by Sara Dahmen
“No, I’m not,” I’d retorted, knowing I was still pushing my luck. She would be swallowing her pride, facing her half-native heritage, and thereby reliving all of the ridicule she’d endured as a child. I could not imagine what emotions she wrestled with as she and I had bartered back and forth for a half hour.
In the end, I had left the general store with her resounding negative in my ears.
But as we hitched up a borrowed wagon, Kate arrived with a tight bundle and an even tighter look about her eyes. She didn’t speak, and jumped into the back, her spine straight and her face away from us.
It has been three days on the journey to the reservation, and still she does not offer a single word to Patrick or me. I can only imagine the tempest in her heart. She is traveling with me—once a friend, and then a betrayer—and the man she’d thought would wed her.
And she is going against the independent nature she spent so long cultivating in defiance of the way some in Flats Junction treated her. She is, in her own eyes, a non-native, willful woman who has no need of family, especially the side that is Sioux. Oddly, considering what I’ve gathered from Widow Hawks, Kate would be welcomed wholeheartedly into the Blackfoot Sioux community, whereas she has had to fight constantly in Flats Junction to remind people of her preferred status.
Like me, Kate does not always choose the easy way.
I spend many hours musing over Kate’s motives for joining us. I wonder if I will ever have a chance to ask her, or if she and I will ever have kind words between us again. Patrick doesn’t seem to have half of my worries. He is merely glad she has decided to come. He seems to think she will have a change of heart when she sees her mother, but I do not have quite as much faith in Kate as that.
Chapter 51
12 November 1882
The Sioux village is dirty. It is the first word I think of as I look at the huts huddled near Fort Randall. Though this is not a reservation, it is nearly like one, with slapped-together shacks, so thin and ridiculously flimsy against the elements, never mind the winter weather that will arrive soon in the Territories. In the haphazard cluster of dwellings, I see some traditional tipis, a few wetus with smoke curling from the cracks, and a number of open campfires, rowdy children, and gaunt dogs. There is a lot of mud mixed with human debris. It is as if the tribes are trying to straddle two things; their community, and the way of the white settlers, and in doing so are failing in both respects. My heart aches with sadness and shame.
I am appalled that Widow Hawks, the neat, precise, graceful woman I remember, resides in a place like this. Surely, the real reservation will be better. But suppose it is not? I am once again thankful for my husband, who agreed with me that she must return to us.
Ignoring most of the Army soldiers milling around, Patrick makes inquiries with the Sioux as best he can. A few can capture the English words, and he knows just a little of their tongue. I am useless, so Kate and I sit in the wagon, watching Patrick gesture and pantomime. The man he is talking with finally shrugs, his face never once showing a flicker of emotion, and turns to give a guttural call: “Mačsaŋni ḱi!”
Eventually a woman pokes her head out of the nearby shack. She approaches and listens to Patrick inquire again. I think perhaps he has finally remembered Widow Hawk’s name in Sihasapa. There is a nod.
He leads her to the wagon and helps her up. Behind her, the husband hands up two of the smallest children and goes back to the shack, his tall, lean body bending against the breeze, a gaggle of young ones still around his knees.
The woman turns to us, her black, beady gaze passing over me and landing on Kate. She stares, completely unabashed, at Kate’s broad cheekbones and glossy locks. Finally, she puts one of the children next to me and says, brokenly, “To Čatán.”
Čatán! I recall it is Widow Hawks’ name. I nod, eager and hopeful. She knows of Esther? Where to go next?
Then Patrick says, “Dowanhowee.”
The woman pauses, looking between my husband and me. He nods, still holding the reins and watching the horses. The woman gives a shrug, acknowledging me.
“Dowanhowee.” Her voice makes the word sound earthy and rich.
Patrick offers a little smile. It seems he has remembered the name Widow Hawks’ family gave me so long ago. I am touched and delighted.
We follow the line of the choppy road, around the meandering huts hugging the side of the fort walls. I am shocked at how many people live here, and the conditions they endure. Several men sit outside in the cold, looking worse for wear with drink, and the women seem worn and rough. It is as if they were placed here haphazardly, told to make a living from nothing, and perhaps that is what really happened. I find my lack of understanding frustrating and a bit frightening.
When we arrive at a very large tipi, the woman juts her chin toward a nearby wetu. Strange chanting filters out.
She says gravely, “Inipi.”
I do not know what she means until Patrick has the presence of mind to say to me, “Sweat lodge, for healing.” I realize our new acquaintance has decided to show us the sights as we are obviously rather ignorant white travelers. I wonder how Patrick knows this, but maybe he often asked Widow Hawks what her people did for medicine.
As we sit in the wagon, Widow Hawks herself comes out of the nearest tipi. My heart stops. She’s here!? Patrick gives a short, happy whoop, and swings down to her.
“Esther!”
She gives him a warm smile, the light of it chasing away the questions. He gives up all propriety and pulls her into an embrace. I climb down as well, and when Patrick is done with her, I take a turn. She feels the same in my arms, and I want to weep with relief. We’d thought we would have to inquire at Fort Randall, and then return to Flats Junction until spring allowed us a chance to travel further for her. My joy is a palpable thing in my chest.
“You came back, then, Jane?” she asks, though the answer is plain. “And married him? I am so glad.”
“Now, it’s your turn,” I say, stepping back. “You must return, too.”
She pauses, and doubt wrinkles her forehead. She gazes past me, to the wagon, where Kate still sits. As one, Patrick and I turn to watch. Kate is not moving, not looking at our trio, her head turned away to gaze out across the prairie.
“Aŋgpétu!”
The word is odd, and at first I do not realize it is a name. Kate’s head whips around at the sound of it. She stares at Widow Hawks, her face unreadable and her jaw set. Intense wonderment strikes me. Why make this journey, in silence, in anger, if only to reject her mother again in the end? Did she wish to see Fort Randall only? See what the Sioux looked like when crowded together and their culture cracking? Where her mother would perhaps die and be buried? I could not even start to ask all the questions.
Widow Hawks calls again: “Aŋgpétu!” And then she moves toward Kate, who is frozen. As Widow Hawks draws up with the wagon, Kate stiffly clambers down until they are face to face. Their resemblance is immediately apparent, from the straight nose and cheekbones, to the carriage of their shoulders.
They do not embrace, and I suppose I do not expect it. Kate is likely too angry, and Widow Hawks too proud to ask what her daughter will not willingly give. But suddenly Kate gives a tight jerk of her head, an affirmation of some sort. With that, Widow Hawks turns and comes back to us, Kate following, and the other Indian woman clambers down with her children, chattering away to Widow Hawks as if a spell has been broken.
I am confused, but before I can start to ask Patrick questions, he is smiling and nodding.
“I think she will come back with us.”
“I might have gathered that, but I don’t know what decided her.”
He begins to explain his theory but is interrupted by several bodies pouring out of the tipi. I recognize Widow Hawks’ sister-in-law Hantaywee, and a few of the adolescent girls. We are ushered inside the tent flaps and I’m assailed with the scents of tobacco, urine, fur, smoke, and corn. Seated in a corner is the crumpled but smilin
g form of Widow Hawks’ mother, and four men lounge near the central fire. They all sit up when we enter and scrutinize us, as so many have since our arrival.
We are served food and someone passes Patrick a pipe. Widow Hawks’ mother smokes one behind us, and Widow Hawks herself is lively, chattering in a mix of native language and English. I stare at everything, from the mixed clothing to the oddly prepared food, even more unusual than what Widow Hawks used to make.
Kate sits next to me and refuses to eat or to join in any conversation. How does she stay so silent? Isn’t she hungry? I do not think, even in my quieter days, that I could abstain so long from speaking to another person. She keeps her head down and her mouth tight, but I see Widow Hawks looking at her fondly, happily. It is as if Kate broke a barrier with arriving here, as if that was all Widow Hawks needed.
I smile at everyone, bobbing my head, and Patrick is talking with the men as best he can with their jumble of words. One of them, a strong handsome man, continues to gaze at me, and I wonder why. It ought to be apparent that I belong with Patrick. And then I realize he is not looking at me, but at Kate. She does not notice this, and I do not think she would like me taking liberties, telling her how a man has taken interest in her, especially a Blackfoot Sioux. Or maybe he is a similar Sioux tribe. Hunkpapa, like Sitting Bull.
The language washes over us, and every once in a while, Patrick gives my shoulder a squeeze. The men eventually take him out, and he explains briefly as he goes.
“One of the family is ill. They want me to take a look and see if I can do anythin’. We’ll be spendin’ a night or two here, Jane, and will catch others headin’ towards Flats Junction so we aren’t alone. I’ll inquire about when the Army plans to head in for supplies. That will be a good escort.”
“We’ll all sleep together?” I ask incredulously, looking around the tipi. It is the first full conversation I’ve had in English since we’ve arrived, and I’m grateful he thinks to talk to me about all this. At least I will not be surprised.
“Yes, to keep warm, as it is. It will be alright; Esther is here and so is Kate.”
“Will you be back quickly?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But they say it is not far, and if the illness is what I think, there will be little I can do.”
“What is it?”
“Liver issue. Comes from too much of the drink. They’d do better with their beloved pejute sapa than liquor.”
“The what?” I try not to let my sheer annoyance with all the language barriers show. It has been a trying day to say the least.
“Sorry. Coffee. They love it. In fact, why don’t you pull ours out of the wagon to share around? Least we can do for their hospitality.”
“But Patrick—I don’t know what anyone is saying!” It’s all I can do to keep from venting my frustration at him.
“Ask Esther to translate for you, she doesn’t mind. Kate knows Lakota too. Or at least, she did in her youth. I won’t be long.”
With a brief peck on my forehead, he is gone into the late, chilly afternoon with the men.
I turn back to see Widow Hawks smiling at me.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “It is so good to see you, Jane.” There is much emotion in that comment, but I wonder if she cannot say more with Kate sitting nearby.
Instead, I try to talk of lighter things. “It seems my husband has the presence of mind to remember bits of your language, though I do not even know how to pronounce my own name.”
Widow Hawks blinks, as if trying to remember it, and then translates. “It is Dowanhowee. Singing Voice.”
“Oh.” It does not seem a fitting name for me. I have never been praised for my voice, though perhaps to the Sioux it is different enough. I sound it out, and several of the children clamber over to help me say it. In the clutter of their voices, with soft hands on my knees and shoulders leaning into my body, I notice Widow Hawks smiling again at me, as if it is a vision she enjoys. I try not to wrinkle my nose at the pungent odors of fur and food hanging tightly around the little writhing bodies. This is her family, after all, and I do not want to offend anyone.
“So, then, what do you call Kate?” I ask, trying belatedly to bring her into the circle of conversation. She swings around to look at me, but her expression remains neutral. She will not offer me her name.
“She is Aŋgpétu. Part of her always will be.” Widow Hawks looks directly at her daughter, as if memorizing her face, reminding herself of the girl and woman before her. “Radiant. Or simply, Day. That is what her name means, and to me, she will be so until she returns to the ancestors.”
I almost expect a rejoinder to that, but Kate remains silent, as if willing herself to be separate. It is all I can do to not shake her, to beg her once again to consider her mother. But it is enough that she is here. I cannot ask more of her, and by the softness around Widow Hawks’ face, I know she feels the same.
Chapter 52
21 November 1882
We will arrive back in Flats Junction late in the afternoon just before the tendrils of the next snowstorm of the season creeps over the horizon, following an empty Army freighter and surrounded by a handful of men from Fort Randall. Kate and Widow Hawks sit side by side in the back of the wagon. I often sneak glances at them both. I have not seen or heard them speak a single word between them. Is it the Sioux way to say so little, to have an understanding with a simple nod of the head? Are they resolved to live near each other? Does Kate have any forgiveness in her for her mother’s choices, and does Widow Hawks readily forgive Kate for her anger and rudeness?
Once I look back and I see their hands clutched, old and young fingers together, but the same shade of brown. I am relieved and heartened by this. I am sure my questions will be answered in time. That is the way of life, I suppose: to seek answers slowly, in a long revealing meandering, instead of having it all wrapped up neatly and easily.
“Esther will stay with me until she has a place of her own,” Kate announces as we stop the horses near our home. It is shocking to hear her voice, and it is slightly hoarse from misuse, but most strange is the declaration.
“Stay with you?” Patrick is the first to recover.
Kate gives him a defiant look. I wonder when they discussed this, or if Widow Hawks is only hearing of it now. She is on the other side of the wagon, and I cannot see her face.
“Whatever you wish, Kate,” I say. Perhaps this is the way to reconciliation after all: stilted, angry, and yet not without merit.
She pauses, gives a curt nod, and turns away. I give Patrick an incredulous glance, and he offers a cheeky grin and slight shrug in response. I’m not sure if any of us are truly vindicated by the past few weeks’ actions, but I feel as if we might all be on better footing now. That is comforting.
“Well, then, Janie.” Patrick is at my shoulder as we both watch the two silent, straight backs of Kate and Esther walk away from us without another word. “Before we return the wagon to Sadie, and the extra horse to the Brinkleys, we ought to take a moment. I know you’re no longer my housekeeper, but might you make up some flapjacks for your hungry husband? And before that, give him a kiss?”
I laugh with him, and willingly oblige.
The End
Watch for Smith,
the next novel in the Flats Junction Series.
Notes for the Reader
Widow is set in the fictional town of Flats Junction in a very real historical backdrop of the Dakota Territories in the late 1800s. The map of the territory in the beginning is correct, as are the rail lines shown on it. I placed Flats Junction at a cross in the rails, where a junction made sense, but also added a historic Sioux hunting ground, where later wagon trains chose to stop. There are many prehistoric buffalo jump sites in South Dakota that simply do not have the funding for excavation. If you find one, you might even find old bison bones piled up at the bottom.
Jane’s experiences in Gloucester are also steeped in history, and the references to
the living experiences Esther/Widow Hawks and her family experienced outside Fort Randall are true. In fact, today the only reservation where there is still her specific branch of Sioux—the Blackfoot Sioux, or Sihasapa—is Standing Rock Reservation, where Sitting Bull was taken in 1883 after captivity at Fort Randall.
Many tidbits dropped into the story are fact. For instance, by the 1880s, nearly all the bison were gone from the prairie, which is why one spotted, was a rarity. The railroad building in the Dakotas had jumped back into action after the recovery from the economic depression of the early 1870s, and almost all of the local First Nation members were on reservations after Sitting Bull turned himself in during the summer of 1881. The newspaper article on the first page lists true advertisements from the time that I’ve cobbled together from various newspapers of the era—all except the one Jane answers, as it were.
In the 1880s, doctors were just starting to gain a solid foothold as a profession, and their reputation and belief in the science they practiced was a struggle the further west one traveled. Doctor Kinney may have found his footing seven years into living in Flats Junction, but would just as often hit resistance. People did not yet fully understand the concept of microbes or the dangers of childbirth, though doctors who kept themselves informed would be learning quickly of all the ongoing changes in the medical field. Jane’s husband Henry would have, with the right type of doctor, been diagnosed correctly to have cancer, but the medical communities in America had no real way to test for multiple cancer types, and were only just starting to think about how to treat it. Surgery was still very rife with risk, even with the existence of carbolic acid for disinfectant and the use of crude anesthesia—and that assumes the doctor operating believed in the use of disinfectant to begin with! The dangers of abortion were whispered, as the Comstock law made information about the body—not just abortion, but contraceptives and anatomy as well—illegal, for their “lewd” instruction. An informed woman would have to take a risk of abortion or childbirth, but both were likely to end in death. The self-abortion written on the patient sheet of EvaRose the prostitute was a common antidote to an unwanted pregnancy in the 1800s.