Burning Ground

by D. A. Galloway

  “Did the doctor put anything on the wound for healing?”

  “He washed and bandaged it. That’s all.”

  “Would you like it to heal more quickly?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what the flowers are for,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Puzzled, Graham returned the bouquet to her.

  She plucked a half-dozen leaves from the stems and gave them to Graham. “Chew these,” she advised.

  The Pennsylvanian briefly hesitated, then stuffed the feathery leaves into his mouth. He scrunched his nose in reaction to the bitter taste, but dutifully chewed and softened the leaves. I must really trust this woman to put an unknown plant in my mouth, Graham thought. The acerbic juices from the leaves tasted like apple-cider vinegar.

  Makawee unwrapped the bandage from his forearm and removed the dressing, which was dotted with blood.

  “Spit out the wet leaves. Then place them on the wound,” Makawee instructed.

  The time traveler spat the masticated leaves into his left hand, then spat onto the ground, wishing he had his canteen to rinse his mouth.

  “What’s the name of this plant?” Graham asked warily. He had taken a leap of faith by chewing an unidentified flower, but he wasn’t about to place the spittle-softened leaves on an open wound without more information. He may be in love, but he wasn’t foolhardy.

  “Chipmunk tail,” replied Makawee. “That’s what the translated Crow word means. You call it yarrow in English.”

  “Those weeds grow in fields and meadows in Pennsylvania. I never knew what they were called. Why is it used on wounds?”

  “It stops bleeding, eases pain, and helps with healing. It is good medicine. I have powder made from dried yarrow, but fresh leaves are better.”

  Graham pondered her directive. She was asking him to apply a poultice made from saliva and yarrow. At least he knew the name of the bitter-tasting, fernlike leaves. He turned his palm upside down and stuck the viscous plant mixture on his right forearm, wincing slightly when the salty saliva penetrated the open wound. Makawee applied the dressing and rewrapped the bandage.

  “Take the other yarrow plants with you,” the Crow herbalist recommended. “For three days apply yarrow leaves to the wound every time you change the dressing.”

  “Thank you,” Graham said as he reached over and touched her arm. He wanted to linger but remembered his promise to be discreet with their conversations. They needed to meet somewhere other than Makawee’s camp. It was late in the day. If Rides Alone came back from hunting and found them together, there would be trouble.

  Graham donned his hat and asked, “Can we talk?”

  “Yes, but not here,” Makawee replied. She was also thinking about her stepbrother’s returning unexpectedly.

  They started walking along the lake. Graham was thrilled to be alone with Makawee again. He wanted to share more about himself but didn’t know where to begin. Their worlds were so different—in place and time.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked after a minute, surprising Graham.

  It should have been an easy question to answer, but it was loaded with painful memories. In many ways, the two of them had familial tragedies in common. When they first met, she had disclosed her parents’ and siblings’ deaths from smallpox. He decided to reciprocate by sharing his family’s history of calamities.

  I had two brothers and a sister, but they all died,” he said somberly.

  Makawee turned and looked at him, but continued walking. When she did not pursue more questions about their deaths, he pressed on.

  “My youngest brother drowned when he was a little boy. My sister died in a . . . a horse-carriage accident. My older brother was killed by an enemy soldier.”

  There. He said it. He had not spoken to anyone about these terrible events since they had happened, and it was cathartic to finally say it.

  After walking for a moment in silence, they reached a meadow on a gentle slope along the lake.

  “Do you miss your brothers and sister?” she asked softly.

  This question pierced his heart. Absolutely he missed them. He turned to look directly at her. “Every day,” he replied as tears welled in his eyes.

  “I miss my brothers, too.” She surprised him by grasping and squeezing his hand. “I have wondered why the Great Spirit took my brothers and my parents but not me.”

  How many times had he been tortured by similar thoughts? Why did Billy die so young? Why was Susan in the cargo seats of the crushed station wagon? Why did Frank die in a foreign land while Graham was exempted from military duty? Was fate the reason he was the sole survivor of the Davidson children?

  Makawee knew his pain. She had experienced the loss of siblings and parents. She empathized with him. He could see the compassion in her eyes and feel it in her touch. Graham instinctively embraced Makawee, holding her close while closing his eyes. The Crow woman from Montana and the baashchiile from Pennsylvania hugged and comforted each other in silence.

  Connected by mutual grief, they did not let go of each other for a long time. Eventually Graham sighed and released her, wiping away his tears before gazing into Earth Maiden’s eyes.

  “Thanks for listening . . . and for understanding,” he murmured in a trembling voice strained with emotion.

  Makawee nodded. She used a sleeve of her elk-hide dress to brush away tears streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t think anyone could share my feelings.”

  They embraced again. This time Graham did not want to let go. He pulled her in tightly with both arms, ignoring the stinging sensation from his wound. With the top of her head resting against his cheek, he could smell the sweet fragrance of vanilla in her hair. He felt her chest rise and fall as the turtle pendant from her necklace pressed against his body. This beautiful young woman in his arms understood his emotional pain. And she was clutching a young man who could free her from a painful history of sickness, death, and abduction.

  A light wind swept across the lake, causing the tall grasses and flowers in the meadow to sway in the breeze. Graham looked down at the blooming plants gently brushing against their legs and smiled. They were standing in clusters of healing yarrow.

  Chapter 18

  August 7, 1871

  Waning gibbous moon: 23 nights until the next full moon

  The mosquitoes were relentless. Thousands of heat-seeking insects continued their airborne assault on the hapless campers after sunset. Graham sought refuge under his blanket, pulling it over his head as armor against the bloodthirsty hordes. Unfortunately, his six-foot-two frame simply would not completely fit under the army-issued blanket, so his feet and ankles were exposed. As he sheltered under the blanket and listened to the high-pitched whirring of the invisible insects circling around his head, Graham wished he had included a can of insect repellent among the items he packed when setting out on his vision quest.

  There were not nearly enough dragonflies to control the mosquito population. Although the crepuscular insects’ activity diminished significantly after dusk, he was still bitten when he emerged from his protective shroud in the middle of the night to relieve himself. Graham wondered if Hayden had second thoughts about setting up camp beside a marsh.

  The eastern sky slowly transitioned from dark gray to graphite to azure. Dawn invigorated the mosquitoes, and the pesky insects renewed their sorties on the temporary residents by the lake.

  “These mosquitoes are making me crazy!” Aurelio lamented as the early-morning light filtered into the fly where both men had slept fitfully.

  Whack! The hostler smacked an insect against the side of his neck.

  “Yeah,” Graham agreed as he sat up and inspected the welts from dozens of bites inflicted on his ankles. “I’ll be glad to pack up and get away from this marsh.”

  The men were treated to a satisfying breakfast. Rides Alone had arrived in camp after dark with a small blacktail deer strapped to his mule. Gibson butchered the animal, and everyone enjoyed
venison with his biscuits and coffee. The meat was so tender and flavorful no one seemed to mind swatting mosquitoes between bites.

  The pack train was underway by nine o’clock with Makawee in the lead. After ascending a steep slope on the east side of Shoshone Lake, the group followed a plateau and eventually crossed the Continental Divide a second time. Shortly after eleven o’clock, the group emerged on the western shore of Yellowstone Lake where the other half of the survey team was camped. Hayden’s group had left the northern shore of the lake eight days earlier. Now they rejoined their fellow explorers at the West Thumb Geyser Basin.

  James Stevenson had returned from Bottler’s Ranch with much-needed supplies including bacon, coffee, tea, flour, and salt. He also brought more chemicals and glass plates for Jackson’s photography. The only prospect for the men that topped having bacon for their meals was receiving a letter from home.

  Stevenson called the group together after the midday meal and distributed the mail. Graham was despondent as he observed each man from Hayden’s geyser-basin team receive a letter from a loved one. He had to pause and think how long it had been since he had been transported to the nineteenth century. Eleven days had passed since he was discovered by the Hayden Expedition sleeping near the Dragon’s Mouth spring. He probably had a letter from his family at the Lake Station post office in 1971. His parents were certainly wondering why they had not received a phone call or letter from their son.

  “What happened to your arm?” Stevenson asked, interrupting Graham’s thoughts.

  The time traveler flinched. “What did you say?”

  “Your arm,” Stevenson repeated as he pointed to the bandage.

  “Oh, this. I had a little accident pushing the odometer wagon. It’s not serious, but I need a clean bandage from Albert Peale.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’ll be okay. Are you able to assist Elliott and Carrington with the boat this afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. After you have your arm checked, find Elliott and see what he needs to get the Annie ready to explore the lake.”

  Graham located Peale sitting on a camp stool outside his tent sorting through rock and plant samples he had collected along Shoshone Lake. The geologist was carefully cataloging the items and labeling envelopes.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Hi, Graham. What can I do for you?”

  “Would you take a look at my wound and change the bandage?”

  “Of course. Have a seat.” Peale stood and motioned for Graham to take his place on the stool.

  He sat and watched Peale unwrap the bandage. The medical student was bewildered when he removed the dressing. Bits of stems and leaves were stuck to the dressing and adhered to the wound.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Graham had forgotten about Makawee’s herbal treatment from the previous evening.

  “Oh, those are pieces of yarrow. Makawee placed them on the wound so it would heal faster.” He was unsure how Peale would react to a layperson providing medical treatment.

  “That’s interesting,” Peale commented. He stroked a bushy sideburn while pulling Graham’s arm closer to inspect the wound.

  “I have more yarrow,” Graham added. “Makawee advised me to put fresh leaves on the wound the next few days.”

  “You’re studying botany in school, correct?”

  “Yes,” Graham replied diffidently. He was resigned to accepting botany as his purported field of study, since forestry did not yet exist as a curriculum, but didn’t like where this conversation was headed.

  “I’ve read about a variety of herbs used for medicinal purposes. But I don’t have experience with many of them. Since you are studying to be a botanist, could you explain the properties of yarrow that promote wound healing?” Peale asked.

  Graham was neither a botanist nor an organic chemist. The beneficial compounds in the common yarrow plant were beyond his ken.

  “I don’t know exactly. I imagine the plant leaves contain chemicals that reduce swelling and prevent germs.” He hoped this vague answer would satisfy the inquisitive Peale.

  “Germs?”

  “Tiny organisms that cause infections.” Graham realized too late germ theory was not universally understood in the medical community in the early 1870s. He had gone too far with his explanation and didn’t know how to end the conversation.

  Peale shook his head, dismissing the amateur botanist’s comments about germs. Graham was relieved when the medical student didn’t ask further questions.

  “Well, I must say your wound looks surprisingly good one day later. I’m going to ask Doctor Hayden if he used yarrow during his days as a surgeon in the Civil War. Maybe it does have healing properties. Give me some leaves.” Peale stuck out his palm.

  Graham had forgotten the yarrow bouquet Makawee had given him! He left it by the fire when they went for a walk last evening. Perhaps he could ask Makawee to help find more of the medicinal herb along the lakeshore. Besides, the doctor would find it strange to chew up leaves and spit on an open wound. Making a spit-and-herb poultice was probably not part of Penn’s medical school curriculum.

  “I’ll put more leaves on the wound tonight. I don’t have them with me.”

  Peale didn’t respond. He bathed the wound with cool water from the lake, applied a clean dressing, and wrapped a linen bandage around Graham’s forearm.

  After leaving Peale, Graham walked down to the lakeshore, where Henry Elliott and Cam Carrington were inspecting the Annie. While the Hayden team was exploring the geyser basins, Carrington and Beaman had taken soundings and gradually worked their way south until they reached the West Thumb.

  “She needs a few repairs to be seaworthy again,” Elliott remarked as Graham walked up to the small craft. “Cam says she’s leakin’ a couple of places. He and I are going to explore and sketch the southern half of the lake while you fellas go around the lake. The boat needs to stay dry so we can stow our gear.”

  The three men gathered wood and started a fire. Cam brought a bucket of pine tar from the supply tent and placed it over the flames. After thirty minutes, the viscous brown tree sap was warm enough for its purpose. They turned the boat on its side and used brushes to spread a fresh layer of the sticky substance on the canvas-draped hull.

  “Well, look over there at the gentleman artist,” Elliott said sardonically as he pointed his dripping horsehair brush toward a pair of sapphire-blue hot springs a few hundred feet from shore. Graham and Cam stopped their work and peered in the direction Elliott indicated. A skinny, bearded man was perched on a stool near the springs with an open book on his lap and a pencil in his hand.

  “Is that Moran?” Cam asked innocently.

  “Yep. That’s our guest artist. Never does a lick of work around camp. He just pretends to help Jackson with his photographs and does watercolor sketches.”

  Elliott obviously didn’t have a high opinion of his fellow artist. Graham didn’t care for Moran’s pretentious attitude, either, but he came to appreciate the man’s artistic talents over the last two days. The Pennsylvanian attempted to abate Elliott’s irritability by paying him a compliment.

  “I saw some of your sketches of the lake and Stevenson’s Island. They were incredibly well done.”

  “Of course, they’re good. And my sketches are accurate. I draw what is there, not what I wish was there!”

  Cam and Graham exchanged glances. Elliott was clearly jealous of Thomas Moran, whose initial spiritualistic sketches of the region threatened to supplant Elliott as the premier artist on the Hayden Expedition when published or exhibited.

  “I can paint exceptional watercolor landscape scenes. Ones that can match anything that uppity fellow with a fat-cat sponsor creates. The only reason I haven’t done so is my duty to complete difficult scientific and technical drawings. Besides, you don’t see ‘Bony Britches’ down here with a brush in his hand puttin’ pine tar on a boat, do you?” Elliott’s voice rose and his cheeks flushed as he finish
ed his diatribe.

  “I heard Stevenson say Mr. Moran was leaving tomorrow. Goin’ to Fort Ellis,” Cam offered constructively.

  This comment seemed to calm Elliott. “I don’t care what he does. My job is to sketch for the doctor. But when I get home, I’m gonna create a magnificent watercolor of this lake.”

  The three men flipped the boat and continued to work in silence, brushing a second coat of pine tar on the other side of the hull. After they replaced the partially torn blanket sail with a new one, Elliott declared the Annie ready for service.

  “We’ll do a test run tomorrow morning after the pine tar has dried,” Elliott asserted. “Just to make sure she doesn’t leak.”

  * * *

  Graham went for a walk along the lake past the hot springs late in the afternoon. He wanted to talk with Makawee before Rides Alone returned to camp. He saw the young Crow woman dragging deadfall to a tree near a small inlet. After scanning the area and satisfying himself there was only one horse picketed near the campsite, he hurried to assist. She looked up when he approached and smiled.

  “This wickiup was already standing. It just needs a few repairs. Mr. Hayden says we are going to stay here only two nights.”

  “Let me help,” Graham offered. “What’s the name of your horse?” he asked as they worked together to fetch several small-diameter logs to fill the gaps between the existing vertical timbers.

  “Zonta. It means trusted in English.”

  “He is beautiful.”

  “He was the fastest mustang in the herd when he was captured.”

  When they were finished, Makawee retrieved an elk-hide pouch and pulled out a yarrow bouquet. Graham grinned when he saw the flowering herbs.

  “I’m so glad you brought those. I forgot them when I left last evening,” he said sheepishly. “I plan to apply fresh leaves for a few days as you recommended.”