Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  The students spotted their parents, broke ranks, and ran to them. Sophia saw him. “Do you know whose baby this is?”

  “No, I—”

  A woman from Hubdon approached. The baby grinned and reached for her. Sophia handed the infant over. “There are more than a thousand people here. Who are they?”

  “Mixed breeds, white squaw-men,” Will said. “That’s what takes so long, deciding who’s in the tribe and who’s not. Although seven dollars seems hardly worth fighting over.”

  “Pardon me?” Sophia’s eyes widened. “Please tell me more is coming. They cannot survive the winter on seven dollars.”

  An officer spotted Sophia, trotted his gray over, and dismounted. “Miss Makinoff. I hear the annuity arrived. We’ve come to maintain order.”

  “Lt. Higgins, this is Mr. Dunn, the man who built this village. I met Lt. Higgins on the journey here from Yankton.”

  “Agency carpenter,” Will corrected. As rickety as the buildings were, he didn’t want blame. “Pleased to meet you.” No wonder Sophia wasn’t interested in James or Henry—she had an officer on her hook. Military life probably seemed a good fit, what with her father being in the cavalry and her wandering nature.

  “Lt. Higgins, the Brulé purloined all the Ponca horses. If you happen to come across any extras in your line of work, I would appreciate if you would send them our way.”

  The officer brayed like a donkey, all open mouth and big teeth. “Oh, Miss Makinoff. You are a delight. Horses are near as scarce as ladies around here.”

  “Well, I know you are frightfully busy, so I shall let you go.”

  Will suppressed a grin. She’d just sent him off with a polite boot in the butt, and he didn’t even know it. Sophia turned toward the river where a half dozen men had pulled up boats and laid out stuff to sell on blankets. “Who might those be?” she asked Will.

  “From the town.”

  “Perhaps I can be of some use.”

  “A verse in Proverbs warns about meddling.”

  “The Bible warns against usury, admonishes us to look out for widows and orphans, and to work for justice.”

  “This is a small tribe. We don’t get many traders through here. They have to make a living too.”

  “If you had heard the children—”

  “I did. And I know the traders turn into Indian skinners when we aren’t looking.”

  She headed for the riverfront, a full head of steam ready to blow.

  Will hurried to keep up with her. If she drove the Niobrara merchants off, James would have a hard time convincing the farther-away Yankton storekeepers to fill their place. They were busy with the Sioux; they didn’t need the Poncas’ trade. Besides, the Poncas were angry enough without Sophia setting off this powder keg.

  “Lady and gentleman.” Reynaud tried to block her way. This time he’d misspelled “Dakota” on a walking stick.

  Sophia ignored him and marched up to the first merchant, from the general store in town. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  He spit, then stepped forward to shake her hand. “Well, what do we got here? Such a pretty girl in this ugly place.”

  She stepped back. “I am Miss Makinoff, teacher at the Ponca Agency school.” She seemed to grow taller as she spoke, managing to look down her nose at a man who towered over her by a foot.

  “Well, how de do? I’m Mercer. Supposing you got paid today. How much they give you to learn them Injuns?”

  “What do you have in the way of dry goods?”

  “Here’s a pretty bit of ribbon for a pretty girl. Or maybe you like some beads. Shiny beads.”

  “Do you have any wool, denim, canvas?”

  He pointed east. “Over to my store, sure. Or I could bring it to you tomorrow. What color?”

  Sophia narrowed her gaze. “Thank you, but quality is more important than color, Mr. Mercer.”

  The man was too dense to realize he’d been insulted.

  Sophia turned her attention to the next boat. “Good afternoon. What is in your jug?”

  The beanpole looked for rescue. Will shook his head. The shifty eyes went back to Sophia. “Molasses.”

  She reached out. “May I?” It was a command, not a request.

  “Well, I’d . . . You see . . .”

  Over her shoulder, Sophia said, “Please signal the lieutenant. I believe we have found a candidate for his penitentiary.”

  “What?” The man paled and backed up.

  “No jail for him. Selling whiskey to Indians is a hanging offense.” Will hadn’t read the law, but figured to scare the guy.

  “I best be getting home.” The moonshiner pushed his boat into the current.

  “Wait! Where you going, Zeb?” Another white guy ran out from behind the church, carrying two jugs. “They’re just starting to hand out the money!”

  “Got the gallows ready.” Will rocked back on his heels. “It’s not much more trouble to hang two.”

  The accomplice double-timed it to the boat, threw the jugs in, then they rowed away.

  Sophia shook her head. “He will set up shop at one of the other villages.”

  “Probably.”

  “So has anyone ever been convicted of selling liquor to the Indians?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Sophia muttered in one of her many languages, then marched off to her soldier.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The school day had finally ended without any additions to the enrollment. Joseph was busy washing the blackboard. Marguerite swept the floor, and Rosalie checked the windows. Sophia exhaled a sigh of relief. All ready for tomorrow. When her helpers were finished, Sophia gathered the lunch pails, locked the school, and waved good-bye. “See you Monday!”

  James had walked her to school, but he had not shown up this afternoon. Had there been a mention of who was to escort her back to the house? Perhaps with the threat of the Brulé gone, she might walk by herself. She set out at a brisk pace through a shower of bright-yellow cottonwood leaves. The day was unusually quiet, without so much as the sound of insects or birdsong.

  Two white men stepped out of the brush—the liquor runners from yesterday. “We don’t take kindly to anyone poking her nose into our business.”

  “No, we don’t,” said the second, brandishing an oar.

  Sophia chilled. The school was too far behind her, and the men stood between her and the village. She could not outrun them. She pressed her hand to her empty pocket. Why had she left her pistol in her room? “And I do not think much of those who tempt Indians with spirits. These people do not have enough money for necessities. They cannot afford to waste it on whiskey.”

  The skinny one unraveled a whip and snapped it. “And what right do you have to tell them whether they can or can’t? Who are you to say what’s right and wrong?”

  A phrase surfaced from her morning prayers: Defend me from assaults. Or was it last night’s evening prayer? Whichever it was, she needed it answered now.

  “Who am I?” she said. “I am the teacher with a classroom full of students who go barefoot and hungry because you took their money.”

  “We didn’t take it.” The liquor dealer snapped the whip. “We provide a service. So they won’t have to cross the river.”

  “‘Sides that,” the second one said, “Injuns don’t never wear shoes.” He slapped the oar against his palm.

  Sophia remembered: she had a knife in one of the lunch pails, used for dividing apples. If she could just keep them talking, she might have a chance to find it. “Indians must wear shoes,” she said. “Since the emigrants arrived, there is no longer any game to hunt—for food or moccasins.”

  “Well, they’ll just have to get off their lazy butts, stop waiting for the government to feed them, and work like the rest of us.”

  “Work?” She slid her hand into the first pail. Empty. “Your heinous misdeeds cannot be legitimized nor glorified by calling them work.”

  “You some kind of Indian lover? Maybe you need some loving from
your own kind.” He reached for the buttons on his pants.

  The second pail was empty as well. “I see none of my kind around here. Merely two examples of vermin who must have crawled out from beneath rocks. Certainly not anyone who was raised in a loving family by a Christian mother—”

  “Don’t you go talking against my ma!” The one with the oar tightened his grip on his weapon.

  Sophia searched the third pail. “What would she say about your behavior, about your descent into crime?”

  “Hey, a man’s got to make a living.”

  The well-exercised corner of her eye searched for a stick or a rock but found neither. “You have made my point. If you were a man, you would be making a living instead of taking it from others.” Was someone coming along the path?

  “Oh yeah?” The whip snapped. “Well, our preacher don’t think we’re doing wrong. He stops by for a nip now and again.”

  “He know you’re threatening a missionary?” Will asked from behind them. “Don’t turn around. Drop your weapons and put your hands on your head. Quick, or your preacher will be conducting your funerals.”

  “Can’t take two of us.” They swung around but met fists from Will and Brown Eagle. The skinny one crumpled onto his back and the oar-wielder hit his knees. Brown Eagle used the whip to tie their hands behind them.

  Will poked them with the oar. “Stand up. I’m not wasting my strength carrying you two back to the Agency.”

  “You broke my nose.” The oar-wielder sniffed. Blood ran down the front of his shirt. “You going to hang us?”

  “Yes, but first you’re going to have a good long listen to Reverend Granville. It doesn’t sound like your preacher does his job real well.”

  He turned to Sophia. “You all right?”

  “Of course,” Sophia whispered. She was having a bit of difficulty getting a full breath of air. “And you are not going to hang them, because I intend to shoot them first. Along with whomever was supposed to be my escort.”

  “That would be James. He was detained at Point Village.” Will scowled. “I didn’t realize until I got back to the house. I’m sorry.”

  Will and Brown Eagle marched the scoundrels to the Agency, aided by Zlata, who growled and snapped at their heels. They shackled the lawbreakers to empty stalls in the stable.

  Sophia staggered into the agency house.

  “You poor dear.” Nettie hugged Sophia. “You must have been out of your mind with fear.”

  “Out of my mind, yes.” Legs shaking, she sank into the nearest chair. Now that the threat was behind her, she returned to her senses. “What kind of Christian calls someone a vermin and threatens to shoot him?”

  Will stopped at the spring and dunked his head into the water. He didn’t know who to be mad at first. Those two skunks for attacking Sophia. The government for not keeping them locked away when they were caught peddling whiskey last summer. James for being late. Sophia for thinking a gun would have saved her.

  Or, most of all, himself.

  He’d been trying to avoid Sophia to keep his heart safe. So he hadn’t obeyed God’s prompting to check on her earlier.

  Brown Eagle yanked him up by his shoulders. “If you drown, the water will taste bad.”

  Will gasped a breath. Then he’d have another reason to be mad.

  Brown Eagle looked him up and down. “God is big. Big to love. Big to forgive.”

  Forgive the whiskey sellers? Forgive himself? Will resisted the idea. But God forgave those who crucified Him.

  All right, he’d forgive. Someday. Meanwhile, he’d keep guarding Sophia and trust God to guard his heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sophia glanced outside. Will sat on the stump, wrists resting on his bent knees, as he had every afternoon since she had been accosted. She consulted her watch: ten minutes to four. Right on time.

  The scoundrels who attacked her had been delivered to Fort Randall; her safety was no longer in doubt. And while she appreciated Will’s company, she sensed a new reserve in him. She did not blame him for withdrawing. She had behaved despicably. He could not be more upset with her than she was with herself.

  The children finished their lessons and duties, then Sophia dismissed them. Will called each child by name. He knew them all, what their Indian parents called them as well as the name Henry had assigned to them.

  Sophia locked the door. “Good afternoon, Will.”

  He nodded. “The school needs a vestibule.”

  An uncommon word, although perhaps carpenters were more familiar with terms having to do with parts of buildings. “Yes, a vestibule would help keep the snow and cold out. And give us a place to keep firewood.” She pulled her shawl over her head. The wind rippled through the tawny grass. A formation of geese flew high above them, headed south. Every northbound steamboat might be the last.

  “Need to cut some wood.”

  “The students bring sticks, but it will not be enough.” She pointed to the bluffs. “All these stumps, but no stacks of wood. Was it used to construct houses?”

  “Trees were cut for firewood and sold to the steamboats. Most were cottonwood, which warps too much to be any use in building.” He nodded at the bluffs. “The tribe used the money to buy the farming equipment the government was supposed to provide: reapers, mowers, hay rakes, plows.”

  “A worthy purchase, but what will they use to heat with?”

  “Now that the Brulé are no longer a threat, we can cut timber farther away from the Agency.”

  “Using only those cart horses and the wagon?”

  “They’ll make a raft and float it down. In winter, a sled.”

  Zlata and her puppies greeted them at the edge of the village. Baby Timothy lay on a blanket and shook a noisy bean pod, while Julia dug potatoes in her garden. Moon Hawk ground corn as White Buffalo Girl pulled herself to standing on the pergola’s post. Both women waved.

  “I am trying to follow your advice.”

  Will shook his head. “What advice? I don’t generally give advice to anyone, especially you.”

  “You told me to ignore the rushing water.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The day we climbed the waterfall, you told me to ignore the rushing water. Ignore everything that tries to pull you under or knock your feet out, or obscures your view. Plant your feet on solid rock. I try to do so with my students. Ignore all the other problems and focus on them.”

  “You keep talking like that, my head will swell.” He scuffed through a pile of yellow leaves.

  “It is a wise lesson, the only one I have learned here that makes any sense. Thank you.”

  His jaw moved as if chewing his words into order. Then his brown eyes focused on her. “Sophia, this is a dangerous place. To body and soul. Seems like we’re all battling demons of one sort or another.” He studied the hills, making her wonder what demons he battled. “It’s good to have someone praying for you. Maybe your church back in New York?”

  With her abrupt departure, she had not had time to request prayers. “I do not know. Perhaps . . . the Mission Board?” Surely it was their obligation to pray for her.

  “I’ll ask my home church.” Will opened the door for her.

  The staff stood around a new crate. “Newspapers came.” James pointed to the stack on the table.

  “Excellent. I can keep my students apprised of the events of the day.” Sophia flipped through them. The Niobrara Pioneer, Yankton Dakotaian, and Sioux City Journal. None from New York or even Chicago. Enlightenment would be delayed once again.

  Will opened the crate with a few easy pops of his crowbar. The contents included three bolts of coarse wool and two dozen pairs of brogans in a large size.

  “This is all?” Sophia asked. “For seven hundred people?”

  “Seven hundred seventy.” James propped his arm over the window and stared out.

  Sophia lifted the wool and held it in front of the lantern. “As coarse as burlap and nearly as itchy. We need muslin and flannel
.” Hot anger flashed through her. “It is wrong that these people should have so little. Wealthy women in New York City change clothes five times a day: a morning gown, a visiting dress, a carriage dress, a walking dress, an evening gown. Sixteen to twenty yards of fabric for each, not counting petticoats, balayeuses, paletots, pelisses. And each piece covered in embroidery, lace, pearls—”

  In spite of her best effort, the tears welled up. New York’s wealthy did not care about the poor on their own doorstep, in the tenements of the Lower East Side. How could Sophia make them care about people they had never seen, people more than a thousand miles away?

  “I recognize this bolt.” Nettie cut a corner off. “Normally with loose-woven fabric, I wash it in hot water to felt it. Ends up fewer yards, but it’s tightened into something useful. But with this . . .” She poured an inch of water from the kettle into a pie pan, then added the scrap. The fabric dissolved and turned the water cloudy.

  “Useless.” Black dye streaked Sophia’s hands. “Worse than useless.”

  “The rest seem higher quality.” The other scraps passed Nettie’s test. She held up a length to her round body. “None of the Ponca women has any extra padding. With straight skirts, no gathers or pleats, six yards might make a dress.”

  “If they had blouses, we could make sarafans . . . What is the English word? Pinafore? Jumper?”

  “That’s a good idea.” Nettie folded the fabric. “Cover their legs. Use a shawl or blanket for their arms.”

  “I estimate they have only six weeks’ provisions.” James frowned at the neighbors’ gardens. A few weeks ago a cow had broken through Eloise’s willow fence and trampled her crop of squash. “They’re slaughtering their livestock and eating next year’s seed.”

  “Perhaps the Mission Board should have sent a farmer instead of a teacher.”

  The agent shook his head. “The agency farmer was supposed to teach modern techniques, like using a plow instead of a buffalo scapula. Unfortunately the Indian Office never sent the plows.”

  Sophia strode past the stove. “Can more food be purchased?”