Spring for Susannah

by Catherine Richmond

  No warriors, no guards, no men at all. Even the sergeant had left him alone. He could walk east until he found the river, turn north until he came to Fort Lincoln, borrow clothes and train fare, and go home. Jesse gathered the blanket, brought his feet under himself, and stood. The world around him spun, and he sat down again before he could fall. No need for a prison other than his own body. Please, God, I’ve got to get home to Susannah. I promised I’ d take care of her.

  Grasshoppers, no work, near drowning, and now captivity. Was there some lesson God was trying to drill through his hard head?

  The old woman brought a bucket of corn to pound. Jesse picked up the grinding rock. Lord, You are my rock, my fortress, my hiding place.

  “Tatanka!” A boy strode toward him carrying his guitar. Something besides him had survived the river. The kid tapped his chest. “Misun.”

  “Misun? Is that your name?”

  An older boy followed, introducing himself as Chetan.

  “I need to go home,” Jesse told them. “My wife will be worried about me.”

  The boys responded with a barrage in their language. God, about that Tower of Babel, different languages thing. Shouldn’t we be over that by now?

  Misun passed him the guitar. The back was warped. The glue had loosened in several places. But none of the strings had broken and they all went back in tune, for the moment.

  The younger Indian peppered him with questions. “Guitar,” Jesse said, touching his instrument. The Indian repeated the word.

  “Tuning.” Jesse showed him. “Note. Chords. Songs.” Jesse tried the first line of the only hymn he could recall, “Jesus Loves Me.” His voice came out as a rasp, and the guitar had a rattle to match. Exhaustion slammed him and his hands dropped limp.

  As Jesse sank into sleep, Misun took the guitar, and he and Chetan sang the rest of the verse. In English.

  No. He must be dreaming.

  The tune of the final hymn sounded familiar, perhaps Martin Luther’s, but the lyrics were sung in Norwegian and Susannah could not recall the English words. Jesse would know. He’d keep time and tune with his guitar.

  Ivar conducted the Sunday service, roped into it after preaching at the burial, he’d grumbled to Susannah. The youngest Rose had stuck his head in at the beginning, then realized the proceedings were conducted in Norwegian and made his escape. Susannah had wanted to follow, but she had nowhere else to go.

  Warmed by the sun and the ten people crowding the shanty, she hid a yawn behind her hand. Long fingers reached for her wrist and turned up her palm. It was blistered by the saw handle. Magnar held his up next to hers, a matched set of wounds.

  She inched away from him, then smiled at the Hansen children on the adjacent bench. They had transformed yesterday’s woodcutting trip into a picnic. They caught fish in a woven willow basket and roasted them over a fire, raced for the wagon with armloads of kindling, sang high harmonies on the return trip. A giant yellow lampshade seemed to cover the sun, turning everything it touched to gold: the noisy yellow cottonwood leaves, the russet stemmed grass, the blond hair of the children.

  Her initial impression of Sissel as a typically responsible oldest daughter melted under the girl’s fiery sense of humor, usually expressed in a practical joke on her uncle. Disa, the nine-year-old, daydreamed at play just as she did at school. Erik, the rough-and-tumble seven-year-old, wavered between helping his adored Uncle Magnar and scaring the girls with his Indian act. Then there was Rolf, at five her youngest pupil, always looking for a lap to climb into. He’d found Susannah’s again today.

  Their shyness had vanished. They brought her a bird’s nest, wrote their names, last week’s lesson, in the packed mud of the riverbank, and hollered, “Teacher!” Magnar echoed their call and brought her a wildflower that had somehow survived the frost. She made the startling discovery that this placid man had dimples when he smiled. This morning he had managed to sit next to her. She wished she could accept his friendship, but all this attention made her uneasy. Hadn’t Ivar told him she was married?

  He wouldn’t be sitting next to her if Jesse were here. But if Jesse were here, she wouldn’t have needed Magnar’s help. Lord, bring him home. Soon.

  The song ended. Marta and Mrs. Hansen huddled deep in con versation over the food basket. The two Hansen men and Ivar deliberated some serious matter in the corner. Swallowing a wave of jealousy mixed with loneliness, Susannah picked up the water bucket and followed the children outside.

  When she returned from the pump, Magnar took the heavy bucket from her.

  “Ask one of the children to do that,” Ivar admonished in the parental tone he’d used since Jesse left.

  She wouldn’t apologize. “I’m just getting some fresh air.”

  “What did Mr. Rose say?”

  Susannah glanced at Magnar. What had he told Ivar? The younger man studied a loose floorboard. “Nothing new. The government’s not allowing anyone into the Black Hills.”

  “Then where is Jesse?”

  “I don’t know.” Susannah stiffened her spine. She would not break down in front of all these people, especially her students. “Excuse me. I need to help with dinner.” She slid between the men.

  “Mrs. Hansen said you had a visitor. A large, dirty man who spits. He brought a load of hay, read the note you tacked on the door, and left.”

  She should have warned Mrs. Hansen. “Abner Reece.”

  Ivar wound up for another swearing session. A hiss from Marta cut him short. He scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “He wants eggs.”

  “Eggs? For cutting your hay, that’s all he wants?”

  “It’s all he’s going to get.”

  The Hansens left. Susannah had a moment alone with Marta.

  “Good news!” She caught her friend’s hand, placing it on her waist. “Baby!”

  Marta’s eyes glistened and she hugged Susannah.

  Ivar returned from loading the wagon. “The Hansens half to—”

  Susannah shook her head at Marta. Ivar had been in such a foul mood since Jesse left, she couldn’t guess how he’d take this news. But Marta missed her cue and revealed the secret. Well, as fast as this baby was growing, the whole territory would know soon.

  Ivar lifted Susannah in a bear hug, then set her down gently. “Jesse. Dear God—”

  Marta pressed fingertips to his mouth.

  “You were alone last week. What if something goes bad, like before? What’s the name of that doctor? I half to get you to Fargo.”

  “Ivar.”

  He stomped around the shack, boots echoing off the plank walls. “I do not know how those men in Utah stand it, halfing more than one woman to worry about.”

  “Ivar, I am not your second wife and you are not to worry about me.” Three days of teaching had developed her command voice. “I am an adult. I will take care of myself.”

  “What if—”

  “What if I die?” Susannah completed his thought. “I’d rather be out on the claim, in my own home, than in some town where I don’t know anyone except that pitiful excuse for a doctor.” She looked down at her hands. “I’d give anything for a healthy baby, including seeing that charlatan if I thought it would help. But even the best doctor in the States can’t do much for me or this baby. It’s up to God.”

  Marta gave her another hug.

  “Stubborn enough to be Norwegian.” Ivar glared at her. “Try to stay out of trouble this week.”

  Chapter 27

  Dear Jesus, keep Susannah company. Don’t

  let her be alone or want for anything.

  Mrs. Mason!” Mrs. Rose burst into the school as the children were dismissed. “You have mail from Bismarck, but it’s not from Mr. Mason.”

  Susannah snatched the flapping letter from the storekeeper. “Thank you, but you must excuse me.” She patted her abdomen, then hurried to the one place Mrs. Rose wouldn’t follow. Latching the outhouse door, she thanked God for the cold weather’s effect on odors and flies
.

  Regulation-neat script, teacher’s penmanship, graced the envelope. Susannah pulled out the letter and aligned the writing with a crack on the west wall.

  Dear Mrs. Mason,

  Yes, your three letters to your husband are here, safe and dry, awaiting his arrival. Rest assured, I will hold any future correspondence for him.

  I hope you do not mind, but I took the liberty of making a few inquiries. None of our acquaintances, through the post office nor my husband’s medical practice, has heard of Mr. Jesse Mason. I can state with some degree of certainty that your husband is not in Bismarck at this time.

  Several outfits surreptitiously departed for the Black Hills last month. Perhaps he joined one of these groups of unknowns?

  You may also want to inquire at Fort Abraham Lincoln.

  Best wishes for the return of your beloved,

  Linda Slaughter, Postmistress

  Susannah tried to hold back her tears. Jesse wasn’t in Bismarck, so where was he? Gold prospecting seemed more likely every day. If she wrote to the fort about Jesse, would the soldiers arrest him? Could they find him in all that wilderness? Winter was coming. Soon travel would be impossible.

  The door rattled. “Mrs. Mason? Are you all right in there? What’s your letter say?”

  Susannah folded the heavy stationery into the envelope and leaned against the door with a sigh. A married woman running the post office in Bismarck. What next for this territory?

  Jesse had a plan.

  The next time the kid crawled into the tepee, Jesse was ready. “Misun. Where are my clothes?” He patted his arms and legs. “I can’t sit around in a blanket. It’s getting cold.” Not as cold as it usually got this time of year, but chilly enough.

  The boy said a bunch of stuff, then held out the guitar.

  “No.” Jesse shook his head. “I want my clothes.” The boy motioned for him to lean forward, off the backrest, then he pulled out Jesse’s gear. All this time he’d been sitting on it. Jesse pulled on his pants and shirt. If he’d known he’d be out here this late in the year, he’d have brought heavier clothes.

  No, if he’d known, he’d have never left home.

  “Thank you. Now, where’re my shoes?” Jesse pointed to his feet.

  The kid shook his head, then handed him the guitar. Too smart. Maybe that was the problem with government Indian policy, underestimating their adversary.

  “But, Mrs. Mason, if an Irish family with twin babies lived near here, we’d know about it.”

  Susannah guided Pa Ox from the Roses’ shed. “My point exactly, Mrs. Rose. Since they haven’t come to you for supplies, I’d best go check on them.” She returned to the shed for Ma Ox.

  “Mr. Rose, don’t you touch this wagon. Mrs. Mason is not going anywhere, especially all the way to Fourth Siding.” The woman planted her hands on her hips and continued talking without taking a breath. “The only foreigners around here are those Norwegians.”

  “No, my dear. McFadgen has some Irish friends.” Mr. Rose stepped around his wife, carrying the heavy yoke. “John Morrison and Richard McKinnon.”

  “Right. If anyone needs to check on those people, it should be one of their own.” Mrs. Rose thrust her face toward Susannah’s. “Unless you’re Irish.”

  “My parents were English. I’m American.” Susannah had just about used up her day’s allotment of patience in this first hour of the morning.

  “Those boys are busy fur trapping this time of year,” Mr. Rose said.

  Mrs. Rose shot her husband a look, then continued her assault on Susannah. “What would Mr. Mason say about you gallivanting all the way to Fourth Siding and back?”

  “He’d say they’re overdue for a visit.”

  “And the weather?” The woman ignored her. “It can change in a flash. Might look nice now, but we could have a foot of snow on the ground by nightfall. If you’re caught out in it—”

  “It’s a fine day for a drive. Indian summer.”

  Mrs. Rose jumped on the word. “Indians! You’ll run into a tribe of bloodthirsty savages and be scalped for certain.”

  “Now, Mrs. Rose.” Susannah loaded a basket of potatoes into the wagon. “When’s the last time you saw an Indian?”

  “Actually, we haven’t seen any.” Her husband fastened the last trace onto the yoke. “Occasional half-breeds is the best we do for Indians around here.”

  “Well, Lord only knows what evil you’ll run into out there. A woman in your delicate condition. You’d better take someone with you. Robert!”

  After attempting to teach that rapscallion all week, Susannah certainly didn’t plan to spend her Saturday trying to keep him from burning down the territory. She climbed onto the seat. “I’m sure that’s not necessary. I have a shotgun and a dog. Mrs. Hansen returned Jake when she moved into her new home.”

  “Well, I could go with you.” The old bird’s eyes glittered. “I’ll fetch my shawl.”

  Susannah didn’t bother to hide her annoyance. She’d rather be stuck at the schoolhouse. “Thank you, but no.”

  Mr. Rose herded his wife toward the store. “You go gallivanting off across the prairie, Mrs. Rose, who will help me with inventory?”

  Susannah snapped the reins over the backs of the oxen. To Mr. Rose, she smiled and mouthed, Thank you. He touched his fingertips to his forehead in salute.

  The last word was Mrs. Rose’s. “I’ll have you know, you’re on a wild-goose chase!”

  Better than being pecked to death by a domestic goose.

  Susannah whistled for Jake. The dog joined her on the seat and dug his black toenails into the wood. The team stepped out, energetic after several days’ rest. She guided them onto the narrow ruts of the stage road.

  The sun baked the prairie, perfuming the air with the humid smell of grass. The dog retreated to the shade under the seat.

  Susannah passed the time thinking of questions for Maureen Duffy. When did this upset stomach pass? It seemed so wasteful to have to eat a second breakfast because the first wouldn’t stay down. Susannah had noticed several spots of blood on her toothbrush. Could this be due to the pregnancy or were her teeth giving out? When did Maureen start to feel the baby move? Could she tell hers were twins? The babies would be seven months old now. Would they be sitting up, crawling, sleeping through the night?

  Fourth Siding’s shed appeared on the eastern horizon. Why didn’t the Duffys come to Worthington? Fargo was much farther away. Had someone warned Maureen about the Roses? Were they in good health? Had they been spared the grasshopper damage? Susannah turned the oxen off the road, heading northeast. She reached under the seat to pat Jake. “Almost there.”

  The wagon tilted, then began a rhythmic bumping.

  “Whoa!” Susannah frowned. This strip looked like the Duffys’ firebreak, disguised by a summer’s growth of wildflowers and prairie grass. A serious oversight this time of year. Didn’t Colum remember last autumn’s fire?

  Jake bolted off in search of water. On their last visit, Mr. Duffy had answered the door with a muzzleloader. He might mistake Jake for a wolf.

  “Hello, Duffys!” Susannah called. This was their draw, she was sure of it, but where was the stovepipe? Perhaps they’d taken it down for cleaning. And the path? A chill grazed her spine. She thought this was the right place, but—

  The draw was empty. Grass grew two feet tall where it should have been trampled down. A dark rectangle showed where the door had been. The southeast corner of the dugout had caved in.

  “The babies!” She raced to the opening. The soddy was empty. No people. No stove, no packing crate furniture, no hammock. The hole in the roof let in more sunlight than the oiled paper window, enough to see where rain had scooped a dip in the floor. Bird droppings spattered one corner. Susannah stepped on the threshold. The board creaked, tilting the door frame further off plumb.

  No need to see more. The Duffys were gone.

  Tears blurred her view of the dugout. This wasn’t some sudden tragedy. The family had pac
ked thoroughly, carefully. They’d left nothing behind.

  Susannah wondered if the babies were all right. There was no way to know. The prairie grass would swallow up graves as quickly as it did paths and fields.

  She took one last look around. Nothing plowed. The Duffys must have left shortly after their visit this spring. Where had they gone? Someplace easier, she hoped. She would imagine the four together, because any other image would shatter her.

  By this time next year, the dugout would be completely gone, returned to the prairie. Nothing would show a young Irish couple had once tried to homestead here.

  Susannah shivered, aware of her isolation. Jake nudged her hand with his wet nose. She knelt and wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck. His long pink tongue swabbed her face.

  “Watch over them, Lord, wherever they are.”

  Susannah returned to the wagon and headed the team back to Worthington. A line of cumulus towered over the western sky, the southernmost forming into an anvil. “Get up, Ma Ox, Pa Ox.”

  Fourth Siding’s shed slid by her left shoulder. Just over a year ago she’d arrived here to begin a new life with Jesse. How long before the prairie took back his claim, before the grass choked their draw and reclaimed his fields? How long before the roof collapsed on their soddy and the rain melted its walls? In less time than it took Jesse to build, it would all be gone.

  She would not let that happen.

  The wind swung around to the north, driving cold rain, then ice and flurries, into the tepee. Jesse put on his woolen drawers, both pairs of pants, both shirts, jacket, and hat, then wrapped the blanket over all. He crawled to the dry part of the floor and shivered. He should have left yesterday. But he got winded walking to the latrine and back. And he still couldn’t find his shoes. Or even an extra pair of moccasins.

  He didn’t know how far the boat had drifted downriver, or if the tribe had moved the village while he was sick, but he suspected Fort Lincoln was farther than he could walk. The Indians had horses but probably wouldn’t take kindly to him borrowing one. Why hadn’t they killed him already? For the most part, they ignored him. Except the kid with his big dreams of making music.