Heart of the Sandhills

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “Be quiet,” Aaron snapped. “She’ll hear you. She’s still Amanda Whitrock for now. And you know she hates being called ‘Mandy’.” He reached for the rose.

  Meg snatched it away. “If you want to give Amanda Whitrock a rose, give her one of yours.” She gestured toward a pink blossom nearby.

  “The pink ones aren’t as pretty as the white ones,” Aaron complained. He looked doubtfully toward the gazebo, somewhat cheered when a flash of color betrayed the fact that Amanda was watching for him.

  “Too bad,” Meg said, and straightened up. “I’m not giving her,” she nodded toward the gazebo, “one of Gen’s roses.”

  “She’s just sad we’re going to be gone next summer, that’s all,” Aaron explained.

  “She’s being a brat,” Meg declared, “because she isn’t getting her way. Sometimes she acts like she’s four years old. No,” Meg corrected herself, “I take that back. Hope acts better than Amanda most of the time. I never saw anybody as spoiled as Amanda Whitrock in my entire life,” Meg said. “Why do you even like her, anyway?”

  Aaron shrugged. “She’s the prettiest girl in the class,” he offered weakly, “and she likes me.”

  Meg rolled her eyes. Snipping off one more rose, she handed Aaron her clippers. “Here,” she said, heading toward the house. “Just remember. No white roses.”

  With a sigh, Aaron bent to clip a small pink bud off a bush. On his way to the gazebo he set Meg’s garden scissors on a white swing. Taking a deep breath, he headed toward the gazebo holding the small pink blossom before him like a penitent worshipper bearing a votive offering to his gods.

  Captain John Willets pushed away the map he had been studying and leaned back in his chair. There had to be worse things in a soldier’s life than boredom, but at the moment he could not think what they might be. He’d done his best to keep from being sent back to Minnesota, but to no avail. General Sibley wanted a seasoned man at Fort Ridgely as long as there was danger of hostile Sioux breaking back into Minnesota from the West. That man, General Sibley had said unequivocably, was John Willets. And so John had come, convincing himself that perhaps they were right, perhaps the string of scout camps along the frontier was not quite enough.

  The need for extra vigilance had been brought home to Willets just this past May when a group of hostiles broke through the frontier defenses and murdered four members of a homesteader’s family. It had sent panic all across Minnesota again, and for a while the garrison was alive with activity. But then the half-breed responsible for the murders was caught and imprisoned at Mankato—and subsequently lynched and hung by a mob. That ended any significant Indian trouble, and it had been months since anything of interest’ had happened at Fort Ridgely—unless, of course, one considered the arrival of Miss Charlotte Parker of interest. Which, to be quite honest, Captain Willets did. Just now, as he sat behind his oversized desk inside the stone building that served as a combination headquarters and surgeon’s residence, John gave himself over to the contemplation of Miss Charlotte’s warm brown eyes and tiny hands. Something about a small woman called out the protector in him. Always had. And Miss Charlotte was not only small, but she gazed up at him with the trusting, liquid-brown eyes of a gentle doe.

  In the contemplation of Miss Charlotte Parker, John Willets temporarily forgot his boredom. But then the fire burned low and a cold wind blew down the chimney and sent the map sliding off the desk onto the floor. When John bent to retrieve it he once again followed the line of the Missouri River west to where all things interesting were happening possibly at this very moment, and the lovely image of Miss Charlotte Parker was replaced by even more tempting images of supply trains and maneuvers and negotiations in the dusky light of campfires attended by men with names like Little Thunder and Bad Wound, Swift Bear and Spotted Antelope. As he put another log on the fire in his office, Captain Willets crouched down to warm his hands, thinking that it was going to be a very long winter—a few cotillions with the fleet-footed Miss Charlotte Parker notwithstanding.

  “Cap’n Willets.” A familiar voice sounded from the door.

  “You got supper already, Pope?” Willets asked without getting up.

  “No, sir. It’s not that, sir. I was over at the sutler’s store and—,” Edward Pope cleared his throat. “Well, there’s a settler over there and he’s hoppin’ mad. I heard him say somethin’ about Indians. Just thought you might want to know, sir.”

  Willets stood up and turned around. Smoothing his unfashionably long blond hair with one hand, he reached for his hat with the other. He smiled. “Thank you, Pope. I’ll see to it.” He made his way across the parade ground and had just rounded the officers’ quarters when he was nearly bowled over by a giant of a man who looked oddly familiar but whom Willets did not recognize even when the man introduced himself as “Marsh. Abner Marsh. Got to talk to you about some Injuns.”

  “Indian trouble? Here?” With a look in Edward Pope’s direction, Willets lowered his voice. “We’ll talk at headquarters,” and without waiting for Marsh to reply, he headed back across the parade ground and inside.

  When Abner Marsh ducked to clear the top of Willets’s office door, he remembered. This was the man who had had some horses stolen before the outbreak and had come to the fort for help. Willets had led a company of men to the Marsh homestead where they found a dead Dakota warrior in Marsh’s barn. As it turned out, Marsh had already recaptured his horses from the thieves in an act at once so daring and stupid Willets had been unsure whether to admire or chastise the man. He had ended up doing neither, returning to Fort Ridgely to bury the unidentified warrior in a corner of the fort cemetery plot.

  “You had a place up by Acton,” Willets said, motioning Abner Marsh into a chair. At Marsh’s surprised expression, Willets smiled and passed a hand over his blond goatee. “I’ve changed—had a full beard back then. But I’m the one who came up to your place after your horses were stolen.”

  Marsh squinted at Willets momentarily, then nodded and grunted. “Hope I get more help this time than I did then.” He leaned forward. “Got me a new place down by New Ulm. Nice place. Good water. Rich soil. Only problem is, still got Injun trouble.” Looking around the room for a spittoon and finding none, Marsh sent a brown stream of liquid into the corner behind Willets’s desk before continuing. “Neighbor named Jeb Grant. He’s got four of ‘em livin’ on his place. Two bucks.”

  Willets smiled. “As it happens, Mr. Marsh, I know Daniel Two Stars and Robert Lawrence. They scouted for the Army. And they both did excellent service on behalf of whites during the outbreak. You have nothing to be concerned about with Daniel and Robert.”

  Marsh’s jaw set momentarily, then he spit tobacco again.

  With a glance into the corner, Willets said abruptly, “Would you mind if we finished this conversation outside?” Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the door.

  Marsh followed Willets outside. Clenching his fists at his sides, he stepped toward Willets and stared down at him. “I want those Injuns off Grant’s place. I got a wife and two young daughters. They was scairt half to death in that other mess. I ain’t gonna’ have ‘em worried again.”

  Willets looked away and stared across the parade ground toward the place where his Dakota scouts had once camped. Looking back up at Marsh, he forced another smile. “All those two men want is a place to peacefully raise a family. Which is, I gather, what you want as well. They’ve both paid quite a price for just being Indians. And in my humble opinion, they both deserve to be left in peace for the rest of their days. If you want to know the truth, you’d sooner have to worry about Sitting Bull riding a thousand miles and personally attacking your place than any trouble from Two Stars or Lawrence.”

  Marsh raised his voice. “You tellin’ me the United States Army ain’t gonna lift a finger to protect lawful citizens?”

  “No sir, I’m not saying that. The Army will always protect citizens,” Willets said, forcing reasonableness into his voice. “I’m just tel
ling you that you don’t have a problem. And the Army cannot just ride onto private property and remove people who were invited to live there. Jeb Grant obviously wants them. And with all due respect, Mr. Marsh, I remind you that Mr. Grant’s rights are on an equal par with yours. He has the right to hire farm hands of his choosing.”

  “Now you listen here,” Marsh said, shoving Willets back against the stone wall of the building. “You may think that uniform of yours gives you permission to order me around. It don’t. I pay your salary, and—”

  A half-foot shorter than Abner Marsh and at least fifty pounds lighter, John Willets was no threat physically—at least that was what Marsh reckoned. Except that one minute he was pressing Willets against the wall and the next minute he had landed in the dirt on his backside.

  From where he stood peering out from behind the barracks, Edward Pope laughed. “I told you Cap’n would handle ‘im,” he said to the two other privates with him. “I seen him whip a prisoner bigger’n Abner Marsh once. He’s got moves so quick you don’t know what hit you. No sirree, you better think again before you mess with Cap’n Willets.” Pope laughed and headed off to fix a mess of his famous soup for the captain. The other two soldiers continued to watch.

  “Here’s a word of advice, Mr. Marsh,” John said from the doorway of his office. “It does not help your case when you try to smash the face of the man you want help from.” As Marsh scrambled to get up, Willets repeated, “Daniel Two Stars and Robert Lawrence are good men. I would take it personally if anything happened to them.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have housekeeping to do. Someone used the corner of my office for a spittoon.” Behind him, he heard Abner Marsh muttering under his breath about Injun lovers and cowards. He straightened his shoulders and went inside.

  “Mornin’, Abner.” Jeb Grant nodded to his neighbor and climbed down from his wagon. With a farmer’s inherent interest in the weather, he commented on the season’s early snow even as he limped to the front of the wagon and hitched his team before heading toward Ludlow’s Variety Store.

  But Abner Marsh was not about to engage in meaningless small talk about the weather. “Got somethin’ to talk to you about,” he said. “Thought you’d be in town, it bein’ Saturday and all.”

  Jeb hesitated before following Marsh to the side of the building. He nodded toward where a group of men were unloading bricks. “Good to see the town gettin’ built up. Bodes well for the future.”

  Abner cast a brief glance toward the pile of bricks. He could hear the sounds of hammering and sawing from somewhere nearby. But where Jeb saw progress, Abner saw a need to rebuild a town that had been a prime target of Sioux attacks in the uprising of 1862. “How long you gonna keep Injuns on your place?” Abner asked abruptly.

  Jeb pulled on the brim of his hat, scratched his ear, and seemed to be considering the question. “Can’t say as I’m keepin’ any now, Abner. Daniel and Robert are workin’ for me. They more than earn their way. Reckon they’ll stay as long as they want to stay.” He squinted up at Abner. “I’m personally hopin’ that’ll be a long time.”

  “Government gave ‘em a reservation out in Nebraska. That’s where they should go.”

  “Why should they do that, Abner?” Jeb asked quietly. “Minnesota’s always been their home—for longer than you or me been here, even.”

  “I got a wife and two girls to worry about,” Abner grumbled. “We got to be careful. That trouble last spring proves it.”

  “Daniel and Robert got nothing in common with them hostiles that caused that trouble.” Jeb forced a smile. He put his hand on Abner’s shoulder. “You can’t just lump people all together like that. I never liked Germans much ‘til one saved my hide at Shiloh.” He waved his hands around him. “Now I’m livin’ near a whole town full of Germans and it don’t bother me at all.” He thumped Marsh on the back. “Give it time, neighbor. You’ll see’ there’s nothin’ to worry about.”

  Marsh’s spittle stained the light covering of snow at Jeb’s feet. He wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve. “I’ll give you ‘til spring plantin’ to get ‘em off your place,” he said. “Come spring, if they’re still there, I won’t be responsible.”

  “You threatenin’ my friends, Abner? That ain’t neighborly.”

  “It ain’t only me, Jeb,” Abner said.”I been talkin’ to Baxter and Quinn. They don’t like it either. We kinda got you fenced in on this, Jeb.”

  Jeb looked past Abner toward his wagon. If Baxter and Quinn agreed with Marsh, he really was fenced in—literally. Between the three, they owned all the land surrounding Jeb. And he had been wanting to buy one of those sections from Earl Baxter. Trouble over Daniel and Robert took on a new level of importance. “Just calm down, Abner,” Jeb said. He put one foot up on the boardwalk that stretched in front of the store. “I got to get my supplies and get home. Why don’t you and Sally come up to the house after church on Sunday? Meet Daniel and Robert and their wives.” He nodded. “We’ll invite the Baxters and the Quinns, too. Once you all meet the Two Starses and the Lawrences, you’ll know for sure there’s nothing to get all riled up about.”

  Marsh shook his head. “Sally was in a family way when the mess happened back in ‘62. Lost the baby. Never been the same since. And she won’t be makin’ Sunday calls on some of them that done it.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened, Abner. I truly am. But we got to move on. Quinn was on the other side in the Rebellion, but I don’t hold it against him. We’re all Americans again and I’m willing to let it go.” Jeb stepped up on the boardwalk just in time to see Reverend Donohue coming out of Ludlow’s. “Let it rest, Abner. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.” He called out to Reverand Donohue before turning back to say, “You change your mind about comin’ over, you’re welcome any time. Marjorie makes real good pie. It’s worth a visit.” Without waiting for a response, he headed for the Reverend.

  The Reverend Elmer Donohue advised a worried Jeb Grant to pray. Being new to the West and having never seen an Indian himself, but having heard his share of stories, he also suggested that perhaps Brother Marsh was right and that the, urn, Dakota guests currently staying on the Grant farm could be encouraged to seek another domicile in the spring. Jeb listened to the reverend’s meaningless, misinformed litany, finished his shopping at Ludlow’s, and headed home, thoroughly discouraged.

  Although the early snow melted within a few days, its arrival infused every settler with an uneasy sense that they had better be about getting prepared for the onslaught of an early and harsh winter. After all, they reminded one another, hadn’t the squirrels been lining their nests with an unusually thick layer of leaves? And weren’t the horses’ winter coats coming in thicker and sooner than normal? In the wake of such signs, Robert Lawrence decided to take Nancy along for what he expected would be their last trip into town before spring. When he returned, Robert pulled his team up in front of Daniel and Gen’s cabin.

  Daniel met them at the wagon. “Gen’s up at the Grants’ helping Marjorie make some apple pies,” he said to Nancy. “I’ll get her.”

  “I’ll walk up there,” Nancy said. She nodded at Robert and headed off up the road.

  “Wait,” Daniel called out. “Let us drive you.”

  Nancy put one hand on her belly. She laughed. “The baby won’t be here for many moons.” Her face grew sad, and inwardly Daniel felt a sympathetic pang, wishing he had not been the cause of bringing her two lost children to Nancy’s mind. But Nancy recovered quickly and cast a bright smile in his direction. “You men need to talk. Gen and I will be back in time to make you something to eat.” Without waiting, Nancy headed off up the road.

  “What is it?” Daniel asked his friend, frowning.

  Robert reached into the wagon for a newspaper and held it out to Daniel, who leaned against the wagon and began to read the article Robert pointed out.

  I have recently learned, with much surprise, that the Sioux Indians who were the perpetrators of
the Minnesota Massacre of 1862 have been moved from their location at Crow Creek down into one of the settled counties of Nebraska, directly opposite white settlements in Dakota.

  You are aware that these Indians murdered more than one thousand defenseless men, women, and children in the state of Minnesota. Now an order has been signed for the release of those hostile savages and they have been turned loose to seek revenge by a system of robbery, rapine, and murder upon our unprotected citizens … If these Indians are allowed to remain near our settlements, our citizens will either be compelled to abandon their homes for the security of their lives and property or wage a war of extermination against them …

  When Daniel finished reading, Robert spoke up. “The new reservation is in Nebraska. Plenty of timber, good land, they say.”

  “We aren’t reservation Indians,” Daniel said abruptly. “Not anymore.

  “Maybe we should be,” Robert answered. “If the new reservation is good. If—”

  Daniel interrupted him, quoting from the newspaper article. “If the whites in the area don’t ‘wage a war of extermination against the savages’?”

  “There are more letters in that paper,” Robert said. “Many of the settlers here are beginning to worry about us. There’s a letter from Quinn. He calls us hellhounds.”

  Daniel sighed. Leaning against the wagon, he studied the earth at his feet for a moment. “Elliot Leighton writes that Congress is going to give at least some of the Dakota scouts farms. He hopes that when he and Jane bring the children out in the spring they will be able to help us move to our own farms. Then all of these worries with Jeb’s neighbors will be resolved.”

  “No one in Minnesota is going to give Indians free land,” Robert argued.

  “It isn’t free,” Daniel snorted. “It was our crops and our livestock that fed the soldiers and the rescued captives for weeks. Our furniture fueled their campfires.”