Every day when she rose, Gen prayed that God would make her His servant. She prayed to be a good mother. And she prayed to love Simon Dane. She bowed her conscious mind and her will to doing love. But at night, when she dreamed, it was not Simon who came toward her in the moonlight.
Less than a week after he carried an ailing Simon to Mother Friend’s tepee, Elliot was awakened by the sound of someone pounding on his cabin door. “I’m doing all I can, Reverend. I don’t want ’em to freeze to death either.”
Realizing it must be Simon, Elliot jumped out of bed, cursing his missing hand as he clumsily tried to pull on his drawers and simultaneously get to the door. He flung the door open just in time to admit a blanket-clad Simon Dane.
Once inside, Simon pushed the blanket away from his head and let it fall around his shoulders. He was thinner than ever, and he coughed a little, but there was purpose in his gleaming eyes as he said, “I need to talk to you.”
A knock sounded at the door and Simon admitted an old brave Elliot recognized as Ironheart, one of the few Dakota near the reservation who spoke fluent English.
Elliot snatched his prosthesis up off the floor, fumbling with the buckles on the leather straps. Simon added wood to the small stove in the corner of the room and sat on the edge of his cot.
Ignoring Elliot’s obvious self-consciousness about his disability, Ironheart touched the hook and pressed on the stuffed false forearm. “Not bad.” Looking at Elliot with honest curiosity, he asked, “White man make legs too?”
Elliot nodded, “Yes.”
“I hear many white men lose legs in that war they are having toward the rising sun.”
“The War of the Rebellion,” Elliot provided the name for what would one day be called the Civil War. He buckled the last buckle attaching the prosthesis to his upper arm and then shrugged into his shirt. “Yes, many terrible wounds have been inflicted.”
Ironheart asked, “Is it true that those white men make war by standing with shoulders touching and walking toward the enemy?”
“That’s the way it’s done.” Elliot began the laborious process of buttoning the row of buttons down the front of his shirt. He looked at Simon. “Something tells me you didn’t bring Ironheart over here to discuss battle strategies.” He threw some coffee grounds into a pot and set it on the stove. “I’m sorry I wasn’t prepared for company.” He looked at Simon. “It’s good to see you feeling better.”
Simon’s voice was hoarse, but other than that and a slight cough, he was much improved. “It would appear, brother-in-law, that you owe Mother Friend an apology.”
“I didn’t say anything to offend her.”
Simon chuckled. “You didn’t have to say anything. She knows exactly what you thought about her treatment—which, by the way, is a time-proven remedy—unlike some of the things the last white doctor I saw tried.” He grimaced. “Downing a fingerful of goose grease followed by a teaspoonful of turpentine.” He made a gagging sound and shuddered dramatically.
“All right, Simon, all right. Once again I stand corrected on my opinion of all things Dakota.” Leighton sat down and motioned for Ironheart to join them. “What is it?”
“Ironheart’s band is leaving the reservation,” Simon said calmly.
Elliot stared, dumbfounded, at Simon. “Leaving? When? For where? Why?” He shook his head and waved one hand in the air. “Never mind. I understand why.” He nodded at Ironheart. “But where can you possibly go that’s any better?”
“We are going home,” Ironheart said. His eyes glittered with determination. “The white man is not going to let, us live. We see now that anywhere he takes us, it will be only to watch us die.” He sat up straight, placing a hand on each knee. His voice was tinged with sadness. “We have no quarrel with the white man. We have always been his friend. If he had brought us to a place where we could live, we would plow the earth and do as he says. We would learn to live as he wishes. But in this place, there is nothing. Mother Earth is barren. Some of our people stayed in Minnesota near Faribault. Some near the Redwood. We wish to be near them. Then as we die, our brothers will bury us with our fathers.”
Ironheart spoke for a long time. He talked about his childhood in the Big Woods, about the changes that came upon the people. He spoke of the coming of the missionaries, of the reservation, of broken treaties and injustice. He was not complaining, Elliot realized, only telling the history of his people; because of some impossible generosity, he really wanted Elliot to understand what was in his heart.
The man’s tale carried Elliot back to the days in the army hospital when he had ridden the roller coaster of betrayal and anger and rage against the men in his regiment who turned and fled in the face of death. Unlike the Brady Jensens Elliot had known, Ironheart was looking death in the face, walking toward it, accepting it—and yet wresting a semblance of his own terms from it. It was a humbling kind of courage.
Cold air blew in between the unchinked logs in the little shack, and Elliot shivered. The wind has shifted, he thought.
As if he could read Elliot’s mind, Ironheart said quietly, “This dryness is about to change. We must leave before the snow. At sundown tonight we will be going.”
Simon broke in. “The plan is to leave the tepees and tents here. It will be a while tomorrow before anyone knows they are gone. If the snow moves in as expected, I doubt Agent Finley will risk any soldiers to come after us. He doesn’t care that much about his Indian charges.”
“Us?” Elliot looked from Simon to Ironheart and back at Simon.
“The thought is that if we travel with them, they’ll be less likely to get killed by some overzealous settler.” Simon hurried to add, “I had to talk nearly half the night to convince Ironheart to let us go along. He doesn’t like the idea. He’s afraid that if any harm comes to us, the army will use the excuse to kill them all. But then I suggested that we might be useful in other ways.” He paused and waited for Elliot to absorb the information.
“How many people are we talking about?” Elliot asked.
“Less than a dozen,” Simon said quickly. “They have a few ponies. You’d be amazed at what they can fit on a travois.”
“How far is it to the Redwood?”
Ironheart said something in Dakota that made Simon laugh. He translated, “He says ten days or less for Indians. Two weeks for whites.”
Standing up, Elliot reached for an old carpetbag sitting on the floor. He took out a cigar and, opening the stove door, lit it. He had just sat back and prepared to draw on the cigar when he caught something in Ironheart’s expression. He handed the cigar to the old man, who drew on the cigar and exhaled slowly, obviously savoring the flavor of the fine tobacco. He ceremoniously passed it back to Elliot.
“Keep it,” Elliot said.
“No,” Simon said quickly. “Share it. Ironheart honors you.”
Frowning slightly, Elliot obeyed, then passed the cigar back to Ironheart; who took another draw and passed it to Simon. To Elliot’s amazement, Simon puffed on the cigar without collapsing into a fit of coughing. The men sat quietly until the cigar was a glowing stub. When Elliot finally got up and tossed the butt into the stove, Ironheart stood up to go.
“I will knock,” he rapped a distinctive beat on the door. He looked at Simon. “You will see no one, but you will know what to do.”
Simon nodded. When Ironheart had gone, the two men sat talking for a long while.
“If these people were the warriors who had started this whole mess, I wouldn’t give them any quarter,” Elliot said. “I’d be the loudest advocate of the most overwhelming force. But standing by and watching defenseless and innocent people die sickens me.” He stopped abruptly. “One question,” he raised his eyebrows and looked at Simon. “What happens after we get to the Redwood?”
“You and I keep going. All the way home.”
“You mean back to St. Anthony?”
Simon nodded. “If the weather allows it. We’ll get another supply train together and do
our best to get back to the reservation as quickly in the spring as possible. We’ll organize a letter-writing campaign to Washington.” He stood up and began to pace back and forth across the tiny room. “I want to see Finley gone. He’s nearly heartless. The idea of Sibley being allowed to take troops away from here is ridiculous.” He pounded his open palm with his fist. “Someone has to get them to listen. Someone.”
Elliot went to Simon and put his hand on his shoulder. “Someone will,” he said resolutely.
Simon looked up at him. “Are you telling me that you are willing to be that someone?”
“Perhaps I am,” Elliot mumbled. He lifted his left arm and slapped his prosthesis. “It is one thing this wouldn’t interfere with. In fact, if I were to don my old uniform, I suspect I could get through a few closed doors in Washington.”
Simon slapped him on the back. “Thanks be to God, Elliot. Thanks be to God.”
“Don’t be too premature on the thankfulness,” Elliot warned. “I haven’t done anything yet. And we still have to keep from getting frozen or killed in the next two weeks.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I am doing this. It’s insane.”
Twenty
For the LORD your God is God of gods, and Lord of lords… . He doth execute the judgment of the fatherless and widow, and loveth the stranger, in giving him food and raiment. Love ye therefore the stranger.
—Deuteronomy 10:17–19
With the release of the white stallion, something inside Daniel Two Stars had broken free. The same longings were still there deep inside him, and yet when he indulged in a cursory look at the old journal he realized that bitterness had mellowed into regret. Gradually he was able to channel his restless energy into a need to help as many wanderers as he could.
More than a hundred scouts were left in Minnesota to help the army stand against the hostile Sioux on the frontier. While Daniel, Robert, and Big Amos stayed at Fort Ridgely, the rest were sent out to make nearly a dozen separate camps all along the frontier at places like Cheyenne River, Twin Lakes, and Bone Hill, so named because of a three-foot ring of buffalo bones found atop a hill. All through the winter of 1863 and into 1864, these scouts chased hostile Sioux and rounded up peaceful wanderers. By early in 1864, they had killed a few hostiles and collected more than a hundred innocents who were taken to Fort Snelling until arrangements could be made in the spring to transfer them to Crow Creek Reservation.
And so it was that Daniel, Robert, and Big Amos were about to break up their camp on the banks of Lake Hanaska one frozen morning early in 1864 when movement along the snow-dusted horizon caught Daniel’s attention. He did not stand up, but motioned silently to his two friends, who turned around and faced the horizon, squinting to make out what it might be. Before long, Big Amos, whose eyesight was sharper than his friends’, grunted and said under his breath, “Six ponies. Travois.” All three men relaxed. Warriors did not travel with such encumbrances.
Daniel and Big Amos stayed behind to guard the campsite while Robert crept noiselessly across the landscape to learn what he could about the travelers.
While Robert was gone, Daniel and Big Amos rounded up their horses and led them behind a row of evergreen trees.
Robert’s voice was charged with emotion when he came back. “They ran away from Crow Creek,” he said. “I don’t know how they made it this far. They have been surviving on the roots they could dig out of the frozen ground.” He paused, choking back tears. “These are the worst we’ve found so far.”
“How many?” Daniel wanted to know.
“Half a dozen,” Robert said. “Two men. Ironheart and Singer. They lost at least four on the way here.”
Daniel swung into the saddle. “Let’s bring them to camp,” he said. He reached into his saddlebag and tossed a small sack onto the ground beside the fire. “If we boil that salt pork in water and add what you two have, we can probably come up with enough soup for at least half a meal. More than they are accustomed to, anyway.” He looked at Robert. “What do you think of keeping them here overnight?”
“It’s a good idea,” Robert said quickly. “They could use some rest before we take them in.” He motioned to the thick line of evergreens. “If it snows, we’re in a good spot.” He grinned. “Maybe we’ll have an excuse to try fishing.” He put his hand on his friend’s knee. “It’s not going to be easy convincing them. The one called Ironheart is a leading man. They’ve heard about the band camping at Faribault. Ironheart says they will keep going until they get there.” He shook his head. “That’s at least five more days away. I doubt they’ll make it.”
“We’ll think of something.”
Robert said quietly, “Ironheart is adamant that he’s not going to put himself under the control of any more military men or agents.”
Daniel bowed his head for a brief second, then picked up his horse’s reins. “I’ll bring them in,” he said, and headed out to meet the group of wanderers.
When Daniel dismounted and approached Ironheart, an old woman nearly hidden within the folds of a faded blanket ran up to him. Lifting her hands to the sky, she began to call Daniel’s name and cry. She reached up to pat his face with her gnarled hands, then took his hands in hers and kissed them.
Hardship and starvation had changed her so that he would never have recognized Mother Friend if she hadn’t spoken up. Daniel grasped her bony shoulders and smiled at her like a son looking at his own mother. Rage flickered inside him when he saw the ravages of Crow Creek in the woman’s face, but he channeled the energy into affection and hugged her fiercely before lifting her into his saddle. Turning to the rest of the group, he waved them after him. “We are making soup for you.” He pointed to the low bank of dark clouds racing toward them. “We are in a good spot to weather that storm. Come. Make camp beside us.” He squeezed Mother Friend’s hand. “Soon you will be sitting beside a warm fire, Mother Friend. And then I want to know everything.”
Six of them crowded into the tent, sitting shoulder to shoulder, no longer shivering, watching as Big Amos sliced every fragment of meat the scouts had into a pot of boiling water. While Big Amos cooked, Ironheart told the scouts why they had left Crow Creek and what they hoped to do.
“We cannot return to that place,” he said quietly but firmly. He motioned around him. “These people helped the whites. For this they are hated by the Sioux who fight in the West. For this they will be killed if Little Crow can accomplish it.”
“Little Crow is dead,” Robert said.
Ironheart raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I thought it was only a rumor.”
“It’s true,” Robert said with conviction.
Ironheart shrugged. “So there is one less warrior who wants to kill us. We still are not safe at Crow Creek” The others nodded their assent.
“We will take you to Fort Ridgely,” Robert promised. “No more hunger. No more shivering in the cold. You will be treated well. In the spring, the soldiers will probably transfer you to Fort Snelling with the rest of the”—he hesitated—“with the rest of the prisoners.”
Ironheart shook his head. “They said we would be free on the reservation. We were not free.” He held up his arm and pulled up his sleeve to reveal sagging flesh. “We were prisoners of our own hunger. We were prisoners of sickness. There was no doctor. We were prisoners of death, watching our children die, able to do nothing.” He looked at Robert as he said firmly, “We will be prisoners no longer. We will die as free men, on the land God gave to us.”
As Daniel listened to Ironheart insisting that they would live on their old lands, he thought of Jeb Grant saying, I never learned to be afraid of Indians. I hope it don’t get me killed.
Big Amos lifted the pot of thin gruel off the fire and set it aside. The three scouts contributed their tin cups for dishes, and while the starving Dakota shared the pathetic meal, an impossible possibility began to form in Daniel’s mind. It had barely taken shape when Mother Friend smacked her lips with appreciation and, looking at Daniel with a bi
g smile said, “Our white friends have gone on to Fort Ridgely. They will be glad to see you, Daniel Two Stars.” She patted his arm affectionately. “We all thought you were dead.”
At Daniel’s questioning look, Mother Friend parted her lips in a toothless grin. “Many Words has a new name. He is Helping Words now. He was with us at Crow Creek. And one we called Silver Fox. Mrs. Dane’s brother.” She swept her hand over her head. “He has long white hair.” Mother Friend made a chopping motion with her right hand, pretending to cut off her left. “And only one hand.” She drew a question mark in the air with her finger. “A metal hook for this hand.” She sighed and shook her head. “Helping Words is sick.”
Ironheart interrupted. “We sent them to Fort Ridgely.” He looked at Daniel carefully. “They promised not to tell the soldiers about us.”
Daniel scooted toward the tent door. Mumbling something about checking to see if a storm was brewing, he lunged outside. Inhaling deeply, he stood up and began to pace back and forth across the entryway.
Robert joined him. He nodded toward the horizon.
When Daniel followed his gaze, his heart sank. “Do you think we can make it back before it hits?”
“Not a chance,” Robert said. “I’m going to bring the horses around and tether them closer to the tent.” He headed off. Daniel followed him, grateful they had pitched the tepee-sized tent up against a low ridge. Whatever was coming, they would be ready. Except for food. But they could live off horseflesh if they had to.
He cast a glance in the direction of Fort Ridgely before ducking back into the tent. Mother Friend was asleep, her head resting on one of his saddlebags. He pulled a blanket across her and sat down, listening to the stamping of the horses’ feet as they huddled just outside the tent wall. He didn’t need to look outside to know that by morning the landscape would be covered with a fresh layer of snow. He only wondered how long the storm would last and if Mother Friend knew any more about Simon Dane than she was telling him. Looking behind him at the old woman’s sleeping form, he realized he would have to wait. It was probably for the best, he thought. Waiting would give him time to think. Time to plan. Time to convince Big Amos and Robert that perhaps this group of wanderers should be helped in a different way.
Edge of the Wilderness Page 17
