by J. R. WRIGHT
What about James Bordeaux? Since Luke had left his job with the Army, Bordeaux had branched out into cattle as well, in a small way. How would homesteading affect him? Luke and Sarah had kept in touch with James and Cola, visiting back and forth every few months over the years. What did Bordeaux plan to do about it? Luke had written them a letter when Sarah died, but hadn’t heard back as of yet. Perhaps he should pay them a visit?
And what of Thomas Twiss? According to the new Indian Agent – a man named Hagen – Twiss had taken a higher position in the Indian Bureau and now worked and lived in Washington, D.C. Could he be of help? The next time he saw John Hagen, in conjunction with the cattle Hagen purchased to satisfy government promises made in various Indian treaties, he would ask for Twiss’ address. What could it hurt to write him a letter, asking for advice in this matter?
Henri Snively was in Washington as well, in some elected capacity. He had come out of the civil war a general and retired from the military soon after. Bordeaux had told Luke that, at some point. What could Snively do for Luke’s cause, he wondered now?
“Talk to me, Sarah! I know you’re around here somewhere,” Luke said aloud in his office, expecting to hear the sound of her calm voice in his head. After a time, however, he heard nothing. Now it seemed certain, he was finally on his own, and a momentary feeling of loneliness crept over him.
“You’ll do fine, Luke,” she then said. “You always do.”
With that, he smiled, pleased with what he’d heard. It gave him the courage needed to go ahead with his plan. It would start with a visit to James Bordeaux at Fort Laramie.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a sultry afternoon two weeks later when Grady reined back, bringing the wagon he
drove to a halt in a cloud of dust before the big house. “Letter for Tom!” he bellowed.
“Who from?” Mary stepped to the porch, then remembered Grady couldn’t read. “Never mind, just bring in the supplies!” She was angry with him for raising such a dust at a time when all the windows in the house were wide open because of the heat.
“Must be important,” Grady commented. “Postman said it was from New York City.”
“Oh, what do you know about New York City?”
“I know plenty about a lot of things, especially New York. I come from there. Before I worked for the railroad.”
“Pooh,” Mary quipped and snatched the letter from his hand.
“What’ll I do with this?” Grady held up a second letter. “It’s another one of those for Sarah, like she always gets.”
Mary snatched that one out of his hand as well. “I’ll take care of that!”
“Jeez… I was just asking, Mary!”
“Bring in the supplies!” she said smartly and marched back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.
It seemed to Grady O’Reilly, a burly Irishman who hired on two years back after tiring of working for the Union Pacific, his only service to the Tea Cup outfit was running up and down the makeshift prairie road, to and from Cheyenne. It was a journey of near two hundred miles round trip and took a strong week to complete with the two horse wagon. With the increased business and the extra cowhands of late, a trip for supplies was necessary at least twice a month, except during the winter, when things slowed down and some of the help was discharged.
“Letter for you, Tom,” Mary said, presenting it to him in his office.
“Who from?” he asked looking up from the letter he was writing to the new territorial governor.
“Somebody named Kenneth Hardy from New York. But I can see it has been forwarded from Fort Laramie. I guess Cola Bordeaux must have done that.”
“Kinney? I wonder what he wants.” Luke took the letter and studied it. “I didn’t figure I’d ever hear from him again, after failing to rescue him from his last year at Fort Kearny, back in fifty-five.”
Not knowing who or what he was talking about, Mary turned to leave the room.
“Mary…” Luke called after her. “I could swear I heard Grady say there were two letters.” He gestured to the open window that faced the porch.
Reluctantly, Mary pulled the other letter from her apron pocket. “I was going to answer it on Sarah’s behalf… You know, tell her friend she… It’s that Anne Budd, Tom.”
“That’s okay, Mary. I’ll take care of it myself. I’m kind of curious what Sarah and that Anne had to talk about all those years, anyway,” he said, and took the letter.
“It must have been personal,” Mary said. “She never shared any of them with me.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” Luke said, and studied the perfect penmanship on the envelope before putting it aside to read Kinney’s letter first. He did think it strange, though, that Sarah hadn’t told her friend of her change of name. Ever since they’d gotten married, Sarah had gone by the name Sarah Hill on all correspondence. The letters from this Anne Budd, however, still came addressed to Sarah Martin, as they always had. For years, Sarah’s aunt forwarded her mail from Independence to Bordeaux’s store at Fort Laramie, where they were either picked up or delivered by James and Cola when they came to visit. But the last few letters from Anne Budd were sent to Cheyenne, general delivery, which was their newly established address since the coming of the railroad.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to open Sarah’s letter right away, Mary left the room. She had bread in the oven to tend to, but maybe Luke would leave the letter out after reading it, and she could get a peek inside later. She had always wanted to ask Sarah about this Anne Budd, but never got the courage. She had noticed how anxious she’d become when receiving one. And how melancholy they seemed to leave her, once she’d read them. Nonetheless, Sarah always wrote back right away, then immediately destroyed the letter received by burning it in the kitchen range. In fact, right after moving into the new house, Sarah brought to the kitchen a little mahogany chest, one she obviously kept important papers in, and burned every letter that was in it. “Just cleaning house,” she’d said to Mary at the time, but she didn’t seem too happy about what she was doing.
Kenny Hardy’s letter was short. It appeared he was asking for a job.
Dear Tom,
I don’t know if this letter will ever reach you, as I don’t know for sure where you are now located. I do remember, though, that you were planning to start a ranch somewhere in the area of Fort Laramie. Since the city is getting me down, and I do miss the west, I am hoping you can use me. I would be willing to work for little pay until I learn the ropes.
If you can see fit to give me a try, please write to me at the address below. I can catch the Union Pacific as far as Cheyenne if someone can meet me there.
Kenneth Hardy
122B West 42nd Street
New York City, New York
Luke didn’t know what to do about Kenny. As he remembered, he was a bright boy. Of course he wasn’t a boy any longer, but plenty smart enough to eventually take on some of the management duties at the Tea Cup, if he should hire him. Chaska didn’t seem to be interested in the ranch. Every time he and Bright Moon visited, Luke begged him to stay on, but to no avail. Tom Too, however, now fourteen, loved the ranch and worked along beside Luke his entire time here during their visits of a few weeks each summer.
After some more thought, Luke finally convinced himself to give Kenny a try and penned the letter immediately. He would have Grady return to Cheyenne with it right away, once he’d also jotted a note to Sarah’s friend, giving her the sad news. He would like Kenny here before the worst of winter set in, if he planned to come this year, and said so in his letter.
Again Luke studied the envelope containing the letter from Anne Budd before opening it. It, too, was from New York, although not New York City. Where Hannisville was exactly, he had no idea and no map available to show him.
Dear Sarah,
I’m so happy to hear ranch life is agreeing with you. But what I don’t understand is why you are there. Are you sure you didn’t meet a man and get married without
telling me? You seem so happy. It’s alright if you don’t wish to tell me, but after knowing each other all this time, one would think I’d be one of the first you’d share such news with.
Anyway, it sounds beautiful there. I can tell by your description of it, your large garden must be a total labor of love. I was never good at growing things, and if it weren’t for Harry, we would be at the mercy of the neighbors for vegetables. He likes getting his hands into the dirt. He calls it one of God’s miracles that we can poke in a few seeds and get such a bountiful return.
Speaking of Harry, he’s been slow lately. I keep telling him he needs to cut back on his duties with the Church. He’s not as young as he used to be. But he continues on, even though I can tell he just doesn’t put his full self into his work anymore. Frankly, I would rather he just retire completely. The girls and I have never really had him to ourselves. It’s always been the Church first and us second, with him. The Church has always promised to support us when the time came for Harry to quit; perhaps it’s time he did. Well, enough of my ranting.
Other than that, life here is much the same as always. I am, though, concerned about you. There are too many questions left unanswered. If there is a man in your life, I would like to hear about it. Even if you’re not married, I’m not such a Bible thumper that I wouldn’t understand. God knows you deserve it after all the years of being alone.
And the invitation is still open for you to come for a visit. Stay as long as you like. With the railroad so near you now, you could be here much faster than ever before. Sarah, I do so much want to see you again. Please consider it!
With God’s love,
Anne
After reading the letter, Luke had no better understanding of who this Anne Budd was than before. The only thing was, it didn’t appear to be a relative, as he once thought. But what was it they had in common, then? Sarah had never been to New York that he knew of. Perhaps they, Sarah and this Anne, were childhood friends, although he doubted it. The conversation seemed to be of a more recent nature, like they had met as adults. It even sounded as though Sarah may have known this Harry, as well. But then maybe he was trying to read too much into it, since there was so little there to latch on to.
With that, Luke got up from his desk and went in search of Mary and found her in the kitchen. “Where’s that box Sarah kept her letters in?” he asked from the door, prepared to go get it wherever it may be.
“If you’re speaking of that mahogany chest, it’s in the storage closet upstairs. But there are no letters in it. Sarah burned all of them two years ago, and every one she’d received since.”
“Burned them! Why?”
“I don’t know,” Mary said, not looking up as she basted the many loaves of recently baked bread with a handful of fresh churned butter. “I thought it was kinda strange myself when I saw her do it.”
Totally at a loss as to what to make of this, Luke headed back for his office to write the letter. Not knowing what else to do, he decided to tell the truth, throughout. He didn’t know why Sarah hadn’t told this Anne she was married, but figured it made little difference, now that she was gone. Besides, he thought she deserved to know, since the two of them had been close for so long.
Mrs. Anne Budd,
You don’t know me, but I’ve been married to Sarah for some years now. Why she never told you she was married is a loss to me. Since she never spoke of you, I don’t even know the nature of your friendship. But since you corresponded regularly, I thought it appropriate you know of her passing. I am sorry to tell you that Sarah died of pneumonia in the spring. She was laid to rest next to our daughter Abigail near the house.
Sarah and I built this ranch she named the Tea Cup together. She is sorely missed, as a wife, a partner, and a friend.
I hope this sorrowful news reaches you well. I know that the caring person Sarah was would not want anyone grieving excessively on her behalf, although I’m still having a hard time of it without her. She was a wonderful person, as you must know after all these years.
My best to you and your family,
Tom Hill
P. S.: Someday, if it’s not too much bother, I would like to know why Sarah chose to keep the nature of your mutual friendship a secret from me. From what I can tell from your recent letter, you were close once. Maybe a response from you will clear up a wonder that has confounded me for years. Thank you, T.H.
Luke quickly addressed the envelope, folded and inserted the letter, then went searching for Grady. He wouldn’t be too happy about hitting the trail again so soon. But if it made him feel any better, he could take Sarah’s horse and buggy this time, since there would be few, if any, supplies to pick up. At least it was faster and a lot easier on the backside, with its cushioned seat.
On the way to find Grady, Luke remembered the letter he was writing to the territorial governor, a man named John Allen Campbell, and turned back for the house. Writing letters was one of the many things Sarah had handled willingly in the past. Luke allowed her to do it because he found it such a chore. Now he had little choice in the matter.
When Luke had paid a visit to Bordeaux near two weeks back, James had suggested he write the letter, more or less as an introduction, to the newly appointed governor. “He’ll need to know who you are when he hears from Washington,” Bordeaux had said.
Thank goodness Bordeaux had written the other letters on Luke’s behalf concerning the future of the Tea Cup. Something needed to be done now that Wyoming was a territory, or homesteaders, he feared, would soon come pouring in to claim a piece of what he’d carved out of this wilderness, pretty much with his bare hands.
Not only were letters sent to Thomas Twiss and Henri Snively in Washington D.C. as Luke had decided before, but to others, including congressmen that James Bordeaux had addresses for. He even offered to write one to the president himself, Andrew Johnson, and did so while Luke was there.
Now that Bordeaux had gone to all the trouble writing the other letters, Luke felt it only right he held up his end of the bargain. What he needed was a deed to the land he now occupied, and had even offered to pay a reasonable price for, if that became necessary. Otherwise, all he and Sarah had worked so hard for would soon be no more. It made his knees weak to think such a thing may happen, but realistically it could. He needed to prepare himself for that possibility, regardless of the number of letters written, or to whom.
CHAPTER THREE
A lot had happened at the combined Lakhota/Dakotah village since Chaska had returned with Bright Moon thirteen years ago. Three years previous, when Chaska was twenty-five, Brave Fox had asked the council chiefs of both tribes to accept Chaska as their head chief. This so infuriated the chiefs of the Dakotah that they moved their people west, to the opposite side of the treasured Paha Sapa (Black Hills).
This left the remaining camp of the Lakhota quite small compared to what it was before. They were now down to less than three hundred persons occupying some sixty lodges. In a way Chaska felt this was good, because now the village was fully under his leadership, except for two younger sub-chiefs of little power. The bad side of the situation was that they were almost powerless against attacks from larger tribes, or the bluecoats, if either of those ever came calling.
Also to their disadvantage was that the Lakhota were made up mostly of the very old and of the quite young, with few experienced braves in between. This further added to the weakness of his tribe. Only some fifty or sixty warriors could be counted on if trouble should arise. And many of those were in their fifties, with others as young as fifteen.
This apparent hole in the middle age group was caused primarily by the small pox epidemic the year Chaska was born. And by the fact that most who had married into the Dakotah camp chose to go with the stronger tribe.
Another disappointment for Chaska was that Bright Moon, after the birth of Tom Too, had given him nothing but girls, three in fact. Surely they, Bree, Small Moon, and Rain, would not grow up to be warriors someday. For that re
ason he spent little time with them, but doted on his treasured son.
To see them together, one would never know they were father and son. In fact, because Tom Too was dark like his mother, they were exact opposites, except for the brilliant blue eyes they shared. For this reason, Chaska had nicknamed his son Blue. The boy, now fourteen, was his father’s shadow. They did near everything together: hunting, fishing, playing various Indian games. Chaska even took Blue to his secret cave behind the waterfall, where they spent many days while Chaska reminisced about his childhood, the wisdom of Brave Fox and the cleverness of Taloma. He also told of how he had saved Bright Moon’s life and of her Ojibwa and French ancestry.
Chaska taught Blue English from an early age, and to keep them both in practice, they often spoke it exclusively when together, away from the village. Of course, Bright Moon played a part in this as well. She had learned plenty during her long stay with Cola and James Bordeaux and helped Chaska smooth out his broken English, much as Cola had taught her.
Chaska had learned from Brave Fox the power of being able to communicate with the ever advancing white man, especially when it came to proposed new treaties, where understanding the language was crucial. Brave Fox had learned that first hand when his tribe and others lost all lands east of the Mississippi River in the misunderstood treaty of 1838. This destroyed their established way of life and forced them onto the cold, windy plains for well over a decade, until eventually they found this place. And they certainly didn’t wish to lose what they had now because of ignorance.
It was in the season of the yellow green grass when a runner entered the Lakhota village. He was sent from the camp of Red Cloud, newly appointed chief of the Oglala. The messenger brought news of many battles fought with the bluecoats in the Powder River country, west of the Paha Sapa. The provocation for this ongoing war was the white man’s persistence in establishing a new road through Indian land that they called the Bozeman trail, and the building of many forts along it to serve as protection for the thousands that traveled it. This road was so wide and trampled that it had put a stop to herds of migrating buffalo that otherwise would have traveled on into the Powder River country, the summer hunting grounds for numerous Indian tribes. Of course, Chaska knew without the buffalo for winter meat, many of those people would surely starve, and he wondered what he could possibly do to help. Finally the young runner came out with it.
