Robert answered, “We left our horses tethered to a bush just over that ridge. They aren’t very well broke. We didn’t want to trample down any of your crop.”
At the farmer’s look of surprise, Robert shrugged, “We were farmers before the trouble last fall.” He added, “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone riding half-wild horses through my cornfield. Not until after harvest, anyway.”
“You find any trace of hostiles on my place?”
Robert nodded. “They passed by here maybe two days ago. Probably a small group of women. Maybe a young boy with them. That would explain how they got the dead one up so high in the tree. We’ll follow them and take them to the fort.”
The farmer frowned. “How can you be sure it was women?”
“Warriors ride stallions,” Daniel said. “All this group had with them was one half-lame mare.” When the farmer still looked doubtful, Daniel went on to explain how he could tell the sex of the horse he was tracking.
The farmer shook his head. “Well, I’ll be.” He studied the ground for a minute before clearing his throat and asking, “If that was a stallion and you’d found yourself a hostile Indian, what’d you do then?”
“Take him back to Fort Ridgely.”
“What if he didn’t want to go?”
“Then we shoot.”
“You’d do that?” the farmer asked. “You’d shoot one of your own?”
“A warrior planning to murder families is not one of my own.”
The farmer studied Daniel and Robert carefully, taking in the ill-fitting uniforms, the high-crowned felt hats, the long dark braids trailing down the men’s shoulders. “You two hungry?” he asked abruptly.
Daniel started to say no when his stomach growled. He grinned sheepishly.
“Get your horses and come on up to the house,” the farmer said. “My missus just made a raspberry pie.”
The men hesitated.
The farmer waved at them. “Come on. My Marjorie ain’t some fool woman that faints at the sight of an Indian.” He curled up one side of his lip in a crooked smile. “My granddad was friends of Chief Paducah on the homestead in Kentucky. Indians never did us any harm, and we done what we could to make life easier for them.” He turned to go, and it was then that Daniel and Robert noticed the man limped. “Johnny Reb burned us out so we come here.” He turned back. “I never learned to be afraid of Indians. Hope it don’t get me killed.” He limped away.
Robert and Daniel retrieved their horses, then followed the farmer to his cabin. When they reached the farmyard, they found him bent over a bucket of cold water splashing his face and washing his hands. At their approach, he stood up. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, wiped them on the seat of his pants, and extended his hand. “Jeb Grant.” When a plain, dark-haired woman appeared in the doorway to the cabin, he turned to introduce her. “My wife, Marjorie.”
Marjorie blushed furiously when Daniel and Robert introduced themselves. “You men just set yourselves down there in the yard,” she said, waving toward a rough-hewn bench alongside the house. “I’ll be right out with that pie.” She disappeared inside the cabin.
Jeb reached into his pocket and handed their papers to the two men. “Guess you better keep these,” he said.
Marjorie emerged from the cabin with the pie in one hand and plates in the other. Resting the pie on the edge of the Grants’ new well, she dished up one-fourth of the pie to each of the men. Just as Daniel took the last bite of pie, she lumbered to the cabin and returned with a loaf of bread in an old sack. “You men take this, now,” she insisted, then smiled at Robert. “And if you have a wife, bring her down for a visit. It gets mighty lonely here.”
Robert and Daniel picked up the trail of the unknown Indians just across an open piece of ground opposite Jeb’s cornfield. They followed it up a hill and turned to look back toward the farm. “He put the well in a good place,” Robert commented as they surveyed the valley.
Daniel nodded, looking across the valley to the ridge where his own farm had been. “I wonder if Mrs. Grant would have served us pie if she had known she baked it in Nancy’s stove,” he said.
Robert shrugged. Together they rode back to where the grieving Dakota had left a dead child. Daniel climbed the tree and lowered the body to Robert’s waiting arms. Together, they dug a grave and laid the child to rest beneath the earth.
When he was first sent to guard Indian prisoners in Mankato, Minnesota, Brady Jensen had thought his military career was at an all-time low. He was wrong. Three weeks after he marched out of Minnesota with General Sibley’s troops, he was ordered to Crow Creek Reservation where he was given a wagonload of squaws to deliver to various scouts’ camps along the frontier. He would end up right where he had started his career in the West—Fort Ridgely.
Like many of his comrades in arms, Jensen had taken to referring to the Indians as “Mr. Lo.” It was a bad joke on the sympathetic whites and their constantly calling attention to “Lo, the poor Indian.” He could hardly believe his ears when he was called in and told that for as long as the Dakota scouts’ services were needed, it had been decided to let their families join them as an incentive to encourage faithful service. Family ties were strong among the Dakota, Jensen’s commander explained, and if the men had their wives with them, the army wouldn’t have to worry about deserters. “There’s another reason for sending the wives out. After the men hear about conditions at Crow Creek,” the commander had said with a wry smile, “they’ll be more than happy to do their best on behalf of the army just so they can stay in service and keep from having to go there.”
Whatever the reasoning behind the plan to take the scouts’ families to them, Jensen wanted no part of transporting “the poor Indian.” He was sick of getting the worst assignments available because of one mistake in one battle over a year ago, and by the time he crossed the river at Redwood Ferry and climbed the hill past the sutler’s house and a few stores, he didn’t care who knew how he felt. When he pulled his team up in front of the U-shaped stone building that served as a combination surgeon’s residence and headquarters at Fort Ridgely, he ignored the two ragged squaws sitting behind him in the wagon and headed immediately inside, leaving the squaws to themselves.
The women looked at each other nervously. They surveyed the fort. Nancy nodded toward the dozen or so new buildings. “Little Crow must have burned the old ones,” she muttered under her breath to her companion. The two women were aware that their arrival had been noticed by several soldiers standing at the corner of the two-story barracks building on the opposite side of the parade ground. They hunkered down in the wagon, afraid to move.
But then two riders approached from the south. One of, the squaws watched their approach. Her hand went to her throat. She nudged her companion. And then, as the two riders came closer, she leaped out of the wagon, threw her arms into the air, and ran straight for the approaching riders.
And so it was that Robert Lawrence was reunited with his wife, Nancy. She fell into his arms the moment he jumped down from his horse, wrapped her arms around his neck, and began to weep.
“Do not cry, little wife,” Robert whispered huskily. He held her close and whispered her name over and over again until she had calmed down enough to hear him.
Daniel dismounted and stood at a respectful distance, holding the reins to both their horses. He looked toward the stone building where the captain lived and saw that Big Amos had also found his wife.
“Where are the children?” Robert asked.
Nancy could not look at him. She buried her face in his shirt and shook her head.
Robert swallowed hard.
After a moment, Nancy took a deep breath. Turning her head so he could hear her but still leaning against his chest, she said brokenly, “There was so much sickness. At first I tried to stay away from it. I made Clara stay in the tent and take care of the baby. I told her to stay away from the sick ones. It was so cold. And we never had enough firewood. The missionaries did what they could to help, but t
here were too many of the people—and too few who cared to help. Clara began to cough.” Nancy broke off and began to sob.
“Shh, shh, shh,” Robert soothed his wife wordlessly, in the rhythm of a Dakota lullaby.
Daniel stepped between the horses and began to rub his bay gelding’s ears, blinking away the tears in his eyes. He looked over his saddle horn and saw Big Amos, who had had no children to lose at Fort Snelling, lifting his wife in the air. He could hear the giant man’s booming laughter as he spun his wife around and around. And he wondered about the blue-eyed girl he had once loved.
Tears streamed down Nancy’s cheeks as she looked up at her husband. “I lost them, my husband. I lost our children.” Her voice broke as she half whispered in Dakota, “Forgive me.”
Robert pulled her to him again. “Don’t,” he said softly. He closed his eyes. When Nancy’s sobs quieted, Robert put one arm around her and together they walked to where Daniel waited. Robert took the reins of his horse and the three joined Big Amos and his wife beside the wagon.
Brady Jensen emerged from the post headquarters followed by Captain Willets.
“I’ve ordered another tent put up near your camp,” Willets said to the men. “We’ll arrange something more permanent if you’re to stay the winter. For now, let me know what you need.” Willets eyed Jensen and then looked back at Robert. “Take a while to get your women settled. Then I’d like to hear what you found down south.”
Ten
A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.
—Proverbs 17:17
The sky was just blushing coral-pink when Big Amos roused Daniel early the next morning. “Private Jensen turned his team and a few horses out last night to graze. They wandered off somewhere. Captain wants us to find them.”
Daniel got up slowly. He stretched and twisted from side to side. Running his hands through his tangled, dark hair he looked past Big Amos and grinned. Big Amos turned around to see his wife peering out from the tent’s opening. Motioning toward the tent Daniel said, “You stay here.”
“You sure?” Big Amos said hopefully.
Daniel pulled his boots on. “Just tell Rosalie to name the baby Daniel.”
From inside the tent, Rosalie laughed aloud. Big Amos grinned and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth to say something, but Daniel waved him toward the tent and headed across the road to the stables. He had just mounted a lanky mule named Hank when Brady Jensen appeared from the opposite end of the building. “I told the captain I’d take care of it,” he said gruffly.
“Robert Lawrence and I scouted south of here yesterday,” Daniel said. “We found signs of an Indian camp. As far as we could tell, it’s just a small band of old women. But you shouldn’t go out alone.”
Jensen patted his holster. “Don’t think I’ll have any trouble I can’t handle,” he said and headed out toward the south.
Daniel urged Hank to a sloppy lope and caught up with Jensen at the top of the first rise. He nodded in the opposite direction. “Trail leads that way,” he said. “One of them has a loose shoe. They shouldn’t be too far away.” He pulled Hank around and rode away without waiting to see if Jensen was following.
An hour passed with no signs of the team. Daniel had just turned back to get help when two Sioux rode up over a hill and headed for him and Jensen, whooping and yelling at the top of their lungs.
They were too far from the fort to expect any help. The only hope was to head for Jeb Grant’s house to the south and hope that Jensen was a better shot than he was a soldier. Screaming for Jensen to follow him, Daniel kicked Hank and headed out, thankful he had at least chosen the biggest of the mules available in the stable that morning.
They had raced along for nearly half a mile, the Sioux steadily gaining in spite of Jensen’s wild firing, when Daniel headed down into a valley and saw Jensen’s team off to the right. One brave headed after the team. But the second warrior was obviously more intent on scalps than horses. Glancing behind him, Daniel saw why. Not a single horse at the fort could begin to compare with this warrior’s mount, a sleek white stallion that glided over the rough terrain effortlessly and, Daniel noted grimly, tirelessly.
The lone Sioux was gaining with every stride. An arrow sailed past Daniel’s left ear, so close he felt the feathered tip brush against his temple. His pursuer was quiet. Daniel leaned down over the mule’s neck, willing the animal to go faster. Glancing behind him, he saw the warrior raise a long lance in the air and knock Jensen off his horse. He counted coup on Jensen, then raised his war lance and charged after Daniel, his mount easily eating up the distance between them.
Daniel slid to the side of the mule, but Hank was not accustomed to such maneuvers and the minute Daniel’s weight shifted, the mule slowed up and began to bray loudly, sidestepping and crow-hopping until Daniel’s grip around his scrawny neck was loosed and Daniel fell off with a thud. He rolled instinctively, simultaneously avoiding the warrior’s lance and landing his head a glancing blow that left him lying on his back looking up half-dazed toward the sky.
Sensing victory, the warrior leaped off his mount and knelt beside Daniel. With his left hand, he grabbed a wad of thick black hair. He raised his knife just as Daniel’s vision cleared. The two men’s eyes met. The Sioux warrior frowned and grunted. Exhaling sharply, he slumped onto his backside in the dirt and began to laugh, revealing the space where two teeth had been knocked out long ago.
Daniel reached up to rub his scalp, pushing himself upright with his free hand.
“The only soldier I have had a chance to kill in over two moons,” Otter grumbled as he got up and stood facing Daniel, “and he turns out to be my friend.”
The two stood gasping for breath, staring wordlessly at each other. Daniel finally broke the silence. “I hoped you were far up north, free, living the old way.”
Otter shrugged. “When the other chiefs would not unite with him, Little Crow said he would come back to the Big Woods. Some of us came with him.” Otter pointed toward his horse. “Some got good horses.” He shrugged. “Some got killed. I am glad you listened to me that night in camp. When we came back from fighting, Mother Friend told me you were gone.” He smiled. “But she wouldn’t say where.”
“I took the missionary’s children and Blue Eyes down the river in a canoe. I left them at Fort Ridgely and then I went back to the camp to help my friends.” Daniel shook his head. “They put us all in prison for a while.”
Otter poked at one of the brass buttons on Daniel’s worn blue coat. “And yet you serve them?”
“We find our peaceful brothers and bring them to safety. We protect the supply lines taking food west.” He looked at his friend. “And if we find hostile Indians, we are to take them to the fort.”
“That will be hard to do, my friend,” Otter said, smiling. “Since you have no gun.”
“And since I have no gun,” Daniel said quietly, “you will probably be able to escape unharmed and I will have to go back to Fort Ridgely and report that I chased you halfway to Dakota Territory but you had a fine warhorse while I was riding only a mule and you will probably never be heard from again.”
Otter sighed. “We have come a long road since we were two young braves with no problem bigger than getting Genevieve LaCroix to notice us when we visited her father’s trading post.” He shook his head. “These are bad times for a Dakota warrior. The white man’s God gives His power to the white soldiers and they defeat us everywhere we go.”
“He is not the ‘white man’s God,’” Daniel said quietly. “He is your God as well—even though you have not acknowledged Him.”
Otter pondered what Daniel had said. “Tell me something,” he asked abruptly. “Why do you care about this God? Has He given you anything you wanted? Has He protected you from danger? Has He made the white man give your farm back? Have you got the woman you wanted?” Otter spat on the ground. “What kind of God sees His children suffering and gives yet more power to evil men to make them suffer
more?” He put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder and shook his friend gently. “Answer one of those questions, my friend, and perhaps we will talk more of your God.”
Daniel opened his mouth to say something but his words disappeared in the sound of gunfire. Otter’s eyes opened wide as a spot of red appeared on his chest. He took one step backward and crumpled to the earth.
Daniel whirled around to see Jensen standing a few feet away, his smoking gun at his side. Screaming a protest, Daniel lowered his head and charged like a bull. He heard the air escape from Jensen’s lungs, heard a crackling sound as two ribs gave way. He landed atop Jensen, meeting with no resistance as he grabbed the gun out of the man’s hand and flung it as far away as he could. Making a fist he landed a crushing blow to Jensen’s jaw. The soldier went limp.
Otter was trying to get up, but by the time Daniel knelt at his side, the red spot on his chest was spreading and Otter was coughing up blood. He put his hand on Daniel’s forearm and stared into his friend’s eyes.
Daniel gripped Otter’s forearm and returned his gaze for what seemed like an eternity. When at last he let go and closed his friend’s eyes, he sat back on the earth, covered his face with his hands, and wept.
“Don’t,” Daniel growled. “Don’t touch him.” He had just come back from rounding up his mule and Otter’s stallion to find Jensen standing over Otter’s body.
Jensen whirled around. “You stay away from me!” he mumbled. Fear shone in his eyes as he coughed, grimacing in pain and clutching his side. “I heard what you said. That savage was a friend of yours. You were going to let him go. When Captain Willets hears—”
Daniel grabbed Jensen’s shirt collar. “When Captain Willets hears what? That you wouldn’t have gotten within five miles of those lost horses without the help of a savage? That you nearly fainted out of fear when you saw your first real Dakota warrior? That you shot an unarmed man?” He stared coldly into Jensen’s eyes before letting go of his shirt collar. He shoved the mule’s reins into Jensen’s hand. “You’re going to tell Captain Willets that a small war party stole the horses. You’re going to tell him that I sent you back to get the other scouts and that we’ll report back to him tomorrow about what we find. Then you’re going to go to Robert and Big Amos and ask them to meet me at ‘the farm’.” He glared at Jensen. “Of course, if you prefer, you are welcome to come with me to get our horses back. My friend here mentioned only four or five other braves waiting just across the river.”
Edge of the Wilderness Page 9