Things were getting confusing. The chapter itself said that most of those people had not been rewarded at all. They had suffered and died and never received any of the promises God had made.
For he looked for a city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God … These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country … a better country, that is, an heavenly …
They embraced promises of heaven. That was how they survived. They accepted being strangers on the earth. A house not made with hands, Robert had said. A house not made with hands, Mrs. Dane had said. Daniel rebelled against the idea. He had wanted to be rewarded for what he had done to save white women and children during the uprising. When it did not happen, he rebelled. He accepted nothing by faith. He was not looking to a better country. He wanted his farm back. His old life back. The girl he loved back. Here and now. Not someday.
Look to the future. To the house not made with hands. This time, when Daniel finished Hebrews 11, he continued reading, and it was as if God spoke directly to him: Lay aside every weight … run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross… .
I don’t know if I can do it, Daniel half thought, half prayed. He grabbed up the journal and looked into Blue Eyes’s face. What if the race God had set before him was to be alone for the rest of his life? The thought frightened him. Tears welled up in his eyes. He blinked them away and turned back to the open Scriptures.
Make straight paths for your feet … follow peace with all men … look diligently … . lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you… . There it was, Daniel thought. The thing that had almost destroyed him. For months now he had nourished a root of bitterness, had allowed it to flourish and grow until it nearly choked out his weak faith. It was like the vine that grew at the old mission; one small green shoot came out and before long nearly swallowed up the porch. Even now, he thought, that vine had probably swallowed up the rubble left after the fire destroyed the cottage.
No wonder he was so unhappy. The Bible said truly great things were done by faith. Men conquered death by faith. And they got that kind of faith from God’s Word. It had been months since Daniel had opened a Bible. No wonder he felt empty. No wonder there were times when he wanted to die. He almost was dead, spiritually speaking.
Over and over again, the fire waned and Daniel fed it, leaning close, squinting to discern the words on the pages of Robert’s Bible. Near dawn he finally settled back against the rock wall and dozed off, completely relaxed for the first time in many, many moons.
Things happened so quickly he barely had time to react. A scream sounded from above; and in an instant the mountain lion he had heard the night before dropped down the sheer cliff onto the white stallion’s back. The horse’s rear hooves nearly caught Daniel full in the face as he leaped up, snatching his knife from its hiding place in his right boot. Everything was chaos. The bay gelding hopped and whinnied and bucked, rolling its eyes and working itself into a frenzy while the cat clung to the white stallion’s back, scraping the beautiful white shoulders until they ran with blood. The horse went down and the cat sank its teeth into the horse’s neck. Then everything grew strangely quiet.
As the scent of dust and fresh blood filled the air, the cat peered at Daniel across the white stallion’s mane, flicking its huge tail angrily, watching his every move. The horse lay still. Daniel crouched down, licking his lips, trying not to tremble lest the creature sense his fear and come at him. But, just as he thought it, the great cat released the stallion and flew through the air toward him. Daniel screamed a war cry and met the animal, knife extended. The cat barely had time to slap Daniel’s shoulder with one paw before it fell dead at his feet.
Daniel stumbled back onto his rear in the dust, panting, trembling, staring in disbelief at the dead cat. It lay on its side and would have appeared to be asleep except for the handle of a knife jutting out of its neck. His sleeve hung in shreds, but apparently the war cry had startled the animal enough to deflect the worst damage from its claws.
The stallion snorted and began to struggle to get up. Daniel pulled the knife out of the cat’s carcass. He went to the horse’s head and, grasping the rope lead, cut away the braided hobbles. Able to spread his legs farther apart, the stallion regained his feet. He looked at the dead cat and snorted, dancing away, tossing his head. Relief flooded through Daniel as he checked the animal’s wounds. The once unmarred skin would be scarred, but the stallion would live. His legs trembled as he led his horses to a nearby stream. His bay gelding waded in and drank deeply.
Both horses were still jittery. It took a while for Daniel to coax the stallion into the water, to let him wash the claw marks across his shoulders. He wished for a needle. He could have used the cat’s innards to sew up the wounds. “I wish I could help you more, friend,” he whispered in the stallion’s ear. The horse flicked one ear in Daniel’s face and shoved him playfully.
By dawn, Daniel had skinned the great cat and hauled the carcass a mile from his campsite. He had located a plant his mother had used for healing and, breaking it open, spread the gooey substance inside across the stallion’s shoulders. The animal appeared to be none the worse for its encounter with the mountain lion, and by late in the day, Daniel realized with regret there was no reason to delay letting him go.
At sunset, Daniel led the horse to the top of a distant rise. The hills were flecked with orange and gold as the sun sank behind the horizon. “You belong out there, my friend,” Daniel whispered in the horse’s ear. “I send you to the place where our fathers hunted the buffalo.” He raked his fingers through the abundant mane. Then, laying his hand on the horse’s snow-white neck, Daniel looked heavenward. He took a deep breath. “I wish you could have carried Otter to a peaceful life.” He blinked back tears before abruptly removing the animal’s halter.
The stallion did not at first seem to realize he was free. Daniel slapped him on the rump. “Go!” He waved his arms in the air. The horse tossed its head and danced away playfully before rearing up and combing the air with its front hooves. One step, then two, and the horse leaped ahead, stretched into a run and headed for the setting sun, tail flying, nose into the wind.
Daniel watched the horse go and a sad smile crept across his face. “As he runs to freedom, Father, I send with him all my anger, all my bitterness. Cleanse me of it. Make me white. Let me finish the race with You, my Father.”
He stood looking toward the west for a long time before returning to camp and the task of scraping the mountain lion’s pelt. He was still working on it when Robert and Big Amos rode into camp shortly after sundown.
“The stallion?” Big Amos asked abruptly.
“Gone,” Daniel replied. “I let him go just as the sun was setting.”
“And that?” Robert Lawrence asked, nodding at the pelt. Daniel held it up. “The lions roared, but they did not devour me. Our God and Father protected me—just as He did that other Daniel.”
He was surprised to see tears well up in Robert’s eyes, surprised when Big Amos strode over and grabbed him and hugged him. After pounding him on the back, Big Amos looked heavenward and shouted “Wakantanka waste!” “God is good!”
Seventeen
Be not wise in your own conceits.
—Romans 12:16
Elliot Leighton lay on his back listening to Simon cough. He sat up. “We have to get you to a doctor, Simon.”
“I’m sorry, Elliot,” Simon said. “I don’t mean to disturb you—” He collapsed in another fit of coughing.
“Don’t apologize,” Elliot said harshly. “I’m not concerned about me. It’s you I’m worried about. You came back from the hunting expedition half dead from fatigue. If that weren’t bad en
ough, the thermometer has dropped through the floor—”
“I’ll be all right,” Simon wheezed.
Elliot got up and crossed the narrow room to where Simon lay. Feeling his forehead, he said abruptly, “You’re burning up.”
“It’s not that serious,” Simon insisted. He clutched his blankets beneath his chin, trying to will himself to stop shivering.
“Maybe not,” Elliot snapped. “But I’m going to get Mother Friend in here anyway. She’s the closest thing to a doctor available. Maybe she’ll know what to do.” He pulled on his overcoat and stumbled outside.
Simon listened as Elliot’s footsteps retreated in the distance, breathing a prayer of thanks. For a man who despised Indians, Leighton had come a long way since their arrival at Crow Creek late in the summer. Outrage at the conditions at the reservation had been followed by grudging respect for the men on the hunting expedition. Elliot’s going for Mother Friend signaled yet another change in attitude.
In an attempt to fend off another coughing fit, Simon stood up, breathing deeply, trying to ignore the pain across his chest. For a moment, he felt better. But then a wave of dizziness sent him crawling back beneath his blankets, where he lay shivering until Elliot came back.
“She wants you in her tepee,” Leighton said gruffly. “Said she has everything she needs there. Says the white man’s buildings are full of bugs. Doesn’t want to have anything to do with them.” He looked down at Simon. “Do you think you can walk?”
“Of course I can walk!” Simon said indignantly. He pushed his covers aside and stood up. Grabbing his coat, he had thrust one arm through a sleeve when he nearly toppled over. Elliot ducked just in time to get Simon to fall on his right shoulder, where he could hold him with his good hand. He braced himself and stood upright. “Just relax, Simon,” he ordered. “I’ll carry you up there.” Throwing a blanket over Simon’s back, he headed outside and up the hill, frowning to himself at how little his brother-in-law weighed. He didn’t think it possible, but Simon had lost more weight since they arrived at the reservation.
Mother Friend fussed over Simon like a mother doting on a grown child. She prepared a foul-smelling poultice and painted Simon’s chest. She burned noxious-smelling weeds and made him breathe deeply, inhaling the smoke. It sent him into another fit of coughing that brought the congestion up out of his lungs. Mother Friend inspected it and nodded with satisfaction. Elliot watched for nearly an hour. When he saw Mother Friend take the weed she had just burned and add it to boiling water and force Simon to drink it, he decided he was watching worthless incantations and witchcraft.
Mother Friend looked at him and smiled. “Go to bed, Silver Fox. I will send for you if there is a change.” She waved Elliot out the door. “Say a prayer before you sleep,” she said, patting him on the back. She lowered her voice and added, “Helping Words is very sick. You should have brought him to me before this.”
Elliot walked back up the hill toward the narrow shack he and Simon moved into when winter arrived. The night was clear. As far as Elliot could see, there was no glow of civilization. At home on a night like this, there would be glimmers of light in the distance from other villages. Here, there was nothing. Only the vast canopy of stars arching over black velvet that stretched away into the distance. Around him, the cooking fires in the center of each tepee made the skin and canvas shelters glow like Chinese lanterns. A wolf howled. Elliot shivered and rubbed his arms, imagining mounted warriors racing toward the peaceful scene, intent on killing. But Simon said they don’t attack at night, Elliot reminded himself.
Once back at the narrow cabin he shared with Simon, Elliot could not sleep. He stirred up the fire and sat beside it, watching the flames devour stick after stick of wood, remembering a conversation he and Simon had had only a week before. They were sitting before their meager little stove, alternately picking meat off a small roasted bird and drinking coffee when Simon began to talk about the days before the uprising.
“In the old days,” he explained, “each band had its own government. In camp, each band had its place in the circle.” He scratched a circle on the floor with the tip of his knife. “The circle was open toward the east for the rising sun. Another opening at the north or south provided a corridor through which the young boys took the horses to pasture and water. Each separate camp was grouped around a council tepee. Everything well organized, everything in order. I have seen a camp of hundreds be totally packed and moving in less than two hours.” He sat up and reached for his coffee cup. “They are a remarkable people. Perfectly suited to the land. They know how to use everything around them.” He gestured toward the door. “When you go out in the morning, look at the arrangement of the tepees and bark houses. You can still see the same circular design if you know what to look for. Even here the people tend to cluster by their old, camp associations.” He shook his head sadly. “If we whites had left them alone, they wouldn’t be starving.”
Elliot listened, more interested in Simon’s feelings about the Dakota people than the customs he was describing. As the weeks went by and he saw the people reacting to Simon, he began to see some of what Simon had said about their willingness to share, their caring for one another. He began to see them as people, and when he began to do that, he began to change.
“They have always been a very spiritual people,” Simon explained another time. He and Elliot had ridden out together after a herd of antelope someone had seen beyond reservation lines. When they came upon an odd arrangement of buffalo skulls, Simon said, “Almost everything in their lives has a spiritual significance. Of course most of us discount it all as godless superstition. But there is a haunting beauty in the symbolism of their ancient ways. Even the war paint means something. If a man wears black, it means he killed an enemy. Blue means victory.” He smiled. “There is language in the way the men wear their feathers. A scout’s feathers are painted yellow or white—and worn hanging down. Feathers standing up means he killed an enemy.” He paused. “Of course some of it we’ll never know, because they will never tell us what it means. Just before she died, I asked Buffalo Moon to tell me the meaning of a symbol on her moccasins. It was something I’d never seen before. She only smiled and said it was just a design she liked. I know better. But she took that secret to her grave.”
Elliot mused, “Someone should be writing these things down before they’re lost.” He was surprised to hear himself say it, but even more surprised to realize he meant it. The culture was obviously going to change, and much of it would be lost if no one documented it.
“Yes,” Simon said quietly. “Someone should.” He smiled at Elliot. “Perhaps that will be your ministry, brother.”
“Not me,” Elliot said quickly.
Simon studied his face carefully. “No,” he said finally. “Perhaps not.” He grinned and nudged his horse forward. “But I can’t tell you how pleased I am—how pleased Ellen would be—to hear you even voice the idea. It’s quite a departure from your previous position. And I don’t know anyone else who thinks the Dakota culture worth saving. Most either want to exterminate it completely or at best let it die a natural death through assimilation.”
“What do you think, Simon?”
Pulling his horse up, Simon thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t honestly know. Part of me wants them to change as quickly as possible because it will save their lives—and their souls. Part of me wonders if there isn’t a way to save their traditions and still win them to Christ.”
“Jane said she struggles with the same things,” Elliot said.
“Jane?”
“Jane Williams.” Elliot gestured toward a distant ridge where a huge buck antelope stood silhouetted against the gray sky. “Outspoken woman. Exasperating.”
“Pure gold, Elliot. There isn’t a finer woman in all of Minnesota.”
“Or Dakota Territory,” Elliot added under his breath. He put his reins in his hook and withdrew his rifle from its scabbard. “Unfortunately, she is completel
y dedicated to her beloved Indians. Whereas I am completely dedicated to returning east and seeing that my niece and nephew receive a proper education.”
“We can talk about that,” Simon said, lowering his voice and watching the antelope as it crossed toward them.
Elliot did not hide his surprise. “We can?”
Simon nodded. “Yes. After we get that big buck back to the agency.” He kneed his horse ahead of Elliot’s.
Later that evening, after they had returned to the agency with two carcasses on their pack mules, Simon resumed the subject.
“The fact is, Elliot, I don’t see any evidence of things quieting down anytime soon. Sibley has yet another campaign planned for next year that will keep the western bands stirred up. And believe it or not, he plans to remove most of the small detachment of troops we have in the spring. Even the cannon.”
“He can’t be serious!” Elliot interjected. “That will leave the entire agency vulnerable to attack!”
“Yes.” Simon nodded. “And it will keep everything in an uproar. I can’t believe the government is really going to keep the reservation located at Crow Creek. Superintendent Thompson’s glowing letters notwithstanding, someone somewhere is going to have to listen to the truth. Until the situation is more settled, I’d be a fool to bring my family out here. It really isn’t safe, and it wouldn’t accomplish anything.” He looked at Elliot. “Time in New York with their grandmother would be good for the children. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had thought about it even before your arrival. The difficulty was I thought it was too much to expect of Mother Leighton alone. But now that you won’t be returning to your regiment—” He stopped abruptly.
“It’s all right, Simon,” Elliot replied. “Perhaps it’s all for the best.” He smiled slowly. “I do rather like the idea of having children, and since marriage is out of the question—” He gestured toward the door. “Coming here has changed the way I look at the situation. I don’t share your passion for the ministry, Simon. God hasn’t called me that way. But as much as a layman can, I understand why you feel you have to be here. These people need what you have to offer. And if the children come to New York, I’ll do my best by them. And”—he put his hand on Simon’s shoulder—“I won’t be your adversary in the matter of Dakota ministry.”
Edge of the Wilderness Page 15
