White Heart, Lakota Spirit

by Ginger Simpson

  White Heart, Lakota Spirit

  By

  Ginger Simpson

  Eternal Press

  A division of Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.eternalpress.biz

  White Heart, Lakota Spirit

  by Ginger Simpson

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-250-1

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-251-8

  Cover art by: Dawné Dominique

  Edited by: Gwynn Morgan

  Copyedited by: Barbara Legge

  Copyright 2010 Ginger Simpson

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  1st North American and UK Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To my wonderful, Kelly, who always believes in whatever I do and supports me in everything I try.

  Special thanks to Professor Barbara Gauger, University of South Dakota and Jerome Kills Small from the Institute of American Studies, for their help in keeping my historical facts straight.

  Prologue

  Dakota Plains, 1874

  Grace trudged along behind the wagon, struggling to keep up with her mother. Though the prairie grass grew knee-high in some places, the wheels found the dust hidden below and spiraled the powdery dirt into the air, covering her hair and skin. Her muscles quivered with fatigue.

  The day stretched on as her father kept the family moving, in search of the right place to stop. The more exhausted she became, the more her thoughts turned to bitterness. Why did they have to leave their home? Was it this stupid thing called gold fever? She didn’t want to live in a wagon. She wanted her own soft bed back… and her own cozy home.

  She smacked her dry lips and cursed the day her father announced the beginning of this horrible journey. He’d walked into the house, slapped his hat against his knee, displayed his usual heartwarming smile and said, “Pack up the wagon. I’ve got a plan that’ll make us rich.”

  The anger she experienced then gripped her again. Grace had just gotten used to being in one place for any length of time. She’d actually found friends her own age and enjoyed their company. Now, surrounded by endless prairie, and glancing at her family, she realized how much she missed her classmates. Tears clouded her eyes.

  The creaking wagon wheels, plodding hooves, and rustling grasses were the only sounds she heard. Pa guided them toward the distant mountains—the Black Hills, where precious ore supposedly ran in golden veins so thick the brightness rivaled the sunrise. Funny, from where she stood, they looked like any other mountains. Nothing more than granite peaks jutting from a sea of grass and dotted with trees and scrub brush.

  Mama marched through the weeds ahead, her head held high and her shoulders squared against the growing wind. Where did she get her stamina? She seemed to be faring better than Grace. Her mother’s admirable tenacity and devotion to Papa went without saying. Even when he uprooted the family, Mama never complained. If given the same opportunity, would Grace be such a follower, she wondered? Would she ever get a chance to find out? Suitable husbands didn’t pop up in the middle of nowhere. Being an old maid seemed her fate in life.

  Her father drove the wagon while Kevin prodded their single cow along and kept her from straying. Grace smiled, thinking of her older brother’s silly jokes. He always seemed to find humor in everything, and even when times got tough, he made her laugh. Recalling a few nights back when he’d donned Mama’s bonnet and danced a jig around the campfire to Papa’s fiddling, caused Grace’s gritty lips to lift in a smile. At twenty, Kevin should have a wife and be making his own plans, but with all the moving around, he hadn’t found a woman to share his life. Did it bother him? If so, he didn’t complain.

  Lost in thought, Grace missed slamming into the back of the wagon by inches. She swerved out of the way. Her father had stopped the team to check the harnesses. She walked around front and stood next to him. “Papa, when are we going to stop for the night? My legs are tired.” Her words came out in a whine followed by a loud sigh.

  He glanced at the surrounding terrain. “We’ve come a far piece today. Don’t reckon’ we’ll find any place much better than right here. Go gather up some kindlin’ for the fire.” The gaze in his eyes turned dreamy. “Just think, in a couple more days, we’ll stop for a good spell.”

  * * * *

  Living here, in the shadow of the mountains, two weeks had passed. The loneliness and desolation weighed on Grace, and made the time she’d lived in the wagon seem more like a lifetime. She’d seen no other families, just solitary miners occasionally passing by and working the hillsides, all too busy to share even a howdy-do. Greed for the precious ore provided great motivation, but left little room for making friends. The sounds of hammering filled the days—a steady cadence that already grew tiresome.

  She stared out at the miles of drying grass they’d traversed and sighed. Surely this wasn’t to be her home until Papa struck it rich. It might take forever. The accommodations paled in comparison to living in a real house. The makeshift canvas tent, hooked to the side of the wagon, served as a bedroom for her father and brother, while she and Mama shared the wagon.

  Papa and Kevin worked during the last glimmer of sunlight every evening on a temporary shelter built from spare planks and pieces of wood found in and around the mining area. The lopsided building didn’t look like it could provide much more protection from the elements than the wagon did.

  She gazed at the hills where sunburned and smelly men searched every day for the elusive gold. Rumors had exaggerated its abundance, but that didn’t dampen Papa’s spirit; he was determined to find the mother lode. The sea of browning grass around her whipped in the breeze, stirred her loneliness, and turned her insides hollow. Her eyes misted. How long did Papa expect her and Mama to sit idle all day? A person could only do so many chores while conserving water in this…this purgatory. Grace raised her gaze skyward. “Please God, let Papa find gold soon, so we can get back to civilization.”

  “Grace, dear!” The sweet sound of Mama’s voice interrupted her prayer. “Get the flour and salt out of the wagon. We’ll be needin’ some biscuits to go with the beans for dinner. Papa and Kevin will be hungry when they come down from the mountain.”

  Great! Beans again. What she wouldn’t give for some variety. She shook her head. How could Mama call this place home? Grace climbed on the wagon tailgate and searched through the food bin, and finding what she needed, slid back down to the ground.

  “Got ‘em, Mama,” she called. “If you want, I’ll make the biscuits.” At least helping with dinner gave her something to do.

  A shelf bolted to the wagon bed served as a work area. Grace made space for her bowl and mixed together the floury concoction to bake in a Dutch oven. She longed for the luxury of the cook stove in their last home, despite not being there long enough to truly enjoy it. Papa had traded a team of horses for the old iron giant, and Mama had claimed she’d died and gone to heaven when he and Kevin toted it inside.

  G
race stopped stirring and sighed, staring blankly at the white expanse of wagon bonnet in front of her. The family had had more homes than she could count. Mama always told her they moved so much because Papa was born under a wandering star. Sometimes Grace wished it would fall to the earth like other shooting stars she saw at night.

  * * * *

  Brightness invaded the wagon’s interior and woke Grace. She crawled to the small opening in the canvas and peered out. The rising sun crept over the mountain and spread fingers of light to dry the dew left by the cool evening air. She stretched and yawned, dreading yet another boring day ahead.

  The aroma of sizzling bacon filled the air. Grace glanced over at her mother’s empty pallet and sensed a pang of guilt. Mama had always been an early riser, and a very good cook. The smell of her breakfast wafting just outside the wagon made Grace’s mouth water.

  She hurried and dressed. Preferring the sensation of bare feet on the springy prairie grass, she pushed her uncomfortable boots aside. She wore shoes only out of necessity despite Mama’s objection that ladies didn’t go unshod. Reaching behind, she tied the bow on her dress, and winced when craning her arm so far back sent a painful jolt through her shoulder. She shook off the ache and hoisted herself over the tailgate to the ground. Her mother hunkered next to the campfire, turning the sizzling pieces of pork.

  Grace walked up behind her. “Mornin’ Mama.”

  Her mother’s head jerked around with eyes wide as a frightened pony. “Lordy, girl, you just took ten years off my life. You scared me to death walking up on those silent feet of yorn.”

  Grace dug her toes into the powdery dirt and chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t try to.”

  “I guess I was just too engrossed in my cookin’ to hear you, but it’d help if you wore shoes like everyone else. You’re not a child anymore, Grace. You’re nigh on to sixteen, and you best act it.”

  “That bacon sure smells good.” Grace changed the subject. She noticed the tin pot still on the wagon sideboard. “Want me to get the coffee ready for brewing?”

  “That would be nice. Afterwards, go roust your father and brother.”

  Grace filled the pot with water from their precious supply, dumped fresh grounds in the basket, and carried it to her mother. At the tent where Papa and Kevin slept, she pushed aside the blanket that served as a door and peered inside. “Hey, you two! You gonna sleep all day? Mama says it’s time to get up. Breakfast is cookin’.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the smell of manly sweat and dirty feet inside the canvas. Her father and brother worked hard, but water was too precious to waste on bathing; although in her opinion, the two men sorely needed to bathe.

  Kevin’s cough caused his cover to drop to his waist. His well-developed chest caught Grace’s attention. When had he sprouted the hair that covered it? She couldn’t help staring. It had been a long time since she’d seen him shirtless, and evidently she had paid scant attention to how much he’d developed in the past couple of years.

  He sat up. “If you don’t want an eyeful, you’d better leave. I slept in my birthday suit last night.” His quip jolted her back to the moment; she averted her stare and stepped out, dropping the blanket back in place. Warmth crept up her neck into her face, although she couldn’t figure why. For goodness sake, he was her brother.

  Kevin came out of the tent buckling his pants and laughing. “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  “No! I just didn’t want to see your ugly butt.”

  Her mother glared in their direction. “I don’t want to hear that kind of talk out of you, young lady, and Kevin, you’ll put on a shirt, or you’ll get no breakfast.”

  As he crawled back inside his makeshift bedroom, Papa ducked out, his boots not laced and his hair flattened from sleep. He tweaked Grace’s cheek as he passed. “Mornin’, Sassy.”

  Sassy. He had a pet name for everyone, and she loved hers. She was sassy, and quite frequently the trait got her into trouble. Mama called her actions sassy, but Grace considered herself inquisitive. She moved to the fire and sat on the damp grass. Papa pulled up an empty bucket, turned it over, and sat, waiting for the coffee to finish perking. He laced and tied his boots then plopped his over-sized hat onto his head.

  Beneath the dust-covered brim, Grace studied Papa’s sun-tanned face, his drooping moustache, and his big hands. She always loved how the size of them made her feel safe and protected. He might be gruff and bullheaded, but she loved him nonetheless.

  * * * *

  Papa scraped the last speck of egg from his plate and set it aside. “I s’pect Kev and me’ll find gold any day now. People are discoverin’ it all around us. When we make our strike, we can find some land and build a real house. It’s sure to happen soon… afore summer is past and the weather turns cold. In fact, Sassy, you and yer ma might want to start gatherin’ fair-sized stones and rocks for our fireplace.”

  He pointed to the lean-to, still in progress. “In the meantime, Kev and I will finish our temporary shelter, so we can spread out a bit.”

  No more climbing in and out of a wagon to sleep. Grace clapped. “Oh, Papa, that sounds so good.”

  She sobered and flashed the look that always won him over…the half-pout, wistful gaze. “When we finally settle in our real house, it will be near a town, won’t it? Otherwise, how do you expect me to be courted out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “I’m not so sure I want you to be cour...” He jerked around and looked over his shoulder. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Kevin asked.

  “I hear it, Papa,” Grace chimed in. “Sounds like yelling.”

  Her father stood and scanned the horizon. He pointed. “Look. There!”

  A group of riders emerged from a dust cloud in the distance. The yelling grew louder as they came closer.

  The furrows in her father’s brow frightened Grace. “What is it, Papa?”

  He darted for the wagon. “It’s Injuns! Hurry! You two women get inside and keep low. Kevin, get yer rifle!”

  Grace’s heartbeat quickened and fear clutched her chest, making it hard to breathe. She’d heard about savages, but never saw one up close. She didn’t want to.

  Her mother stood frozen in place. Grace grabbed her hand and pulled. “C’mon, Mama, we’d better do as Papa says.”

  They ran around to the back of the wagon, and her mother boosted her up and over the closed tailgate. Grace dove inside, her mind filled with horrible thoughts. Would she get scalped or worse…were they all going to die? All the while, piercing yells sliced the air while thundering hooves pounded the ground.

  Realizing her mother hadn’t followed, Grace rose up on her knees and peeked outside. A pack of whooping Indians rode round and round the wagon, their voices creating a din of eerie screams while bullets exploded. The hair on Grace’s arms stood on end. She covered her ears, crouched against the sidewall and prayed the savages would go away.

  Shots rang out from beneath the wagon when Papa and Kevin returned fire. Fretting over her mother, Grace peeked out again. Mama shrieked and grabbed for the tailgate, but a mounted marauder pumped a bullet into her shoulder. She fell, silenced for the moment, but tried to struggle to her feet. The Indian shot her again.

  Grace’s screams echoed in her own head. “No! Oh God, Mama,” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “Mamaaaa...”

  Overpowered by hopelessness, Grace looked on as the painted rider stopped next to Mama’s fallen body and emptied another round into her. A stream of bright red trickled through the dry dirt, and her beloved mother lay motionless. Bile rose in Grace’s throat. She collapsed into a cowering heap, silenced her sobs with her hands, and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. God hadn’t intervened so maybe the ordeal was all a bad dream and Mama wasn’t really dead. Still, the shooting and whooping continued. Pounding hooves sent dust seeping into the wago
n, and Grace sputtered. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t awaken from the terror.

  The gunfire suddenly ceased. She listened for the awful war cries but heard nothing but stony silence. Terror brought her breathing in ragged gasps. Were her brother and father still alive? And what about Mama?

  Grace wanted to look, but feared what she’d see. Were the Indians gone? Summoning courage, she forced her eyes open and lifted her gaze even with the edge of the tailgate. Her heart seized when she found herself nose to nose with a scarred face covered with paint. Hate-filled eyes glared at her, and in his hand, a wooden club with dangling feathers loomed directly over her head. In fear for her life, she recoiled and covered her mouth to stop the scream rising in her throat.

  A second face, not as old or menacing, peered in at her. The younger Indian grabbed the arm of the other and said something indistinguishable. They both stared at her.

  Tears stung her eyes then drizzled down her cheeks. “Please, don’t kill me, please.”

  The angry one grabbed her arm and dragged her over the splintered tailgate. A piece of wood pierced her side. She grimaced, scrunched her eyes closed, then hit the ground with a painful thud. Was this the end for her?

  The savage stood over her, burning her with his hateful glare. Why? She didn’t know, although she’d heard stories about the Indians’ anger over the miners being in the Black Hills. But to kill over gold? That couldn’t be why. It just couldn’t.

  Looking past him, she noticed others still mounted, beyond them the body of her mother. Through blurred eyes, she glanced back to the younger man then scanned beneath the wagon, searching for her papa and brother. Their lifeless bodies lay sprawled next to one another. Her heart ached at the needless loss. She no longer had a family.

  She glared up at the Indian whose bright, lightning-bolt markings did little to hide the evidence of his encounter with a sharp blade—a jagged scar ran from his ear to his chin. Well-deserved, she supposed. Despite her grief and trembling legs, rage overcame her. She jumped to her feet and pummeled the chest of the one she believed responsible. He reeked of death.