Joseph didn’t have to answer. They had turned left inside the entrance and wound around the base of a low hill. A few small headstones shone in the afternoon sun, and there was one new grave. LisBeth had to shade her eyes from the brilliant white to find the name. It was carved under a simple design of palm fronds.
Jesse King
Born January 26, 1822
Died July 10, 1876
Aged 54 years, 5 mos., 14 days.
Gone home
Joseph helped LisBeth down and then led the team to a small brook that ran along one edge of the cemetery grounds. LisBeth stood staring at the tombstone for a long while before bending over to place her bouquet at its base.
“You were only fifty-four years old, Mama,” LisBeth whispered. “I thought I’d have you forever. I thought you’d always be here, at home. I thought you’d always be here.” The young voice quavered, and LisBeth cried freely before going on. “Mac’s gone, too, Mama. My dear, beautiful Mac is gone. How did you do it, Mama? How did you bear it when Papa died?” LisBeth sniffed loudly and blew her nose. Then she sat down on the prairie and ran her fingers through the coarse, dry grass. She looked around her at the barren hills.
“I wonder every day about what it must have been like for you, Mama.” You loved a Lakota man, and then he died. You raised his son, and then you were forced to leave him behind. You had so much pain. But when I remember you, I remember you smiling. How did you do it?
“I’m going to plant a tree here for you, Mama. You know what kind? A pine tree. I remember you told me that Papa once cut down the tallest lodgepole pine you’d ever seen, just so that you could have the biggest tepee in the village. Well, now you’ll be able to rest in the shade of a pine tree again.”
In only a few moments in the sun, the brilliant bouquet had begun to wilt. “I miss you, Mama. Without you and Mac, I’m not sure where I fit in the world. When I was Jesse King’s daughter and MacKenzie Baird’s wife, it didn’t matter much that I was half-Lakota and half-white. But now I’m all alone. I’m not sure how or who I should be.” LisBeth stood up wearily and brushed off her black skirt. The wind tugged at her clothes. Reaching up to straighten her bonnet, LisBeth whispered, “There are so many things I don’t understand, Mama. I wish you were still here. You’d know what I should do about—everything.”
Staring down at the new grave, LisBeth waited a few moments longer before turning abruptly and hurrying away. On the way back to Lincoln, both LisBeth and Joseph made several attempts at conversation, but each attempt failed. Finally, they rode along listening to the hot, dry wind blowing across the open prairie.
When they drove up to the kitchen door, LisBeth climbed down from the carriage before Joseph could get around to her side to help her. Her eyes thanked him, but her voice failed her. She went inside, crossed the kitchen without a word to Sarah or Augusta, and retreated to her mother’s room where she lay staring at the ceiling with no tears left to cry and an unquenched thirst for comfort.
When she finally fell asleep, Lakota warriors and the U.S. Army crowded into the darkened room. They engaged in mortal combat until only one soldier and one brave remained. As the two faced one another, LisBeth realized that the Lakota warrior looked just like her.
LisBeth woke from the dream and sat up. Shakily she got out of bed and made her way to the washstand to dash water on her face. When she returned to bed, she turned onto her side with her back to the one thing that could have brought her greater comfort than even Mac’s or her mother’s loving arms. On the small table at the bedside, within easy reach, lay Jesse’s Bible, and in it were all the words that Jesse would have shared had she been able to meet her grieving young daughter at the train station. But the Bible remained unopened, and the grieving young heart was not comforted.
Chapter 4
There is no soundness in my flesh . . . neither is there any rest in my bones because of my sin. For mine iniquities are gone over mine head: as an heavy burden they are too heavy for me. . . . I am troubled; I am bowed down greatly; I go mourning all the day long.
Psalm 38:3–4, 6
I n the end, it was the children who did it. Walking miles in 105-degree heat didn’t do it. Slogging through knee-deep mire for mile upon mile didn’t do it. Even when his favorite mount gave out and was butchered and served for supper, he’d held up. Other men sat down in the muck and cried like babes. But not Jim. Corporal James Callaway didn’t break. He didn’t give out. He was born to a soldier’s life, and it was a life he loved. He’d done everything he’d been asked, including learning the language of the enemy. Until he saw the children.
He was ordered forward to negotiate the Indian warriors’ surrender. Gripping his pistol tightly, he slipped into the ravine and was astounded when a wet, shivering woman grabbed at him, yammering hysterically, pleading for her life. With his free hand Jim grabbed her and pulled her out. When he didn’t shoot, other women came eagerly, grasping Jim’s hand, begging his protection. One clutched a lifeless infant to her breast as she screamed out, “We are not warriors. We have no guns. Why do you kill us?”
Then the children came. They filed out of the ravine and settled into the dust and waited. Some had horrific wounds. They stared at the white men. It seemed to Jim that they were all staring at him. Their eyes had questions he couldn’t answer. And all the while, they were bleeding, and no one seemed to care, no one moved to help them.
One young private picked up a knife and grabbed a squaw. A child, perhaps four years old, screamed and ran to her side, pulling at the soldier’s hand, pleading. That did it. That broke Jim Callaway, sent him right over the edge of sanity into a bleak world where there were no reasonable answers.
Suddenly, the warriors who had told their women to surrender and plead for mercy charged out of the ravine. Vastly outnumbered, they cried out their death songs and stepped into eternity. In the confusion, Jim slipped into the ravine. Following the southwesterly twists and turns, he ran away. He briefly wondered whether he would be followed, but a glance back convinced him that he would probably be assumed to have fallen into the enemy’s hands.
Jim Callaway had, indeed, fallen into enemy hands. Broken in spirit, outraged by the things he had been called upon to do, Jim fell to the dark enemy within himself. He stumbled along for miles. The battle sounds receded, but the vision of the children did not. In his mind, the children swirled and danced, muddling his thoughts until he grabbed his head in his hands and shouted for them to stop. Then, sobbing, he begged aloud, “I didn’t know. . . . I thought I was fighting grown men. I didn’t know there were women—mothers—your mothers. I didn’t know.”
Jim Callaway had been born to the military, had grown up at Fort Kearny, Nebraska, watching his father be promoted, growing prouder as each day passed, eager to serve his country. When Jim was only a child, two Lakota prisoners were sent to the fort. Instead of being locked up, they were given the run of the fort. Sometimes they even went on scouting expeditions with the soldiers. Eventually the two were given the run of the fort, and Jim could still remember them wrestling with him. Jim had discovered that there were both good and bad Lakota, just as there were good and bad men among the soldiers.
He had enlisted as soon as he could and had begun a career that gave him intense satisfaction. The world of polished boots and parades, a fine mount, and defending his country was all he had ever wanted. It had been glorious—for a few years.
But then, the “Indian problem” became a daily reality. Jim’s father retired and settled near Kearney, Nebraska. Jim was transferred north, to the Dakotas. Settlers began encroaching on lands that had always belonged to the Indian. When gold was discovered in the Black Hills, Jim sensed the beginning of the end for the Lakota.
With the arrival of settlers in Dakota, the role of the military took a direction Jim didn’t like. At Fort Kearny he had been a friend to the emigrants who were “passing through,” helping them find their way safely, providing a haven where tired travelers could raise the
ir eyes to see the flag flying and feel comforted. But settling the land to the north—that meant inevitable conflict.
Jim had remained loyal to the oath he had taken when he was only eighteen years old. For six years he walked the tightrope of conscience, watching earnest farmers and equally earnest Lakota in a struggle that Jim knew would have to end badly for the Lakota. He had continued to follow orders, even when he hated what they demanded of him.
But he hadn’t counted on killing women and children. Sitting in a ravine, going over and over the images from his past, Jim tried to sort things out and found that he could not. He blinked back tears and stood up abruptly.
He pulled at the five brass eagle buttons holding the front of his dark wool blouse together and threw them as far as he could. He ripped the insignia off his hat and stomped it into the dust, putting the hat back on and pulling it far down over his eyes. He wanted to rid himself of every vestige of the military, but the Colt revolver had to stay. He would need it to hunt for food. Reaching down to the looped belt around his waist he counted twenty-four unspent cartridges. If his luck held, he could eat once a day for nearly a month until . . . until what?
Jim smiled grimly. No one would be coming after him. They would all be too caught up in sorting out their new prisoners and the dead bodies to worry about one missing infantryman. If Charlie Blake were still alive, Jim might have something to worry about. Charlie had been a friend. But Charlie had died two days earlier in a senseless argument over rations. Jim had withdrawn weeks ago from the others in his company. Caught up in the inner struggle about this mission and his part in the war with the Indians, he’d become increasingly morose and withdrawn. A few men had tried to draw him out, finally giving up and allowing him to retreat further and further into himself.
He’d eventually be reported missing, but no one would care much what had happened to him. As for his folks, it would be better for them if they believed he had died in the line of “duty.” The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. He stumbled on southward until nightfall, falling into an exhausted, troubled sleep out on the open prairie.
Days passed before Jim realized that the screws holding the top and bottom of his boots together had worn through the soles and begun to gouge his feet. He examined the blisters with disinterest, finally kicking off the remnants of his cavalry boots and stumbling on, barefoot. His trousers split at the knees as he knelt to drink at a slow-moving, muddy creek one day. His auburn hair bleached out in the sun and his beard came in pure white.
Hunting with the revolver proved fruitless. Finally, hunger drove him to gnaw on tree bark and what berries he could find just to stay alive. At last, his body gave out. He mumbled to himself, trying to make the children’s faces disappear, but they would not go. They stared at him, day and night. It did not matter where he ran. It did not matter how loudly he screamed at them, nor how he wept and begged them to forgive him. Still, they stared at him.
Finally, with a little smile, Jim Callaway decided to die. He lay on his side, clutching his knees to his chin, waiting. He waited a long time, until the dark eyes of the children finally melted away. In his madness, Jim thought they had accepted his death as sufficient. They had all gone, save one. It was good that they were gone. With only one watching, he would die.
But the one who stayed to watch talked to him, grabbed him, shook him roughly. Jim pushed the hand away. He turned his face to the earth. The hand jerked him upright.
Drawn from his delirium, Jim saw that the dream-children were gone. In their place, live, adult Indians had come. But they were not the bedraggled, defeated lot at Slim Buttes. These were warriors in all their finery. They sat astride their ponies like the lords of the plains they believed themselves to be. They discussed their find in low tones, not deigning to look at Jim, unaware that he understood their mutterings.
Jim listened dully. He had assumed they would kill him—slowly. The prospect bothered him, but not unduly. He wanted to die. He deserved to die for the sins he had committed in the name of duty.
“That man has on a blue shirt,” Soaring Eagle argued, “the gun and the belt are a soldier’s. Until we know more, we had better not kill him. His friends may be looking for him.”
“Let them come!” Thunder cried out. “We will fight them! We will fight them all! Do we not wear the white man’s treasures even now? Even you, Soaring Eagle—you have gold around your neck taken from our last victory.”
Soaring Eagle glanced down at Jim. “This one has nothing worth killing him for. There is no honor in killing this way. I say we take him back to camp. Feed him. Let him drink. Let him rest. Let him tell us what he can. Then,” Soaring Eagle jumped up on his pony, “we can kill him.”
The warriors reluctantly agreed. They knew that Sitting Bull would want a chance to learn directly from a soldier. There would be plenty of time for killing.
“He can’t walk,” sneered one of the braves, “I won’t weary my best war pony hauling a half-dead soldier.”
Soaring Eagle dismounted once more. Tying Jim’s wrists and ankles together, he threw the soldier over his pony’s haunches like a deer carcass and leaped up in front of him. “My father’s ponies are strong. It will do them no harm to bear a carcass along with their friend Soaring Eagle.” With a sidelong glance at the dissenter, Soaring Eagle urged his pony to a canter and lead the war party toward the distant buttes where Sitting Bull’s camp was nestled in a canyon.
Chapter 5
Give instruction to a wise man, and he will be yet wiser: teach a just man, and he will increase in learning.
Proverbs 9:9
W hen Soaring Eagle rode into camp with Jim Callaway in tow, a large group of Lakota assembled, staring curiously at the wild-looking white man. When Soaring Eagle untied his prisoner and threw water in his face, Jim regained consciousness, sputtering and coughing. He looked about him and saw only Lakota faces. Then he unwittingly did the right thing. Standing upright, he faced Soaring Eagle with a cold stare and waited to be killed.
Had he cowered in the dust, Jim Callaway would no doubt have been beaten to death. The entire village would have taken out its rage against the whites on this one prisoner. But when he stood up with what appeared to be bravery and faced Soaring Eagle with a cold stare, they hesitated. It saved Jim’s life, because it gave Soaring Eagle time to drag his prisoner across the few feet to the council tepee. Once Sitting Bull had arrived and expressed his pleasure at the prospect of interviewing a captive soldier, none dared kill the prisoner.
Jim tried to continue standing before Sitting Bull, but his weakened body would not. He went down like a felled tree in the midst of the council and could not be revived. Soaring Eagle dragged the prisoner to his own tepee.
Prairie Flower did what she could to revive the white man physically, but she was helpless to heal his mind. The sickness that was there became evident after dark when he awoke the entire village, screaming out meaningless words at the unknown images in his dreams.
In disgust, Soaring Eagle slapped the man’s face and yelled at him, “Silence! We will not harm you—we only want to know where the soldiers are going now!” Even as Soaring Eagle cursed himself for the uselessness of speaking Lakota to a white man, he heard a response. It came as a moan. “I want you to kill me. Kill me and let me pass on where there may be some peace.”
Soaring Eagle grasped the red hair in one hand and forced his prisoner to sit up. Jerking the head back, Soaring Eagle looked into the gray-green eyes. The two men stared at one another for a moment before Soaring Eagle hissed, “You speak Lakota, then you know what we want. We want to know where the soldiers are. Tomorrow you will tell us. Then Sitting Bull has said that we will let you go.”
Jim smiled an ugly smile. “I don’t know about the soldiers. I have nowhere to go.”
Soaring Eagle settled back on the dust to question the prisoner. Jim shook his head to bring himself fully awake and sat up, facing Soaring Eagle.
“Why did you leave the soldier
s?”
Jim shook his head and didn’t answer.
Soaring Eagle shoved Jim’s shoulder and demanded again. “Why did you leave them?”
In the flickering firelight a glint of gold at the Indian’s throat caught Jim’s attention. He saw that it was a cross and wondered. The brave’s broad forehead and well-defined jaw, a slightly cleft chin and a mouth that turned down at the edges all formed a handsome face. A long scar formed a crescent that began underneath one eye and curved across the cheekbone and down the side of the face. How old are you, Jim wondered, and what horrors have the likes of me inflicted on your family? Jim grimaced at the thought.
The brave was growing impatient. “Why did you leave them?”
But Jim didn’t answer right away. He considered the question. Then, from somewhere else in the camp a dog barked. He realized that it didn’t matter what he said. They would undoubtedly kill him as soon as they learned what they wanted to know. He focused on the golden cross and, in a rush of words, hastened to give his confession.
“I was a good warrior. I meant to protect my people. Then my people began to ask me to do things I did not want to do. I saw them taking land they promised to leave for the Lakota. Still, I said nothing. I continued to fight. I was a good warrior. But,” Jim shuddered suddenly. He bowed his head and mumbled, “I killed women and children. . . .” Putting his hands over his head, Jim moaned, “I killed women—and children. I didn’t know they were in that ravine when I was ordered to fire. I thought I was fighting warriors. But then they started screaming. And I saw what I had done.”
Jim stopped talking. The dog outside had stopped barking. Soaring Eagle sat listening. With a deep breath, Jim looked up at Soaring Eagle. The handsome face showed no trace of emotion, but the anger had gone out of the eyes. Jim finished his confession. “I’m not killing any more. I’m done killing. I’m done with it. You can do what you want with me. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care. I can’t tell you what you want to know. I don’t know where the soldiers are. I spent the last days running away from the soldiers. I was just waiting to die when you found me.”
Soaring Eagle (Prairie Winds Book 3) Page 3