“I suppose you have enough money.” The agent drummed his fingers.
“Could the merchants extend credit?” She paced to the door.
“The government is six years behind on payments.” Will glared at James, as if he blamed the agent for all their problems. “You’ll have to ask Fort Randall for emergency rations again.”
“I’ll send soup with you, Sophia,” Nettie said. “At least the children will have a warm meal on school days.”
Her feet took her to the locked door of their poorly stocked pantry. “Mary and Elisabeth were digging by the spring for some sort of turnip.” They had prayed before digging, but Sophia would not mention that. The Ponca version of “Give us this day our daily bread” would look like a pagan ritual to Henry.
Will crossed his arms. “With so many bad harvests, they’ve pretty much stripped the hills bare.”
“What about all these migrating waterfowl?”
“The government won’t give the Indians guns. Makes the whites nervous,” the agent said. “And we’re out of ammunition.”
“What about fish?”
James’s voice grew heavy with fatigue. “The allotment one year included fish hooks, but they weren’t the right kind.”
“Could they seine?”
“The Seine’s a river in France.”
Sophia paused. “Henry, you made a joke. Mark this day on the calendar.” She resumed pacing. How could they feed and clothe these people? “Do they have any fishing nets or anything they could make them from?”
Shrugs and shakes all around.
“We have already had our first frost.” She picked up one of the shoes. “How will we decide who goes barefoot?”
Will leaned on the crate. “Henry, how about a prayer, loaves and fishes style?”
The reverend started to argue but caught a stern look from his mother. He bent his head and did his duty.
Sophia added her own plea. Oh Lord, I will do my best. I will write everyone I know and even people I do not. My students must have shoes.
Before Henry could make his way to the amen, a harsh voice yelled outside. A stubby man with thin yellow hair held a rifle on a tall Ponca man Sophia did not recognize. They both stated their case with vehemence. Neither spoke English.
“Quiet!” James waved his arms, then addressed the blond man. “Put down your gun. Who are you?”
“I am Schumacher. Just south of the river, I farm. I work hard. He beg and steal.” The man pointed at the Ponca with his rifle.
The noise drew a crowd of villagers who gathered in a circle around them. Little Rosalie squirmed from her sisters’ grasp with a delighted shout, raced to the Ponca man, and caught him around the knees in an embrace. Directly in the line of fire.
The farmer shifted his feet and swung the muzzle around the circle. He was clearly outnumbered now. His eyes bulged and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
He let go of the trigger to wipe his face, and Sophia took the opportunity.
“Guten Tag, Herr Schumacher. So pleased to make your acquaintance. Allow me to hold on to this for you. Danke.” She dazzled him with a smile, swept the rifle from his grasp, then glided out of reach.
He blinked. His mouth dropped open. “Johann,” he said. “You may call me John.”
“I think not.”
Will coughed. “This is Blunt Tail from the Point Village.” He interpreted with all the authority and composure of an ambassador’s senior assistant. “He has no food for his family. He has no money. His wife is sick. His children are hungry. He went to this man. He asked to work. But this man yelled and pointed a gun. He forced him into the boat.”
Will tipped his head toward the riverbank. A second blond man waited at the oars.
With both hands free, the farmer pointed and pounded his chest with abandon. “Government gives money to Indians. I must work for mine!”
“That’s payment for their land,” Will told the farmer. “And it’s not enough to raise a family on.”
Blunt Tail picked up Rosalie and repeated his request for work.
“Perhaps Herr Schumacher needs some assistance on his farm.”
“The Poncas are not allowed to leave the reservation.” James crossed his arms. “He’ll have to look elsewhere. Not allowed.”
Zlata and her puppies wandered over and inspected the farmer’s shoes.
“Hund? I need dog. So. Take?” He pulled a coin from his pocket. “Buy?”
“Nein.” Sophia shook her head. Anyone who treated a man this poorly was surely unworthy of Zlata’s puppies.
“We’re sorry for the misunderstanding.” James retrieved the rifle from Sophia. He escorted the farmer to the rowboat, returned his gun, and waved him off.
Blunt Tail made a concluding statement, raised his chin toward Sophia, then returned Rosalie to Brown Eagle.
“He thanks you for your courage.” Will wiped his forehead with a kerchief.
“I hope he thanked you for your skill in interpretation.”
“Foolish woman!” Henry scowled down at her from the porch. “Why can’t you stay in the house where it’s safe?”
“If I wanted safety, I would have stayed at the College.”
Nettie gathered her in an embrace. “God is using you here.”
Sophia’s vision blurred with tears. “Mr. Blunt Tail is not the only one looking for work. What happens the next time if the farmer is quick to shoot?”
“No, Susette!” Sophia pointed. “First base!”
The girl stopped running and turned when she reached third. “But Matthew is there and he has the ball.”
“The rule says you must go to first.”
Susette shrugged and marched to first, where Matthew tagged her out.
From the pitching mound, Luke tried to console her. “When you bat better, you will hit it over his head.”
Susette’s face brightened. “Mr. Dunn!”
The carpenter emerged from the woods, carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder like a sailor.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dunn.” The tension in Sophia’s shoulders eased. Will brought a sense of peace with him, a certainty that, with his assistance, she could handle any crisis.
But—Sophia checked her watch. He was an hour early.
“Students,” she said, “let us thank Mr. Dunn for building the new vestibule for our school.” She clapped and the children cheered.
“You’re welcome.” He glanced at the schoolhouse. “Be careful the ball doesn’t break any windows. I’m clean out of glass.”
“Martha hit it over our heads.” Matthew gestured toward the Missouri with his chin. “The river swallowed the ball.”
“Mr. Brown Eagle gave us another.” Sophia handed it to him. “The exterior appears to be some sort of animal bladder. I am uncertain of the interior.”
“It does not hurt when you catch it.” Rosalie held up her palms.
“But it does not go far when you hit it.” Susette pouted.
“Keeps the windows safe.” Will returned it to her, then handed her an envelope. “You need to read the letter first. It’s about what’s in the bag.”
The letter was from one of her students at the College. The young woman’s uncle owned a shoe factory in upstate New York and had kindly made a donation—
Will emptied the bag onto the ground. New shoes. Sturdy, with leather soles and uppers.
“Shoes!” The students squealed and dove into the pile.
“Students, form a line by size of feet. Rosalie at one end, Frank at the other. Oh dear. Mr. Dunn, perhaps we should have done this a different way.” With less anarchy. “Some children will be disappointed.”
The children tumbled over each other like puppies. He grinned. “Miss Makinoff, we prayed about this.” He bent to help John Adams tie his laces.
Marguerite helped her sisters find shoes that fit, then make their bows. When she finished, the pile was gone and all the other students had shoes. Her smile drooped. She blinked away tears.
> “This is what I mean, Mr. Dunn,” Sophia said in an undertone. Perhaps they could find the girl a pair in Niobrara.
“Everyone stand up.” Will waved his arms. “Do all the shoes have feet in them?”
“No.” Thomas Jefferson pointed to a pair he had been sitting on.
“Trying to hatch them like a chicken?” Will picked up the shoes and handed them to Marguerite.
If they were too big, she might stuff them with grass or newspaper. Too small, perhaps she could trade with another.
Will winked at Sophia. “What are you holding your breath for?”
Marguerite slid her feet in, tied the laces, and jumped up. “They fit!”
They fit! Will had prayed and God answered with a miracle. Impulsively, Sophia wrapped her arms around him.
He felt solid and warm. She inhaled his scent, very male, with a touch of sawdust. His eyes widened and he patted her shoulder.
Sophia let go and stepped away quickly, then hugged each child, each well-shod student. Tears filled her eyes. They all had shoes! Before it snowed!
“Everyone, sit, so I can tell you how to take care of your shoes.” The students formed a circle. “Shoes should be brushed nightly and polished with blacking every Saturday.” Sophia looked at Will. “Oh dear. Does anyone have a shoe brush?”
“I’ll bring mine tomorrow. And some waterproofing.” Will grabbed a twig and took over the lesson. “When you get home, scrape the mud off the bottoms on the edge of your step. Then use a little stick to clean the mud off the uppers.” He took off his shoe. “Each night open them up to dry out the inside. But don’t put them on the stove. The leather will crack.”
“My brother eats everything on the stove.” Thomas Jefferson giggled.
“All right. Your teacher will lead us in a prayer thanking God for providing shoes.”
Her prayer book had St. Ambrose’s Prayer of Thanksgiving, but not a word could she remember. Sophia closed her eyes, lifted her hands, and said, “Thank You!”
Will added, “And please send socks. Amen.”
Henry finally concluded his lesson on Thanksgiving.
Sophia turned her back to him and asked her class, “Does anyone have a question for Reverend Granville?” The minister had spent most of his lesson on the bountiful harvest and subsequent feast, a foreign concept to these starving children.
“Why do you say Columbus discovered America?” Matthew asked. “Indians were already here.”
“Yes, well, I’m referring to Europeans.”
Joseph raised his hand. “Does God love white people or Indians more?”
Henry scowled. “God loves everyone the same.”
“Then why do white people take our land and God does not punish them?”
Henry started to perspire in spite of the drafty schoolhouse. “The government bought your land. The white people came to Christianize and civilize you.”
“But white people bring disease and whiskey. And take the buffalo.” Joseph hammered his point.
“Look at the time,” Henry said. “Class dismissed.”
Sophia glanced at her pocket watch. The parents would be surprised to have their students home so early. She supervised the closing chores, then headed down the path with Henry.
He wiped his brow again. “I didn’t realize Joseph’s father was so . . . militant.”
“I do not know that he is. Joseph is bright. He studies an issue and comes to his own conclusions.”
“He bears watching.”
“Perhaps some individual tutoring, the loan of some of your history books . . .”
Henry shuddered. Will had told her that the reverend did not let anyone touch his books.
“He would be a good lawyer. I could see him in the legislature, like Patrick Henry, ‘Give me liberty or give me death.’”
“Sophia, don’t fill his head with foolish thoughts. No college will accept an Indian student.”
“He could read the law like Abraham Lincoln.”
“And no lawyer would take an Indian student.”
“But is it not our goal to help them become like white people?”
“To become farmers, yes.” Henry scratched his beard.
“If I had a class of twenty-five white students, I would not expect all to become farmers. Not every Ponca is suited for farming.” Most were not, she suspected, but Americans seemed blind to allowing Indians any other path.
“But that is our job, to prepare each family to farm his own plot.”
“Another quandary, the division of the land. The Poncas are used to communal living. Being forced to move to individual plots—”
“But that’s how Americans live.”
“We do not. The agency house is occupied by a group of adults, not a family.”
“Well, that’s an exception, for the circumstances.”
“And at the College, the teachers and students lived together.”
“We’re talking about farming, each on his own land.”
“Russian peasants farm communally. It allows for specialization, sharing skills and tools.”
“Sophia. Could you—” He shook his head. “I would think you’d be tired after teaching all day.”
She took the hint and continued the walk in silence. Why was he so angry? But asking the question would only exacerbate his temper.
Ahead, three black shapes moved through the underbrush beside the river.
“Turkeys,” Henry whispered. “I wish I’d brought—”
Sophia pulled out her pistol, sighted, and squeezed off a round. Two birds took flight. The third flopped to the ground. She pocketed her pistol and walked over to inspect it.
“How—what—?” He turned whiter than usual. “Madam, you are armed!”
She lifted the carcass by its feet, estimating its weight at around fifteen pounds, and handed it to him. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Will dashed out of the woods carrying a box. Zlata and her troika followed him. “I heard a shot. You’re all right?”
Henry held the bird away from the dogs. “We have a sharpshooter among us.”
“Sophia!” Will whistled.
“My father taught me.” She nodded at Will’s box, eager to move the attention away from herself. “Another allotment?”
“No. My sister, Charlotte, collected socks from her students.” Will pulled out a pair. One was gray with white and red on the cuff, the other solid blue. “You know how sometimes you lose one? Or you might have enough yarn for half a sock? They’re matched for size and thickness, but not color. About a hundred pairs in here.”
“Enough for each student and their families.” Sophia grinned. Only Henry’s presence kept her from embracing Will again. “We have so much to be thankful for.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Will could listen to Sophia talk forever. Finishing a story about her students, she used a Ponca word to make a pun. She glanced up to see if he caught the joke.
Will grinned and kicked the leaves in the path. “You’re picking up on the language.”
Her lips pressed together. “I trust you will not mention it to Henry.”
“‘Course not.”
“I have been wondering.” She did a lot of that. “Should there not be more animals here? Even in the cities, I have seen squirrels and raccoons.”
“Used to be deer, beaver, muskrats, weasels, but they’ve been hunted out. Still a few prairie dogs up on the bluff, but they’re about as fit for eating as rats.”
“And another concern. My first morning here I smelled smoke. Someone had set a fire. But I have not smelled it since.”
Will nodded. “Buffalo Track. His wife took him back in. He wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Given the enormous changes the Poncas have suffered, the uncertainty of their future, the changing roles, especially of the men, I would expect madness to be more prevalent. Do you think—”
Sophia broke off as her army officer came trotting down the hill on his large gray, leading a saddled ches
tnut mare. “Howdy, ma’am.”
“Good afternoon, Lt. Higgins.” She had eyes only for the horses. Sophia stretched her hand out and cooed, “Who have we here? What is your name?”
The lieutenant stuck out his chest, as if hoping Sophia would pin a big medal on it, and introduced the mare. “This is Pumpkin. Only on loan for today, I’m afraid. Couldn’t find any for you to keep. She’s a gentle, steady mount. Good for a lady like yourself.”
The horse looked equally in love with Sophia, twitching her ears to every word. She lowered her head for a scratch, let Sophia lift each leg for a check of her shoes, and allowed her girth to be cinched.
Sophia hurried inside to change clothes while the officer watered his mounts. Will grabbed a mug of coffee and a spot on the porch. She returned quicker than he’d imagined any woman could undress and dress, not that he’d spent much time imagining such.
She wore a top hat, a dark-green riding dress with gold braid, and shiny black boots. She’d brought a stub end of carrot for each of the horses, and she fed them with more murmured words of encouragement.
Then, without waiting for the soldier to put his grubby hands on her, she sprang into the saddle and rode off like a princess on her way to a fox hunt.
What was that dirge about the old gray mare? Sophia tried to remember as this nag’s gait threatened to jar her eyeballs from her head. The mare’s teeth were worn to a nub; her hooves needed filing and shoes replacing. She had not been curried this decade. And keeping her from wandering off to snatch a bite of vegetation required a firm hand.
The saddle, a rawhide Mexican-style model, had been worn paper-thin, with stitching coming loose and stirrups threatening to break with the slightest weight.
But ah, the joy of riding again!
The lieutenant led her upriver. James and Henry would lecture about her leaving the Agency without permission. Will would not say much, but disapproval would exude from him in the set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The man’s body talked for him.
A mile from the Agency all evidence of human occupation vanished. Perhaps now that the Brulé were gone, the Poncas could spread out, make the best use of their land. And what a beautiful country it was! The Missouri, bordered with white chalk bluffs, rolled peacefully to their right. A gray line wavered high over the river. As it came closer, it resolved into migrating waterfowl. “Hurry, hurry,” the geese honked to each other.
Through Rushing Water Page 14
