The ax head was lodged in the wall where it had flown off. Brown Eagle studied the end of the handle. Thank the Lord no one got hurt.
“Lousy allotment junk,” Will said. “Throw it away.” He handed the toolbox to his friend. “Use a drill and a saw.”
“Boat!” Eloise called.
Will pulled the spyglass from his toolbox. A stern-wheeler. A new one from the looks of it, though with the wild Missouri, none of them lasted to old age. The letters on the side spelled out Benton.
And a female passenger. One foolish enough to come upriver. Too well dressed to be following a gold miner. Wife of one of the officers at Fort Randall maybe. The roustabout unloaded an assortment of trunks, barrels, and crates, staggering under the weight.
It couldn’t be the allotment. Those boxes arrived empty.
Dear Lord Almighty, the lady got off the boat. She carried herself like the Queen, although weighing a few stones less. The boat pulled away, leaving Her Royal Highness standing, hands crossed as if waiting for communion. And the agent nowhere to be found.
Will would have to go try to make some sense of it. He left his tools with Fast Little Runner and loped to shore.
Sophia set her valise on a trunk out of the mud, then surveyed the village. The huts were reminiscent of the slums of the Lower East Side of New York City but lacked their stench. The air smelled of vegetation growing and decomposing, a whiff of woodsmoke, but no hint of bread baking or meat cooking. A shabby fence enclosed a stable and a pile of hay, but no animals.
She turned her head to listen. The low cluck-cluck of chickens punctuated the rustling of the wind across the prairie. No voices spoke, no one sang, no one called or cried. Villages destroyed during the Crimean War had more life than this.
What possible good could she do in the face of such grim poverty? Certainly God would not waste her talents by keeping her here, would He? She glanced back at the river, but no boat came to her rescue. She was stranded.
The sole two-story structure seemed to be in better repair than the others. It boasted a fence and the beginning of an orchard. Perhaps it was the agency house. Where were the agent and his staff? Had they been killed? Surely the steamboat captain would not have left her here if there was any danger.
A pair of children darted between houses. They peeked at her, then dashed closer, using other houses as cover. The black-haired one wore a tattered pair of pants. The one with a reddish tint to his hair had a cloth tied around his waist. What sort of game were they playing? And why, midafternoon on a weekday, were they not in school?
Oh yes. School. That was why she was here. Well, she would do her best to teach them until the Mission Board could send a suitable replacement.
An elderly man with a white tuft of a beard and a turban exited the nearest hut and shuffled toward her. A woman with an infant on her back emerged from the cottage behind the two-story house. More children joined the first two. A tall man with a long wave of dark hair ambled down from a large building.
Their round heads, broad faces, and dark coloring reminded her of the Mongol people. In contrast to the Santee tribe, the Poncas wore rags and scraps of blankets. The newspapers might call them “blood-thirsty savages,” but they looked more like starved Russian peasants during the Time of Troubles.
The Indians formed a circle around Sophia and her luggage. Was this how it felt to be outnumbered, a minority? Sophia glimpsed the inch of skin, white skin, between her glove and sleeve, and felt the weight of coins in the drawstring bag at her waist.
No. She could never fully understand.
She held out her hand to the oldest male, supposing he might be the chief. “Good afternoon. I am Sophia Makinoff. The new teacher. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
The chief and his people shrank away, whispering. Sophia heard a few guttural sounds similar to German. Most of the vowels seemed to be “ah.”
“Does anyone speak English?”
No one answered.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
No response.
She tried again. “Parlez-vous français?”
Silence.
The Smolny Institute for Noble Maidens had trained her in appropriate forms of address for the myriad ranks of nobility. But nothing in her education had prepared her for this moment.
After three, almost four years with the Poncas, this white woman looked funny to Will. Pale as new-cut pine. Her cheeks were round, not all sunken in like people who’d been without food. And she wore a complete set of clothes, from shoes all the way up to a silly flower-covered hat too small to shade her face.
She conversed with old Lone Chief, who didn’t know English, in . . . French?
Was she a Papist? The reverend would fly off the handle faster than that allotment ax head.
Her Highness stepped forward again, reaching out, trying to look them in the eye. The people drew back. Will looked over Little Chief’s shoulder.
“Your gloves.”
The woman blinked up at him, looked directly into his face with eyes as blue as the sky. The force of her gaze hit him and he, too, stepped back.
She spoke, and after a long moment, Will’s brain deciphered her words. She said, “Oh, you speak English.”
Yeah, he and half the people on this beach. But not with such a pretty accent. He cleared his throat and nodded at her gloves. “Yes’m. Uh, shiny blue hands don’t look real to them.”
Instead of quoting some rule of etiquette, Her Highness pulled them off. “But of course. There now, I am honored to make your acquaintance. Enchanté.”
Lone Chief made a study of it, keeping his hands tucked into his blanket. They would wait, for hours if necessary. Will had never seen such patient people as the Poncas.
The woman stood with her arm in the air. From the corner of his eye, Will saw the reverend finally emerge from his house.
Scurvy dog. He’d have to end this standoff. Will reached between Little Chief and Lone Chief and took the woman’s hand in his big mitt. Soft. Smooth. Cool.
After a moment his manners overcame the shock of her touch. “Good day, miss. I’m Willoughby Dunn, the Agency carpenter.”
“Pleased to meet you. I am Sophia Makinoff, the teacher.”
“Teacher?” The rev had sent off for a teacher three months ago, when the last one up and bolted. Will hadn’t figured on a another coming so soon, especially a woman, what with the trouble and all.
“Perhaps you could assist me. I need to arrange transport for my baggage. Is there a wagon for hire?”
Will had stopped listening to her words, hearing only the music of her voice. Seeing only the flutter of her eyelashes and the way her lips shaped the words.
“Reverend Henry Granville.” The preacher, all fancied up, elbowed aside Standing Buffalo Bull. “My mother is at the house. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
The teacher said her name again. Will listened this time. Sophia? He’d never met a Sophia before. Below her hat, a knot of hair shone the color of oiled maple.
“Let’s get you settled in. You must be tired.” The rev tried to take her arm.
She stepped back. Her upturned wrist included the Poncas. “Perhaps I might meet the people I will be ministering to.”
“Uh, well, they’re not all here, the children, your students.” All Poncas looked the same to Henry.
Will raised his hand. It’s what you did around teachers. “I’d be glad to introduce you.” He started to his right. “You’ve met Lone Chief.”
Miss Makinoff slipped her hand into the old man’s and dropped the first curtsy seen this far up the Missouri. They resumed their conversation in French.
Henry tugged on her sleeve. “Mother’s putting supper on the table,” he said. Will had never known him to miss a meal. “You boys—” Granville pointed to Black Eagle, White Swan, Standing Buffalo Bull, and Black Crow, all older than he. “Bring the teacher’s luggage up to the house.”
“Is there no wagon? The containers are heavy.”
Standing Bear directed the young men, assigning two to each trunk. Will grabbed a barrel.
“Don’t want to be left out, my friend?” Yellow Horse asked with a sly grin. “Impress the teacher with your muscles.”
“What else do I have?” Will grinned back.
A tall man finally came out of the house, took off his hat, and bowed like a dandy. “Welcome. James Lawrence, the agent, at your service, ma’am.”
Will barely recognized his boss. He must have spent the last few minutes oiling his hair, donning his coat and vest, and knotting his bow tie.
James directed the stacking of the baggage on the porch. “No traveling light for you, eh?”
“These are my personal effects.” Miss Makinoff indicated the trunks. “The rest are school supplies.”
“The government finally decided to honor their own treaty?” Will asked, earning a scowl from the agent.
“They are not from the government. These are gifts from my former place of employment and the churches in New York.” The teacher shook Yellow Horse’s hand. “Thank you ever so much. And you are?”
“Miss Makinoff, you’ll be wanting to wash up, I’m sure.” Henry herded his prize inside.
Yellow Horse turned his palms up next to Will’s hand. “He’s worried my red will stain her white.”
“Maybe you’ll turn pink.”
“Didn’t work with you and me.”
“My hide’s too tough.” They clasped arms. “Tomorrow,” Will promised, “soon as we finish at Fast Little Runner’s, we will put a roof on your house.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A rotund woman raced out of the kitchen, her apron flying, her smile as wide as the river. “We are blessed!” She pulled Sophia into her embrace. “I’m so glad to have another woman around the house!”
“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs.—”
“Granville, Henry’s mother. Call me Nettie. First names, please. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Supper’s ready.” Nettie steered her through the kitchen to the back porch.
As quickly as possible, Sophia washed and dried her hands, then turned toward the kitchen. Behind her the agent and the minister scowled at each other, got into a battle of elbows, and managed to knock over the bucket.
Men! Sophia thought as the two maneuvered for position. She had been so long, too long, in the company of only women and academics.
“Boys!” Nettie dismissed them with a toss of her gray curls, then waved Sophia back to the room with the large stove and long table. The fragrance of chicken filled the room.
“Take a seat. I do all the cooking.” Nettie paused, then continued with a certain amount of reluctance. “You’re welcome to join me . . .”
“As teaching duties permit, I would be glad to serve as your sous chef. ” At the woman’s expression of incomprehension, Sophia corrected herself. “Your assistant. But I must warn you, I have little experience in the kitchen. For the health of the staff, close supervision is required.”
The plank table had been set with white ironstone plates and steel cutlery. The red-and-white checked napkins matched the curtains. Sophia chose a seat by the window, giving her a good view of the action.
Coats and hats removed, the reverend and the agent attempted to barge through the doorway at the same time. When they realized Sophia was watching them, they paused.
“After you.”
“No, no. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” The reverend—Henry—the one with the thick beard, entered. He proceeded directly to the chair next to Sophia at the end of the table.
The agent, the tall one, James, considered his move with all the care of a grand chess master, then sat at the opposite end from the minister. Secular balancing spiritual.
Will, the carpenter, arrived next, taking the seat beside Sophia. Nettie sat opposite.
The reverend recited grace with thanks for the safe arrival of the teacher. Sophia crossed herself before the others opened their eyes, too travel-weary for a theological discussion.
Everyone at the table ate the chicken with their fingers. Feeling quite primitive, Sophia dispensed with utensils and did the same.
“Makinoff.” Nettie passed the asparagus. “Could that be Russian?”
“You are correct. I lived in Russia until I was sixteen.”
Henry choked. “You’re Russian? What was the Mission Board thinking?”
“I wondered that myself,” Sophia said. “Perhaps my experience learning English and a new culture will be of benefit to the students.”
“Russian? Aren’t they . . .” The reverend traced the shape with his fingers. “What are those onion-domes?”
“Cupolas. It is a style of building. The equivalent of a steeple.”
Henry’s scowl deepened. “You’re Christian, right? The Mission Board wouldn’t send us a—”
“Yes, of course. I grew up in the Orthodox Church, which is the keeper of the true faith since Rome broke away and Constantinople was seized.”
This revelation earned her more frowns than friends.
“I have attended Episcopalian services since arriving in this country.” And God had been with her all along, a detail of little interest to these men.
“Keeper of the true faith?” The reverend bristled.
“You speak good English.” The agent interrupted with rusty flattery. “Been in America long?”
Sophia responded to the easier question. “Since 1870. We lived in Paris a few years, traveled a bit, then landed in New York.”
James leaned back and studied her through narrowed eyes. “Wandering like a gypsy.”
“I am most certainly not a gypsy.” She straightened. He had never seen a Romani if he mistook her for one. “I enjoy discovering new places.”
“I went to New York once,” the agent said. “They were having a riot about the draft.”
“Fortunately we arrived after the end of the war.”
“You and—”
“My father. He has since departed this earth.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nettie said.
A thump under the table indicated she kicked her son, who choked out, “My condolences.”
“Have you done any teaching?” James asked.
“Yes. Most recently at a women’s college in New York.”
“There’s a college for women?” Henry asked. “What for?”
“Our graduates occupy a variety of jobs: physician, principal, author, lecturer, bookkeeper, settlement worker, chemist, editor.”
Worry lines creased Nettie’s forehead. “With a background like yours, you’re probably used to fancy food.”
“Not at all. The College believes simple meals are best.” Sophia indicated her empty plate with a turn of her wrist. “Everything was delicious.”
“Well then.” Straightening her shoulders, Nettie brought out a custard pie and sliced it into pieces.
Perhaps having to share the food with one more person generated tension within the staff. Or perhaps the addition of an available female transformed them into rutting stallions.
Certainly she would do her best to turn their opinion around, in whatever brief time she might have to stay here. She turned to the agent. “And the students? They are all from here?”
“Pretty much.” James rested his large head on extended fingers. “The villages shifted a bit over the years, but they’ve always lived near where the Niobrara meets the Missouri. The Ponca tribe today consists of 730 peaceable, well-behaved Indians.”
“And how many poorly behaved ones?” Sophia could not resist the jest. The agent’s face flushed, and she hastened to soothe him. “Perhaps I will have a few mischievous children in school.”
“You will,” Henry said. “Indian parents rarely exercise control over their children, believing they develop best if left to themselves.”
James straightened, attempting to tower over her without standing. “I taught a class of seventeen girls and thirty-three boys in ’71. We had no discipline proble
ms.”
“Coffee?” Nettie waved the pot like a truce flag.
“Is there tea?” Sophia asked before she thought better of it. The question earned indignant scowls from the men at the table. “Coffee will be fine.”
Reverend Granville grabbed control of the conversation. “Our mission here at the Ponca Agency is to turn these Indians into Christian American farmers, prepared to assume their place in society as productive members of our great land.”
He paused for a breath. “American?” Sophia asked. “Are they not American by virtue of residency on this continent?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the carpenter smile. James shook his head. “He means citizens of the United States.”
“They are not?”
“No. Each tribe was a separate nation. But now, after the treaty, they are wards of the government.”
“You must speak to them in English only,” the reverend said. “Not French. And do not attempt to learn their language.” He glared at Will, who stacked the plates and took them to the dishpan without responding.
“My teaching materials are all in English.”
Sophia had more questions, but fatigue was rapidly overtaking her. The brief acquaintance with these men told her another opportunity would present itself soon enough.
The teacher stood. “If you will excuse me, please,” she said. “It has been a difficult journey, and if I am to teach tomorrow, what I really need is to sleep.”
“Seasick?” Will asked.
She shook her head, loosening a few curls from her hairpins. “I traveled the North Atlantic with ease. But this steamship . . . there was no way to lock the stateroom door.”
At least she got a stateroom. Will had slept on a bag of flour, between stacks of lumber that threatened to crash down on him when the boat lurched. The guy in the next bedroll was on the run from the law in Indiana. The fellow on the other side had been jailed in Missouri for public intoxication and busied himself continuing the practice.
Through Rushing Water Page 3