for supplies.”
“You can’t get enough fast enough,” Simon retorted. “We have nearly a thousand starving people just outside the stockade. The last relief supplies you got were spoiled meat and worm-ridden flour. These people need fresh meat or they are not going to survive the winter.” Simon leaned across the unconscious woman’s form. “How many more children must die? You be reasonable, Finley. These men aren’t going to rise up against you. Sending out a hunting party isn’t dangerous. It’s common sense.”
The agent scratched at his grizzled day-old beard. He looked at the unconscious woman on his desk and turned away in revulsion.
Simon spit words between clenched teeth. “If you refuse to do this, Finley, I will personally see to it that you are drummed out of your office if I have to carry this woman to Washington, D.C. and lay her dead body at the president’s feet!” He knew he should lower his voice, but he didn’t try. He touched the woman’s hair. “They aren’t animals, Finley.” He walked around the desk and faced the man. “She is someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. In another time, in another place, she could have been your wife. Your mother. How would you feel if it were your mother picking through manure to salvage corn?’
Finley looked down at the sagging flesh on the scarecrow-thin woman’s bare arm. She was regaining consciousness, but she made no effort to move. She simply lay on his desktop, her open eyes glazed over.
Simon turned to Elliot. “Take her to Mother Friend,” he said quietly. “The tent just outside the east gate.” He gestured with an open hand. “A red sunburst painted over the door. Get a bag of grain out of the supply wagon for them.”
“Won’t that start a stream of people—?”
“I’ll be along directly.” He nodded at Elliot. “Don’t worry about a mob scene around the wagons. These people share everything.” Elliot scooped the woman up and started to leave.
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