Edge of the Wilderness

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Without turning away from Finley, Simon said, “Tell Mother Friend to spread the word that I need the fifty best hunters in the area to meet me at the gate in an hour.”

  When Leighton had gone, Simon returned to the opposite side of Finley’s desk. Finley grasped the back of his desk chair and leaned over, inspecting his desktop carefully. He balled up a piece of paper and swiped it across the surface. While he worked, he talked. “I’m not an evil man, Reverend Dane. I know the people are suffering. I’m trying to get more help. If the drought had lifted—” He sighed.

  “If you know these people,” Simon said more calmly, “you also know they are just as terrified of the hostile Sioux as you are. That’s why they don’t scatter over the reservation and try to build homes. That’s why they haven’t cultivated more land. You cannot expect them to go away from the protection of the troops and put themselves at the mercy of this godforsaken wilderness without means to protect themselves. Without a way to hunt. It’s ludicrous.” He pleaded, “You wouldn’t do it, Finley. Not with your loved ones. Nor would I.” Once again, he asked, “Just give us fifty good rifles and let Elliot and me take a hunting party out. I don’t even need your wagons. I can use the ones provided by the Dakota mission.”

  “All right,” Finley said. “But I’m sending a military escort along, and the minute there is any trouble—”

  Simon had already turned his back and was headed out the door. He waved his hand in the air. “There won’t be any trouble. You have my word.”

  They had come in under cover of early morning darkness when most of the natives were asleep inside their tepees. Now, as Elliot walked through the open stockade gate an old woman sitting outside a tepee gave a cry and stood up. Immediately, dozens of faces appeared from behind and inside tepees. A small group of elderly men hobbled to the road. They were nothing like the “noble savages” pictured in eastern newspapers. The faces were weathered, the hands so thin they were almost clawlike. Some of them wobbled so Elliot wondered they could walk. He felt as though he were walking through some terrible nightmare, surrounded by surreal, half-human figures. When he finally located the tepee with the red starburst over the tent flap, he felt a huge sense of relief. Just as he arrived, a well-preserved old woman with a waist-length white braid stepped outside.

  “Reverend Dane—” Elliot began, feeling awkward about his inability to talk to the woman.

  “You are with Reverend Dane?” the woman said in English.

  Leighton nodded. He looked down at the still, unconscious woman in his arms. “She fainted inside the stockade—”

  The woman gently drew the woman’s hair away from her face. “Buffalo Moon,” she whispered, stroking the forehead. “Bring her inside.”

  Elliot ducked and went inside, laying Buffalo Moon on a worn animal skin beside a small fire in the center of the room. He stood up, surprised at the neatness of the meagerly furnished tepee. The old woman dampened a cloth and dipped it in a gourd of water. She knelt beside Buffalo Moon, bathing her face gently while making comforting noises deep in her throat.

  “We brought supplies,” Elliot finally said. “I’ll bring you a sack of flour.” He ducked back outside where a group of natives waited quietly. When he returned with the flour, the people gathered around, smiling happily. One patted him on the back, another reached up to touch his white hair, jabbering something that made the others laugh.

  Presently Simon drove up with one of the supply wagons. A small crowd gathered to welcome him. When Simon jumped down to greet them, they pounded his back. One old man wept openly. Simon put his arm on the man’s shoulder and led him back to Elliot’s wagon.

  “This is Buffalo Moon’s father. He wants to thank you for bringing the flour.”

  Another woman touched Elliot’s hair, eliciting laughter from the group.

  Simon grinned. “She says you must be called Silver Fox.” He added, “It’s a compliment, Elliot. I didn’t get a Dakota name until I’d been among them for quite a while. And even then it wasn’t very complimentary.” At Elliot’s questioning look, Simon shrugged. “They called me Many Words—in honor of my long sermons.”

  “Do they still call you that?” Elliot wanted to know.

  Simon shook his head.

  “Well?”

  “It’s difficult to translate.” Simon headed for Mother Friend’s tepee. When Elliot followed and insisted on knowing about the name, he said gruffly, “It’s something like ‘He Who Brings Words That Heal.’ He ducked inside the tepee. “Will she be all right, Mother Friend?”

  The old woman had already broken open the bag of flour. She knelt on a ragged rug, mixing a lump of dough in the wooden bowl before her with her hands. She looked at Buffalo Moon and shrugged. Forming a flat cake of dough, she set it directly on the hot coals from the half-spent fire. “Once I get a little of this into her, she should feel better. Whether it is enough to save her, only God knows.”

  Simon nodded toward Elliot. “This is my brother-in-law, Elliot Leighton. Ellen’s brother.”

  At mention of Ellen, Mother Friend stood up. She approached Elliot solemnly, squinting as she looked up at him, gazing into his eyes. Presently she smiled, revealing two missing front teeth. “She did not carry such sadness in her eyes. Still, I see her in you.” She held out her hand. “Welcome.”

  Simon explained to Elliot, “Mother Friend is the one I told you about who took such good care of Gen and the children during the outbreak.”

  Elliot bowed stiffly. “Thank you. Miss Jane Williams spoke of you as well.”

  At mention of Miss Jane, Mother Friend smiled broadly. “You must tell Miss Jane that I have not forgotten her. I hope she comes back to us soon. We don’t have many children now, but those who have survived would love a school. They always loved Miss Jane.”

  Elliot and Simon left, spending the rest of the day driving their wagons to the various small encampments huddling around the agency, trying to give each one a little flour, a little meat. At one camp, a family insisted that Elliot and Simon come in and join them for a meal.

  “This is ridiculous,” Elliot protested. “They’re starving and they want to share with us?”

  Simon smiled. “Not bad for bloodthirsty savages, eh, brother-in-law?”

  That evening, the religious meeting was another surprise. Nearly everyone who came in said something to Elliot or patted him on the back. When a congregation of nearly one hundred had gathered, a frail-looking man Elliot had not yet met stood up. Opening what was obviously a Bible, he read a passage and then began to speak in low tones to the assembly. It was a short sermon, for which Leighton was grateful. After the man spoke, several individuals in the congregation stood up. It did not take Elliot long to realize he was witnessing some kind of personal testimonial service. Singing followed for nearly an hour before the assembly broke up and people trudged home.

  After sundown, Elliot joined Simon and fellow missionary John Masters, impressed by the latter’s obvious level of education coupled with a passion for his ministry among the Dakota. Masters said, “I wish we had gotten decent housing in time for the Misses Williams and Huggins to join us. The people are fairly clamoring for instruction, both in God’s Word and in the basic skills.”

  “Surely you wouldn’t bring women here,” Leighton said brusquely. He looked around at the crude buildings inside the stockade.

  “Their presence would be a great comfort,” Masters said quietly. “Miss Williams was a particular favorite at Hazelwood station. She’s a gifted teacher. Once winter arrives in full force, there will be hours and hours of idle time. It would be an excellent opportunity to reach some of the adults.”

  “What about the children?” Leighton asked.

  Masters stared at him for a moment before saying carefully, “There aren’t many left.”

  Leighton swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I—” He looked at Simon. “I guess you did write that. I just didn’t think—”

  “You thought I was exaggerating,” S
imon said. “Most people do.” He sat back. “That’s why this abominable situation is allowed to continue.” He made a fist and pounded the table gently. “We need someone in the East making the citizens aware of things here. Someone trustworthy who has a heart for the Indian.” He willed his voice to sound calmer. “I cannot but think that if people knew the extent of the suffering here, something would change.” He sighed. “But in the immediate, there’s nothing we can do but hunker down and face the winter.” His face brightened. “We must pray that the hunting expedition is successful.”

  Leighton had thought Simon was speaking in a metaphorical sense. To his surprise, both missionaries immediately bowed their heads and without hesitation prayed aloud, asking God to send game their way.

  In the morning, Elliot woke and staggered, half asleep, out of the tent he and Simon inhabited. Simon was nowhere to be seen. Presently, a group of natives gathered on a hillside just beyond the cluster of lodges where Mother Friend lived. Leighton pulled on his dark blue coat and, turning the collar up against his neck, climbed the hill to find Simon down in a hole, shovel in hand. Beside the hole lay what was obviously a dead body wrapped in a threadbare blanket.

  Mother Friend came to Leighton’s side. “Buffalo Moon,” she said tersely.

  Leighton thought for a moment. “I’m sorry. I wish Simon and I had arrived sooner.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Mother Friend said. “She had lost the will to live. Her husband is in prison. When her son died last week, she had nothing left to keep her spirit on the earth.”

  The mourners gathered around the open grave listening as Simon read from the Dakota Bible. A cold wind picked up as they listened, lifting hair off shoulders, sending a collective shiver through the crowd wrapped in moth-eaten buffalo robes and worn blankets.

  Sixteen

  For whatsoever things were written aforetime were written for our learning, that we through patience and comfort of the scriptures might have hope.

  —Romans 15:4

  He rode toward the setting sun through familiar territory. Every year until he had lived at least a dozen winters, Daniel had been part of the mile-long trail of women and children following mounted warriors west on the fall buffalo hunt. Glancing behind him at the white stallion, he imagined the joyous shouts of his friends as they chased down a thundering herd. Astride such a magnificent animal, he would have been the envy of every one of his friends. Now, it was so still he could hear the dry grass crackle with the bay gelding’s every stride.

  He wondered if any of his childhood friends were out there at Crow Creek. The scouts had heard rumors about it from the few wanderers they had brought in to Fort Ridgely over the past few months. It was hard to believe things could be as bad as the wanderers said. But then a unit of soldiers returned from what they called the “Moscow Expedition.” What they said about Crow Creek made the men shudder.

  Thank God I didn’t have to go there.

  Daniel remembered Robert’s challenge, “Can you think of nothing to be thankful for?” He had answered in bitterness, but now he realized he was truly thankful that he was not among the few men at Crow Creek. He had already decided he would remain a scout as long as the army would have him. Anything was better than Crow Creek Reservation.

  Daniel rode all day, content to let his horse set the pace, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face, the gentle rhythm of the bay’s easy lope. The stallion followed willingly. When Daniel stopped for the night, he apologized aloud to the horse for hobbling him.

  “As soon as we are farther west, my friend, I will set you free. For tonight, you must stay near my campfire.”

  After tending to his horses, Daniel built a fire and set to cleaning the rabbit he had shot earlier in the day. He erected a small spit over his campfire and sat back watching it cook. As the sun went down and the wind picked up, he looked around him at the peaceful scene. It was a nearly perfect night. Cool air brought relief from the day’s oppressive heat. Daniel leaned back against his saddle and closed his eyes, listening to the crackling fire, the horses grazing nearby. The colors in the western sky faded as the stars began to shine. Almost, he thought, he could pretend that life was good.

  He had nearly dozed off when a soft muzzle brushed against his hair and a horse nuzzled his shoulder. The white stallion whickered softly and nudged him. Daniel stood up and patted the horse’s neck. “I wonder who Otter defeated to get you, beautiful one,” he murmured, raking his fingers through the long white mane. “In my heart, I want to keep you.” He sighed and shook his head at the irony that now, when he was no longer a warrior, he had in his possession the most desired, the most wakan of all warhorses—a white stallion. He leaned into the animal, inhaling the horse’s scent. “But I am only a poor Dakota scout now. Reminding soldiers of warrior-Indians would be stupid.”

  Bending down, Daniel took a brush out of his saddlebags and began to brush the sleek white coat. It wasn’t easy living among soldiers who knew nothing about Indians besides what they read in newspapers. To them, Daniel was nothing more than a savage using his uniform as a disguise until the day he returned to his wild ways and scalped them as they slept.

  Claiming religion did nothing to make life easier for the scouts. Daniel could actually understand that. Even Brady Jensen claimed to be a Christian. Daniel recognized he, personally, had done very little to convince anyone that his faith had any bearing on his behavior. In that regard, Daniel thought with a chill, he was just like Brady Jensen.

  He finished brushing the stallion and shoved him away. The aroma of roasted meat reminded him the rabbit was ready to eat. Pulling a chunk of meat off the spit he took a bite, thanking God for his meal while he chewed.

  He recalled a night when, after the scouts and Captain Willets had been out hunting, Big Amos had led them all in a prayer of thanks before they dived into a meal of roasted antelope. The incident had led Willets to ask Big Amos about the missionaries’ work with the Dakota. When Big Amos’s answer developed into a personal testimonial about his coming to faith in Christ, Willets had listened carefully. “I’m not a Christian, Big Amos, but I must admit I’m impressed with you. You seem to live what you believe. And that’s more than I can say for half the men in my regiment.”

  Captain Willets. Among all the soldiers stationed at Fort Ridgely, the tall, blonde-haired captain was the exception to nearly everything Daniel thought about career soldiers. The captain preferred to form his opinions about Indians from experience, and he openly admired his Dakota scouts’ skills.

  On the hunting expedition he exclaimed, “You can hit a running wolf from the back of a galloping horse! Most of my men couldn’t hit a galloping Indian while standing still on the ground!” The day after they all got back, he ordered his men to take more target practice.

  As it grew dark and Daniel finished gorging himself on the rabbit, he rummaged in his saddlebags for Etienne LaCroix’s journal. Once again he watched Blue Eyes grow up in her father’s sketches. As the campfire died down, he lay back and stared up at the stars, wondering where she was that very night. He liked to think of her with the blonde child on her lap, rocking, singing a Dakota lullaby. When the thought rose that she was probably married to Simon Dane by now, he turned over on his stomach and tried to sleep. But somewhere in the distance a mountain lion was yowling. The horses were stomping about nervously, so Daniel got up. He added wood to the fire and brought the horses nearer. Tethering them to a bush where they could back up against a rock ledge, he settled back into his bedroll. When the mountain lion screamed again, closer, Daniel thought of Robert Lawrence. I am afraid, his friend had said, that you are letting the lions devour you. He finally fell into a troubled sleep.

  Halfway through the night Daniel knocked his saddlebags nearly into his campfire. The acrid odor of hot leather woke him. He swore softly when he realized Robert’s Bible was scorched. Picking it up, he started to pack it away. Faith comes by hearing … and hearing by the Word of God. Robert Lawrence’s cha
llenge came to mind. Since he wasn’t really sleeping anyway, he decided to reread the story of that other Daniel and the lions.

  The beginning of the book of Daniel had always been hard to understand. That hadn’t changed, but there was one passage that spoke to him. He revealeth the deep and secret things: he knoweth what is in the darkness, and the light dwelleth in him. Daniel sat back, wondering that if God revealed deep and secret things, why He hadn’t let him understand more of what was going on in his life.

  He lay back, thinking about Robert’s insistence that what he needed was faith. Hebrews, chapter eleven, Daniel, Robert had said. Daniel added more wood to the fire. He leaned back against the sheer rock wall behind him and, stretching his legs out toward the fire, opened Robert’s Bible to Hebrews, chapter eleven.

  Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen … By faith Abel … By faith Enoch … By faith Noah … With each new name, Daniel remembered the stories as told by the missionaries at Hazelwood Station. By faith Abraham … By faith Isaac … By faith Joseph … By faith Moses … Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions… .

  Daniel stopped reading. His faith must be small, he reasoned. He had done nothing great purely because of faith. They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented … they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. And these all, having obtained a good report through faith, received not the promise … Daniel stopped reading and stared at the campfire. They received NOT the promise.

  He reread the chapter. This time, different things leaped out at him. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen … without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.