Heart of the Sandhills

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  When the canyon walls were gray with morning light, Two Moons woke and sat up. She picked up a rock and pressed it against her arm as had been her custom every morning for the past few weeks. But this morning she did not cut herself. She was distracted by the birds again, and as the canyon began to glow with morning light, she caught the old pony and ventured to the place just out of sight that seemed to be attracting them.

  Expecting to find the carcass of some animal, Two Moons caught her breath when she saw a dead horse and the body of a soldier. At the sight of him, all the evil came back. She crouched down and grasped a huge rock, hesitating long enough to relish what was coming. She would do to him what had been done to her child, and it would help. Revenge always helped. She lifted the rock overhead and ran toward the dead soldier, raising her voice as she did so in an unearthly wail that echoed from the canyon walls and came back to her even as she came down with

  Barely, just barely, she missed him. The rock landed with a thud beside the man’s head and she knelt down, trembling with the realization of what she had nearly done to a brother. Even if he was dead, he was Indian. A scout, she realized, and her mouth curled up in derision. One of those who helped the white army locate and kill. She despised him. Still, her mother had taught her healing ways and made her promise never to willfully harm what the great Wakan had created. Two Moons sighed—so she would not dash out his brains. But she would not bury him. Let the birds have him and the white pony that lay nearby, its neck twisted at an odd angle.

  She stepped over the dead Indian and hurried to the horse. Working quickly, she removed the blanket and the bags tied behind the saddle. She could not get the one that was beneath the animal out from under him. But she opened the one that was available to her and grunted when she found nothing of value, only some kind of book, its pages stained with bits of pale blue dried flowers tucked inside. Two Moons put the book back inside the bag, more of an object of curiosity than of value. She finally managed to drag the other bag from beneath the horse. She removed the bridle and every other piece of equipment that might be of use. There was a water holder and a gun and bullets, although she wasn’t certain how to load the gun. Still, she lay these things in the blanket and made a bundle to tie on her pony’s back.

  She was just getting ready to continue her journey toward winter camp when she thought she heard something. Her heart racing, she backed against the canyon wall, expecting at any moment to see a column of soldiers coming toward her. But the sound had been too slight to warn of coming soldiers. When she heard it again, she frowned and stepped toward the horse.

  Things were quiet. She decided to inspect the soldier for anything she could use and began by putting his hat on her own head. Regretting the size of his boots, she decided to take them anyway. When she began to pull and tug on the boot, he groaned. The sound sent her scurrying away in terror. But when he did not move, she told herself she was a fool to be hearing a dead man protest the taking of his boots and she returned to the task. But this time, when she moved the foot, the man yelped with pain. She went to his head, leaned down to his face. His breath was shallow and fast, but he was indeed breathing.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  He opened his eyes, but there was nothing there but pain.

  “I am Two Moons,” she said. “I thought you were dead.” When it appeared he didn’t understand her, she looked him over. There was no blood except for a few clotted scratches. Reaching for the knife in his belt, she cut away the cloth above the boot she had tried to remove, revealing a sight that sickened her—a ghastly wound that would likely kill him. The tip of a bone was sticking up out of a hole in the man’s leg. She would need to get it back inside where it belonged … preferably close enough to the other bone that the two could meet and grow together again. But she knew from watching her mother that someone would have to hold him down when she tried that. It would leave an even bigger hole and cause more bleeding, though—he would likely die from the black sickness she had seen spread over a man’s leg in the past.

  He coughed and barked out in pain, lifting one hand to his chest. Those bones must be broken, too. Two Moons looked above her. He must have come over the edge up there. She shuddered to think of what else might be wrong inside his broken body. It was no wonder his eyes stared blankly when she asked questions. He might never be able to answer questions. She remembered a brave who had taken a fall on a buffalo hunt and never been the same. Sometimes, he clutched his head and roared with pain. At others, he would wobble through the village laughing at nothing. No one knew how to help him. One night, he disappeared without a trace.

  A noise brought Two Moons back to the present. The man raised a trembling hand to his forehead. The effort made tiny beads of sweat break out on his skin. He grimaced and whispered something. He licked his cracked lips. She went to the river, filled his water bottle, brought it back, and then dribbled the tiniest bit of water into his mouth. He swallowed, opening his mouth like a bird, begging for more. Against her instincts, she gave it but he became sick. Agonizing pain caused by the vomiting made him pass out.

  Two Moons was glad. His being unconscious made it easier to clean him up. She opened the collar of his shirt and, using the part of his pant leg she had cut off, bathed him, carrying water back and forth from the river until she had done what she could.

  I should let him die, Two Moons argued with herself. He had been a scout helping the army. A symbol woven into the beaded necklace she’d found when she unbuttoned his shirt indicated he was Dakota. Everyone knew the Dakota were cowards or they would never have let the army drive them out of their lands in the east. Now they were all on some reservation being treated like animals. Word had traveled among the camps years ago of what had happened to those Dakota who helped whites against their own brothers.

  This Dakota was beautiful, though, and not old. The thin gold ring on his small finger signified that he was married. Two Moons wondered if he had children. It was the thought of children that finally decided her course of action. Enough children had lost their fathers. She fingered the scars along her arms while she thought. Maybe what she had heard about the Dakota wasn’t true of them all. Certainly people thought things about her people that were wrong. And her mother had made her promise to use the healing ways whenever she could. Two Moons looked up at the canyon walls around her. Surely the Great Wakan must think well of this man to have brought her here.

  Overhead, the cry of a bird caught her attention. An eagle landed on a precipice and looked down upon them. Presently the great bird soared lower and lower until it came to rest along the river opposite them. It looked at her boldly for a moment before rising again to the blue skies and disappearing.

  Yes, Two Moons thought. That must be it. The Great Wakan has brought me here and sent the bird as a sign. Her mother had taught her to use the healing ways to help any who came her way. Even an enemy.

  The man opened his eyes.

  “I should let you die,” she signed. “You work for the soldiers.”

  Whether it was because he was beautiful, or because of the eagle, or because when she said she might let him die there was no sign of fear in his eyes, Two Moons worked the rest of the day fashioning a rickety travois from the crooked trunks of a few straggly trees growing along the river. She used the horse’s bridle and the cinch from the saddle and some other pieces of leather to lash them together. She doubted her ancient mare could pull the injured man very far on the contraption, but she would do what she could. Every mile she managed was a mile closer to winter camp.

  She had relished the idea of sending a rock through his skull when she thought him already dead. Whatever I am, Two Moons thought, I will not kill a wounded man. Perhaps this was a test from the Great Wakan, she thought, to see if I would still live by the rule of kindness to the helpless that has reigned among the People since the day they were born from Mother Earth.

  Yes, Two Moons thought. That must be it. And even if she was wrong and the G
reat Wakan was not testing her, at the least it appeared that he had provided her with another man. Perhaps this one was actually fleeing the army when the horse fell over the cliff. If he was fleeing the army, and if he does not die … well, Two Moons thought as she pulled the travois bearing the wounded soldier along the canyon floor, then we will see.

  Twenty-Three

  But love ye your enemies, and do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again …

  —Luke 6:35

  “Now listen here, son—”

  “Don’t call me that! I’m not your son and I don’t have to listen to you!” Aaron yelled at the top of his lungs, shoving Zephyr Picotte’s hand off his shoulder. He appealed to Elliot. “Make him listen, Uncle Elliot. Make him understand.”

  “I do understand, Aaron,” Zephyr said. His voice was almost gentle.

  “You don’t,” Aaron spat back. “You can’t. If you understood, you wouldn’t be standing here telling me we can’t go look for Two Stars. He’s not like other Indians. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Two Stars,” Picotte said. “I wouldn’t volunteer a hunting party to go look for the baby Jesus today, not with what just happened. It’s likely the warriors haven’t even gotten all their dead off the battlefield yet. And you’re running on nervous energy right now. By evening you’re probably going to collapse. And it’s not just you. A battle like we fought today takes it out of a man.” Picotte grunted and sat down. He kicked a chair in frustration and looked across the room at Elliot. “Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

  There was quiet in the room while Elliot swept his hand through his long white hair, thinking. He had just come from the commander’s office where reports were being prepared on today’s fight. He had listened carefully, using all his military experience to try and gain a clear picture of what had happened. He had looked over the men’s shoulders when they drew diagrams and listened to at least a dozen different accounts of events. The only explanation for why any of the men inside that corral had survived seemed to be a miracle in the form of a Springfield rifle. That was the only thing he could figure, but nothing gave him any clear idea of what could have happened to Daniel. Someone thought they had seen the white horse headed off toward the woodcutters’ camp. Someone else had seen him take part in the small charge against the force firing the camp, but that force had retreated to inside the corral, and it was at that point in the morning all trace of Daniel Two Stars seemed to disappear.

  “Tell me what happened again,” he said to Aaron. Then he waved toward an empty chair. “But first, sit down.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know,” Aaron said wearily, as he slid into a chair. After a moment, he repeated it all again. “I was mad because Daniel didn’t let me stay with the men at the corral. He sent me off to help guard the herd. I knew what he was doing. He knew they would probably try to run off some mules and ponies first, and he figured that would give me time to get away. He told me at the first sign of trouble I was to head for the fort. He made it sound like I’d be helping by going for reinforcements. But what he was really doing was trying to keep me out of the fight.” Aaron rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. He continued with a trembling voice. “They did stampede the herd first. Just like Daniel said. Only he didn’t stay put in the corral to fight. When he saw how many Indians there were—”

  “How many?” Elliot asked. The reports he had heard ranged anywhere from two hundred to a thousand, depending on the individual soldier and his stomach for battle.

  “I don’t know,” Aaron said. “I think most of the men think it was maybe two hundred.” He cleared his throat. “It seemed like more, but two hundred is probably about right. Anyway, when Daniel saw what was happening, he came and got me. Didn’t even take time to saddle his horse. Just climbed aboard bareback and streaked into the fight. I’d only fired my rifle a couple times when he road up alongside and hollered for me to come to the fort.” Aaron scraped his boots across the wood floor nervously and leaned back in his chair. He looked at his uncle dully. “But I didn’t. I pretended I was going, but I doubled back. When the Indians stopped to burn the woodcutters’ camp, that gave me a chance to get inside the corral. Then the fighting … I asked about Daniel, but there were too many things—”

  “Nothin’ we could’a done anyway,” Picotte interjected. He scratched his beard, thinking. “Doesn’t make sense, him just disappearin’ that way.”

  “What if he’s wounded, Uncle Elliot?” Aaron’s voice was edged with desperation. “We can’t just leave him out there.” He added, “Robert and Big Amos would go after him.”

  “They would,” Elliot agreed. “But neither of them can. Big Amos has a bullet hole in his shoulder and Robert got creased here,” Elliot brushed his head above his ear. “Doctor’s worried about infection. Said he had a patient once where everything seemed fine, then a few days later the poor soul went into a coma and died. Autopsy showed a brain abscess. He wants to keep a close watch on Robert in the hospital.”

  “So we don’t have our scouts and Zephyr won’t go,” Aaron put his head in his hands.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go,” Picotte said. “I just said I’m not heading out tonight. We’d be nothing more than fresh meat for those warriors tonight. Or wolves.”

  “I’m not afraid of wolves,” Aaron blustered.

  “Well you should be,” Picotte said. “A pack of a hundred wolves would bring that pony of yours down without giving you notice, boy.” He waved his hand at Aaron. “I know, I know, you’re not a boy. Quit actin’ like one and think like a man. Men don’t behave like emotional women when bad things happen.” He stood up. “We’ll ride out tomorrow when the men go to reconnoiter the battlefield. See what we can see.” He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe Daniel will come in himself before morning. He could just be layin’ low, waitin’ to make sure he can make it back to the fort before he comes out of hiding.” He made for the door, pausing on his way out of the room. “Don’t think on it anymore, Aaron. You’ll go around and around with it in your head and nothing good will come of it.”

  “I should have come to the fort like he told me,” Aaron muttered. “We needed reinforcements. We really did.”

  “Maybe that’s so. But the fact is, what you did or didn’t do probably didn’t make all that much difference with what happened. Maybe Two Stars would have stayed inside the corral if you weren’t so stubborn. Maybe he’d been the one shot in the head the minute the battle started. Maybe not. This isn’t battle practice, son. It’s the real thing. And when the real thing happened, Two Stars did what he had to do, and you fought like a man. You can hold your head up and no man has a right to tell you otherwise. So don’t you tell yourself some foolishness that’ll only weigh you down with guilt.” Picotte closed the door behind him.

  “People make decisions in the heat of battle, Aaron,” Elliot said quietly. “Some of them are good, some are bad. In the end, a soldier does the best he can and learns to live with the results. We all have to do that, or we’d all end up crazy. Now get to bed. You won’t do Daniel one bit of good if you aren’t rested tomorrow.” Elliot got up and scooted his chair back beneath the table.

  Aaron followed suit, pausing at the door. “What are we going to tell Ma, Uncle Elliot? What if we don’t find him?”

  “She’s a strong woman,” Elliot said quickly, “with a strong faith. She’s been through hard things before. She’ll bear up.”

  Aaron nodded. He headed off toward his bed in the bunkhouse shared with several other enlisted men. Elliot watched him go, thinking to himself that, while his hair had not gone white nearly overnight, Aaron Dane looked at least a decade older. He put his good hand out and leaned against the log wall for a minute, wishing he felt as confident as he had sounded when he predicted how well Genevieve might do in the face of Daniel’s death. She’ll bear up. Elliot thought about it.

  The wolves were at it again, fighting over the scrapple in the slaughter yard. Elliot li
stened to their snarls for a few minutes, then, as he crossed the parade ground, he paused and looked up at the inky black sky, praying with all his might for a miracle so that he would not be forced to take news of Daniel’s death to Genevieve Two Stars.

  So he was alive. Barely, he realized, but the searing pain meant at least alive. High above him the sky was blue. He was in some kind of deep ravine. He could feel the frame of a travois beneath him, hear the scraping of the frame as it moved along what must be the canyon floor. It wasn’t a smooth ride, and with every bump it took all his energy not to yelp like a wounded animal against the pain that coursed through his body.

  He wondered why they hadn’t killed him. But consciousness didn’t last long enough for him to work that out, and he slipped away.

  The next time he was conscious long enough to think, Daniel realized he was inside a tepee. The sun was shining and blue sky shone above through the smoke-hole at the top. He could hear dogs barking, children laughing. He could feel the softness of some kind of animal pelt beneath him. Not a buffalo robe, but something else. There was someone in the tepee with him, but when he tried to turn his head the pain was too great. Breathing hurt, too. He kept his eyes closed, trying to concentrate on each part of his body. Every time he was tempted to fall asleep, he fought it: He managed to stay awake long enough to take inventory. Breathing was all right as long as he didn’t try to take in too much air, but every breath still hurt. His arms seemed all right, too. And his left foot, since he could move it. But the right one didn’t respond at all. He couldn’t feel his toes. If he tried to move his foot the pain shot up his leg and into his back and nearly knocked him out. He took inventory twice, coming to the same conclusion each time. When he sensed he was thirsty, someone read his thoughts, and moisture dribbled into his mouth. He swallowed it greedily, but he didn’t have the energy to open his eyes or even grunt to let whoever was tending him know he was awake.