Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  “No, sir.” Sophia returned her pistol to her pocket.

  The men helped each other stand. The one with the thick black hair provided a neckerchief for the other’s nasal hemorrhage.

  “Madam, in the future, please aim and fire.” The officer shook his finger at the pair. “These are newspaper editors.” He stomped back to his station.

  The black-haired one whipped out paper and pencil. “Tom Tibbles, the Omaha Herald. And this is what’s-his-name from one of the other rags in town. I’m sorry about disrupting your shopping trip. Perhaps I might compensate you with a free month subscription?”

  The second editor waved from the dust, where he endeavored to stop bleeding. “Don’t give it to him. He’s always asking pretty girls for their addresses.”

  “I should think not. I know his wife, Amelia. Good day, Mr. Tibbles.” Tilly recovered from her shock and towed Sophia down the street.

  “Mrs. Dunn.” He tried to tip his hat, then realized he was not wearing one.

  Sophia started to apologize for creating a scene, but Tilly ushered her toward New York Dry Goods. “Look! We even have clothing from New York!”

  The signboard over the business opposite read Julius Meyer’s Indian Wigwam. Two Indian men in citizens’ clothes and braids sat outside. What tribe did they belong to? Had they heard from the Poncas?

  Tilly steered her into the dry goods emporium. “Sophia, no. They’re not anyone you’d know. They’ve been hanging around for years.”

  Perhaps she could ask Will to talk to them. By the time they left the store, the Indians were gone. In their place a barker called out, trying to interest passersby in a faro game.

  Tilly opened the door of M. Hellman and Company, Merchant Tailors. “Now let’s shop for Will.”

  Sophia summoned a bit more interest. She found a canvas raincoat similar to the one he had given away. “Perhaps—?”

  “Heavens, no. He might be mistaken for a carpenter.”

  “Will is not a carpenter?”

  Tilly picked out an expensive rubberized slicker similar to the one Henry had given White Swan. “Will’s a house builder.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mr. O’Reilly!” Will jumped down from the surrey. “So good to see you.”

  “And you also, lad.” The older man’s face had as many wrinkles as Lone Chief’s. He seemed to have shrunk a couple inches since Will left. He set his hoe against the carriage house and grabbed the curb chain on Traveler’s harness.

  Will shook his free hand. “If you’re here, then Mrs. O’Reilly’s still in the kitchen.”

  “That she is. And you’d best get in there quick, lest your nephews eat your share.”

  A white dog with brown ears galloped in from the vacant lot next door. He circled three times, tail wagging and tongue flapping, before he slowed enough for Will to sink his fingers into the curly fur.

  “Buddy! You remember me!” In no time, Will had the dog rolling over for a belly rub. “You’ll have to come over and meet Goldie. I hope you’ll be friends.”

  Harrison headed inside and Will followed. “Hey, Mrs. O’Reilly!”

  “I thought I heard your stomach rumbling.” Fingers strong from kneading bread had no trouble pinching his waist. “Belly button’s scraping your backbone. I’ve got the remedy for you.”

  “Don’t fatten him up too quick,” Tilly called from the dining room. “I just bought him new clothes.”

  “Thanks, sis.”

  “Uncle Will!” The nephews pounded down the back stairs. They’d grown so much, Will wouldn’t have recognized them on the street.

  Leo’s solid-muscle hug almost landed him on the floor. Lafayette hung back until Will grabbed him. “I’ve missed you two scamps!”

  “Hurry, Uncle Will.” Lafayette, the spitting image of Harrison, dragged him to the dining room. “I’m starving.”

  “You don’t know what starving is, I’m glad to say.” He sent up a quick prayer for those who were all too familiar with starvation.

  Two large brown eyes peeked from behind the parlor organ. Will studied the ceiling. The plasterwork was holding up nicely. “I wonder where my niece is. Last time I saw her, she was wearing a diaper and crying all the time.”

  “I don’t wear a diaper.” Josie inched out from hiding.

  “But she still cries all the time,” Leo said.

  “I do not.”

  Will sat in his place between Harrison and Leo. “She couldn’t walk, couldn’t sit at the table, couldn’t feed herself.”

  “I can now.” The little girl scampered to the table, crawled up on her chair, grabbed a pickle, and bit into it. “See?” Her triumphant smile showed the beauty she would be, breaking hearts as easily as Sophia.

  “Mom, Josie’s eating before grace,” Leo yelled.

  Lafayette gave him a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with scowl.

  “Inside voices.” Tilly set the roasted chicken on the table and sat.

  Harrison took his place at the far end of the table. “Lord, bless this food—”

  With Mrs. O’Reilly in the kitchen, not much blessing was needed, so Will took the opportunity to remind God he needed help with Sophia.

  “—Amen.”

  “How did the shopping trip go?” he asked.

  “I was never so embarrassed.” Tilly shuddered and passed the potatoes. “I’m surprised Miss Makinoff didn’t demand to be taken to the depot so she could head back to civilization.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing we can talk about at the table.” She pressed her lips together.

  So much for his hope Sophia would find Omaha quaint and charming. How could he keep her here?

  “Uncle Will, after dinner can I show you the train I built in the basement?”

  “Can we play baseball, Uncle Will? I have a new bat.”

  “I want to play too.”

  Will studied the children, sketching out a plan in his head. “After we finish eating”—he glanced at Tilly—“if it’s all right with your mother, I want to introduce you to Goldie. Then tomorrow you get to meet Miss Makinoff.”

  Lafayette stopped chewing, lowered his fork, and raised an all-too-adult eyebrow at his uncle.

  “You’re courting two girls?”

  Sophia opened the door Sunday morning, expecting to see Tilly, but hoping to find Will. Instead she was greeted by the entire Dunn family. She sought Will’s gaze, but he was preoccupied with his nephews.

  Harrison introduced his children, Lafayette, Napoleon, and Josephine. Fortunately, Will had warned her, so Sophia kept a firm rein on her facial expression and resisted addressing him as “mon petit caporal.”

  “You can call me Leo.” Napoleon’s eyes were wide with low brows similar to Will’s. “Uncle Will says you like to walk, so we’re going to walk you to church!”

  “So you don’t run off with the wild Indians.” Josephine, the youngest, had inherited her mother’s pointed nose, giving her an elfin look. She had Will’s mouth, a straight slash that curved upward at the corners. At only four years of age she stood a head taller than Rosalie.

  Lafayette already showed Will’s firm jawline. “Omaha doesn’t have any wild Indians, Josie.”

  The boys sported white three-quarter-length pants with matching jackets trimmed with navy braid. Josephine was dressed in pink ruffles.

  Leo bounced, then kicked a clod of dirt. “Uncle Will says you have a pistol. Can we shoot it?”

  “Not in town, silly.” Lafayette swatted his brother, then narrowed his gaze at Sophia. “Uncle Will says you shot a turkey. With a pistol. In the head.”

  “I did not wish to spoil the meat.” Sophia smiled over their heads. Uncle Will had certainly built her quite the reputation. Will doffed his straw hat. He had visited a barber: hair trimmed around the ears, a clean chin, a neat mustache. Dressed in a lightweight buff linen coat, vest, and slacks, he looked city-elegant. She could take him anywhere—New York, St. Petersburg, even Paris—and he would turn heads.r />
  “Come along, children.” Tilly herded them ahead of her, then inspected Sophia. She had used her curling iron for the first time in a year to make three long sausage curls. Sophia hoped the pink gloves went with the violet basque. “Pretty.”

  “Do you know where I might donate my old clothes? They still have some wear in them.”

  “Will said you’d ask. The church collects them for the Santee Mission.” Will’s sister-in-law wore a princess dress in deep rose with a train and pleated hem.

  “You have a handsome family,” Sophia said, including Will in her assessment.

  “Thank you.” Tilly took her arm. “So, you’re a crack shot.”

  Perhaps not an appropriate entrée into Omaha society. “At only twenty feet, it was difficult to miss.”

  Josie scooted between her father and uncle, clasping their hands to swing. “Daddy, may I have a pistol?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “But Miss Makinoff has one.”

  “Had one. When she lived with the wild Indians. I’m sure she doesn’t have it anymore, not since she’s moved to the city.”

  Sophia’s hand went instinctively to the weight in her pocket. Had she forgotten how to live in a civilized world?

  The balmy air felt as perfect as only a day in May could be. Saplings burst into full leaf. Blue and pink flowers waved in the breeze. Robins stood sentry in the grass, keeping watch for incautious worms.

  “We should go up Sixteenth to show her the courthouse and city hall,” Harrison said as they reached the bottom of the hill where the street ended. “Seventeenth peters out to a track north of Howard.”

  “Hasn’t rained for a couple days.” Will turned west. “We’ll be all right.”

  Seventeenth did indeed become a track that passed by a large barn.

  “Might there be a livery in town?”

  “Yes, but you need not use it,” Tilly said. “You’re welcome to ride our horses whenever you’d like.”

  “The bays? Thank you. They have excellent conformation.”

  They walked north, past new frame homes with fenced yards and a gothic church Tilly informed her belonged to the German Catholics.

  Lafayette slowed to join his mother and Sophia. “Uncle Will says you can teach us French. He says we should learn because we have French names.”

  Apparently Uncle Will’s word carried the weight of authority with his nephews. “Bien sur. Of course you should learn French. Will is correct—with French names, people will expect you to speak the language. And, mais oui, I would be glad to teach you. When does your school session end?”

  Leo kicked a horse apple, earning a reprimand from his mother. “I’m tired of school. I don’t want to learn French.”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” His father tapped the boy on the head, then turned to Sophia, his face red as a strawberry. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to say you’re a—”

  Sophia laughed. “I have often wished I were a horse. I would be the first one to church.”

  “But they wouldn’t let you inside,” Leo observed. “Hey, I want to be a horse too.”

  They turned at the impressive Presbyterian edifice and entered a modest frame building with clear glass windows. Sophia would have mistaken it for a schoolhouse had it not been for the cross on the roof.

  “Our previous church burned down a few years ago.” Harrison held the door open. “We’re saving up to build a masonry cathedral.”

  “Perhaps Will might assist with its construction?”

  Harrison chuckled. “I’m keeping him far too busy.”

  Inside, Will ended up on one end of the pew surrounded by nephews. Sophia and Josie held down the other end. Harrison and Tilly sat in the middle. The sanctuary filled with parishioners. Such abundance. Everyone dressed, if not in the most recent fashion, in neat and clean attire, complete with footwear. They all looked well fed, too well in certain cases.

  The bishop preached on trusting in the Lord instead of leaning on one’s own understanding. All her life Sophia had relied on her own efforts instead of depending on God. Until now. This situation with the Poncas went beyond all understanding, beyond all her efforts. She had no other choice but to trust God.

  Had Will, at the other end of the pew, come to the same conclusion?

  After the service an elderly lady with a sweet smile and fierce grasp clasped Sophia’s hand. “You must be the missionary we’ve been praying for. I’m Grandma Bean.”

  “You prayed for me?” Sophia felt a lump rise in her throat. “I am honored and blessed.”

  Mrs. Bean and Tilly introduced Sophia to an endless stream of women between fourteen and eighty-five, giving her a chance to thank them for their prayers. Then Harrison brought the bishop to her.

  Sophia offered her hand. “Dr. Doherty tells me I have you to thank for my new job.”

  “Glad to help you out,” the bishop said. “Anyone Henry complains about is a friend of mine.” His eyes sparkled for only a moment. “I’ve heard bits and pieces about what happened at the Ponca Agency. Perhaps you could tell me the full story.”

  “I would be delighted, but Mr. Dunn’s brother could provide you with a more comprehensive accounting. He worked at the Agency for nearly four years.”

  “Why don’t you and Mrs. Clarkson join us for dinner?” Harrison asked the bishop, then leaned in to whisper, “We’d like to hear what Will’s been doing too.”

  The bishop gathered his wife and the group marched south.

  Their destination was a two-story house with a wide porch across the rabbit field from Brownell Hall. Sophia stood in the entry and gaped at the elegant stairway, the fine woodwork, and Eastlake furnishings as the lady of the house bustled about, preparing for dinner.

  “Tilly, forgive me. How may I help?”

  “You could set another place on each side of the table.” She directed Sophia to the well-stocked sideboard. “And, Lafayette, bring two more chairs from the parlor.”

  In deference to the heat, the men removed their sack coats. After dinner, consuming enough food to supply the entire tribe, the children raced out to play. A white dog accompanied them, but Goldie did not make an appearance.

  The bishop leaned on the table, his thumb and index finger smoothing his thick beard. “On every visit I’ve made to the Niobrara district, I’ve wondered why the Santees thrive and the Poncas wither.”

  “Exactly Sophia’s question when she arrived.” Will gave her a brief nod without looking at her. Then he told the Poncas’ story in simple but effective words, letting the listener draw his or her own conclusion.

  So eloquent. What a noble profile. And those hands—“Sophia?”

  She blinked at Will. “Pardon me?”

  “I asked if you’d tell the bishop about the school.”

  “Yes, of course.” She faced the man whose visage had turned grimmer with every word of Will’s. She started with the 1858 treaty’s unfulfilled stipulation of a manual labor school to train their youth in letters, agriculture, mechanical arts, and housewifery, through years of more broken promises, concluding with her feeble efforts.

  The bishop rested his chin on his fist. “Will they continue their education in Indian Territory?”

  Will shook his head. “There wasn’t a school when the chiefs checked it out in January.”

  The bishop bowed his head and led them in prayer for their friends, then consulted his pocket watch. “Mrs. Clarkson and I will walk you back to school, Miss Makinoff.”

  Visions of a long tête-à-tête with Will melted like snowflakes in the May heat. “Thank you, but I should stay and help Mrs. Dunn with the dishes.”

  “Heavens, no. Lafayette did them already,” Tilly said.

  “I hate to make you go out of your way.” She sent a desperate glance in Will’s direction, hoping he would make the offer. Did he live here or somewhere close?

  “Our house is right next door to Brownell Hall.” The bishop’s wife linked arms with Sophia. “It’s no trouble a
t all.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  So, what do you think?” Harrison opened the front door and raised his arms, indicating the unfinished staircase in the reception hall.

  “It’ll be an adventure getting to the bedrooms,” Will teased, then stepped out of range of Harrison’s swat. “What are you thinking for banisters and newel post?”

  “I’m thinking, ‘Thank God Will’s home!’ The owner’s a lawyer for the Union Pacific. He came out here in ’54, lived in a soddy down on Tenth and Farnam, then took rooms in Herndon House. He and his wife would be ever so grateful if we can make them a showplace, as in ‘spare no expense’ and ‘we’ve been waiting a long time for this’ grateful. She wants a dark stain, walnut or mahogany to match her piano.”

  “Which is it: walnut or mahogany?”

  Harrison shrugged. He couldn’t tell the difference. “She wants a lighted finial and their coat of arms carved into the newel post.”

  “I’ll need a good-sized chunk of pear wood.” Will squinted, imagining banisters matched to the columns outside, crown molding, inlaid ceilings, hardwood floors laid on a diagonal, stained glass for the window by the stairs. Best head over to the hotel, take a look at the piano.

  The parlor was built with tall ceilings and grand proportions. Mrs. Spare-No-Expense planned on some parties.

  Harrison rapped on the window frame. “Storm windows for winter, screens for summer. Opens both top and bottom for improved air circulation. Counter-balance system with iron weights and pulleys holds them in place. Never need to prop them open with sticks.”

  As Sophia had to do at school.

  Will raised the window with one finger and it stayed open. “Much safer.” He pointed to the capped pipes extending from the ceiling and several head-high places around the wall. “Gaslights?”

  “All the latest.” Harrison tapped the grating with his foot. “Coal furnace. Let me show you—” He led Will through the dining room, large enough to seat twenty, and the butler’s pantry with its floor-to-ceiling cabinetry, to the kitchen. “Ample windows for light and ventilation. Six-burner cookstove uses wood or coal, has a large water reservoir. Closet for the flour barrel. Pantry. Moulding board for bread. Separate cutting boards for meat and vegetables. Sink. Largest icebox in town. And out back—”