Full Circle

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Are you saying you do care about Anita?”

  He reddened at the question. “I’m not saying anything right now. I just want you to understand why a man in my position has to be cautious in his decisions.” He put his hands on his hips, his gaze moving over her with a rather sad look in his eyes. “You must know I have been very attracted to you.” He looked away then, his face red. “It embarrasses me to admit it, but with all this talk about Anita…” He sighed. “It is obvious to me that you and I are as different as night and day in our philosophy toward life, that it would be useless to pursue my feelings because it could never work between us. And I know you have special feelings for Black Hawk.” He turned to meet her eyes again. “That will lead to disaster, Miss Gibbons.”

  Evelyn held his gaze. “Reverend, there are things you don’t know. When the time is right, I will explain them to you. I know that my interest in Black Hawk is unusual and puts my reputation and job at great risk. I am not saying I… have special feelings for the man. At the moment I simply feel he is the key to helping a lot of these Sioux change, and I will do anything required to win their trust and get their children to school. Others can think what they like. I have never cared much one way or another. People are going to think what they want no matter what I do, and I am too busy to be concerned about their petty jealousies and judgments.”

  Phillips shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re terribly foolish, or very wise, Miss Gibbons. I do know you are very brave. I will give you that.”

  She smiled softly. “Thank you, Reverend. I—”

  The door to the church burst open, and Dancing Eagle, who had driven Evelyn to the reservation in his wagon that first day she got off the train, walked much more quickly than usual on his old legs, hurrying to the front of the church, his eyes showing near terror. “Big trouble, Reverend,” he said.

  Evelyn’s heart tightened, and the reverend frowned in concern. “What is it, Dancing Eagle?”

  “Sickness, all over the reservation. The Army doctor says he thinks it is cholera! He thinks it came from the circus people, or maybe the animals and all the flies they brought. Many are already very sick. One has died!”

  “Dear God,” Evelyn whispered.

  “Most of the sick have been taken to the agency, and Agent McLaughlin has sent for doctors from other forts to come and help. He says if things get worse, they will need the school and the church for the sick ones.”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” the reverend answered. He looked at Evelyn. “Go and get Janine and Anita. We’ll take the wagon to the agency and see what we can do to help.”

  “Yes, right away!” Evelyn hurried out, a lump rising in her throat at the thought of what this could mean. White man’s diseases had obliterated some tribes, desecrated many of the Plains tribes by the thousands. This could be a disaster for the agency, for the Sioux. She worried about Black Hawk. What if he or Little Fox or both got sick out there where no one even knew how to find them?

  She hurried to Janine’s cabin and pounded on the door. “Janine! Hurry! We need to go to the agency. Some kind of sickness—”

  Janine opened the door, terror in her own eyes. “I know,” she said quietly. “Anita has it, too. She’s terribly sick, Evy. I don’t dare leave her.”

  Evelyn rushed past her into the house to where Anita lay on her cot, bathed in perspiration and looking too pale. Evelyn knelt beside her. “Have faith, Anita. We will get you through this. I need you, remember? Who will help me teach?”

  The girl managed a weak smile, but Evelyn could see she was already wanting to give up the fight. Just then the reverend came running up onto the porch of the cabin and inside the still-open door. “Miss Gibbons, we have to hurry.” Deep concern moved into his eyes when he saw Evelyn bent over Anita.

  “Anita already has the sickness,” Evelyn told the man. “I think I should stay here with her. Janine and I can be here for any who come to the church and school for help.” She was surprised but pleased to see sudden tears in Phillips’s eyes when he saw Anita looking so horribly close to death. The man just nodded in reply, and he kept his eyes on Anita’s loving gaze.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, apparently directing the words at Anita in reassurance that he cared. “I’m sorry, Anita.”

  He turned and left, and as soon as his wagon clattered away, Anita smiled more, in spite of the horrible cramping and vomiting she had experienced over the last two hours. Everything hurt, but for the moment it didn’t matter. For the first time she had seen concern, maybe even love, in Reverend Phillips’s eyes.

  Seventeen

  Seth Bridges met the riverboat at Deer Point, a small peninsula where the Missouri and White rivers met, and where he had been told in the letter from Luke Smith in Omaha he should be in the afternoon on this date. He was actually glad for the cholera epidemic. It diverted the attention of the agency and Army both, and he figured that as long as he stayed away from contact with any Indians on this trip, he shouldn’t have to worry about catching the horrid disease from any of them.

  Besides, he had no choice but to take this chance. If he waited he would miss his river connection. He had brought a load of corn, as directed which he would use as a cover. Anyone who stopped him would be told that he was delivering corn to a steamboat for shipment to a buyer in Omaha, in trade for grain and oats for his animals. In reality, Luke Smith and Marty Able would meet him at the river, and the sacks of grain would be stuffed with bottles of whiskey to be handed out however he could get them to the Sioux.

  Whiskey smugglers had been filtering onto the reservation unimpeded since the cholera had kept soldiers confined to Fort Yates. There could not be a better time to do his own dealing, and he was not going to let the cholera scare keep him from his own chance to make some good money and get hold of some whiskey for himself before it was hard to come by again.

  Luke and Marty refused to come onto the reservation because of the cholera, so they had made these arrangements for him to meet them at the river. He would hide the whiskey at his farm, and he would be well paid for it. Off-reservation merchants were willing to give just about anything to keep the Indians drunk, which made it easier for them to buy up Indian land, especially along the rivers, land they knew would be the most valuable some day for farming and for port cities.

  Seth watched the steamboat, called Jessie Lee, float to the bank and the men jump off to pull it closer with ropes. He waved at Luke and Marty as more men lowered a loading ramp, then came to the wagon to begin unloading the corn. Others came carrying huge gunny sacks, sacks Seth knew were filled with more than just grain.

  “You sure there won’t be any trouble?” Luke asked as Seth came on board.

  “Not with the cholera goin’ around. Besides, you know I’ve got connections. Sergeant Desmond is screwin’ my daughter now. He knows I’ll cut him off if he tries to stop me.”

  Both Luke and Marty laughed. “Holdin’ the girl’s ass over his head, are you?” Marty remarked. “I’ll have to see about that once the cholera scare is over. You’ve talked before about that oldest daughter of yours. You ought to bring her along next time.”

  “I’ll think on it,” Seth answered. “Right now it’s best they don’t know anything about this.”

  Luke shouted some orders to the men loading the grain and whiskey. He turned to Seth. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the whole damn Sioux nation will die of the cholera. Then we can all come in here and get this land without any argument and without havin’ to sneak around like this.”

  All three men laughed at the remark, and Seth slugged down a gulp of whiskey from a bottle he had opened. “Just so’s I always have a supply of whiskey for myself,” he answered. “If we ever do get hold of this land, maybe I’ll open a tavern and whorehouse, use my two girls to start with.”

  “There’s an idea,” Marty said with a grin.

  All three men watched the workers trade corn for feed until the las
t bag was finally loaded onto Seth’s wagon. Luke took a wad of bills out of his pants pocket “I’m to pay you something extra besides the whiskey and grain.”

  “That’s the agreement,” Seth answered with a grin. “Them fancy merchants down in Omaha can afford it. Just so’s it’s in small bills and such. People would suspect if I went handin’ out big amounts of money at the tradin’ post.”

  Luke laughed lightly, counting out two hundred dollars in coins and various bills. “You make sure that whiskey gets where it’s supposed to go, and don’t go drinkin’ it all yourself,” he warned with a chuckle. “There will be some land agents coming here as soon as the cholera epidemic seems to be over. Don’t dish out all the whiskey till you hear they’re coming. The men we work for want the Sioux to be good and drunk while they’re here. The agency can’t stop the buyers from talking to the Indians. They have a legal right.”

  “I get the message.” Seth licked his lips at the sight of the money. Two hundred dollars! He stuffed it into a drawstring bag be had brought along. “See you next month,” he told Luke. “I’ll have a load of squash for you.” He walked down the loading ramp and climbed up into the wagon seat, then drank some more whiskey before slapping the reins on the rumps of his sorry-looking horses. He departed, hauling his load of “grain.” All he had to do now was get word to Big Belly that he had whiskey to trade for blankets, clothing, food, and other government rations the Indians were willing to trade for the firewater. In turn, he could take those supplies on his next trip to the riverboat and sell them, and they in turn would be shipped to merchants in Omaha to sell to the public. He would make a double profit, at the expense of the government. All he had to do was keep from being caught, and as long as Sergeant Desmond enjoyed sharing Lucille’s bed, that was not likely to happen. Besides, the sergeant had his own neck to protect.

  My dear father, Evelyn wrote, In my last letter to you I told you of the wonderful progress we were making. All that has changed now. Cholera has visited the reservation with its evil greeting, and many have already died. So far I am fine, only very tired from working night and day with Reverend Phillips and Janine, nursing the sick. One Army doctor cannot possibly keep up with an entire reservation, and it is left to the rest of us to do what we can.

  I fear all progress I have made winning the trust of these people has been erased, for the Indians feel we have brought this terrible plague upon them by bringing a circus from the white man’s world to the reservation. Some think we planned for this to happen! Now I am afraid the few families who had agreed to send children to school will never send them back.

  All night we see fires everywhere, a tipi burning here, clothing there, all belongings of the dead, being burned to help prevent the spread of the disease. Since the sickness seems to be confined to the areas between the Cheyenne and White rivers, we are quarantined from the rest of the reservation and from Fort Yates. The soldiers in turn will not leave the fort to perform their regular duties because they refuse to come to this part of the reservation, and therefore whiskey smugglers, who love the money that is paid to them by outsiders more than they fear the cholera, are enjoying complete freedom. I have seen frightened Indians drinking rotten alcohol, thinking it will help ease their fears and make them feel happy. Some even believe that if they stay drunk, they won’t get sick.

  Please pray for our situation here, and pray for me and the loss of someone who had become a dear friend, Anita Wolf. She died four days ago.

  The statement brought tears to Evelyn’s eyes, and she had to stop writing for a moment. She still could not believe the beautiful, giving Anita had died. Why did God take sweet people like her, and let people like Sergeant Desmond live? Poor Reverend Phillips had lost his composure when speaking over Anita’s grave. He had waited too long, realized too late that he had foolishly ignored the love Anita had to offer him; realized too late that he could have loved her.

  Also dead was Otter Woman. Evelyn had never seen her again after their talk the day of the circus. Big Belly had also succumbed to the disease, and his two children now lived with his brother, Dancing Cloud. Falling Eagle’s ten-year-old son, Fast Arrow, was also dead. No longer would he sit in the little school playing with the counting beads. Bill Doogan’s Sioux wife had died, as had Red Foot Woman, whose many children were now under the care of her young sister, Yellow Sky, and their shared husband, White Eagle.

  So many gone… forty so far. Many more lay in misery with the terrible cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting. Some had lived through it and were recovering, but only the strongest. Evelyn fretted over the fact that she would have to start winning the trust of these people all over again once the disease had abated; and since she had been so busy, there had not been a chance to do anything more about Lucille and Katy Bridges, who were not allowed to step foot beyond their property line because of the cholera.

  Anita was such a sweet person, she continued. She was a full-blood Sioux woman, and had been educated at Genoa Indian School and was very bright. She helped me teach the little ones, and was one of those who cherished and sometimes practiced her Sioux religion and customs, but understood that things have changed and the Sioux must adjust, as she had done, although most of her own people ostracized her for it.

  Unlike most of the Indians in Indian Territory, Father, the Sioux continue to cling to the old ways and remain quite steadfast in refusing to even consider the white man’s religion and education. As you and Mother did years ago, I have tried to make them understand that they do not need to forget old beliefs or their own language and dress and customs. My theories and methods of teaching do not stand well with Agent McLaughlin or with Mission Services, but you of all people understand the problems I face. I do not need to spell them out.

  It is all so sad, Father, and although I know you grew tired of such remote places and the long struggle, I wish that you could come here and help. We are short one mission couple now. You would never believe the reason. Reverend Greggory Evans’s wife ran off with the manager of a circus! She has not been heard from for over two weeks now, and Reverend Evans, who came here to help tend to the sick, came down with the cholera himself and died. Now the Oahe Mission needs another preacher, someone who can also teach. Mission Services has promised to send someone, but volunteers are appreciated.

  Evelyn put down her pen. Did Beverly Evans know or care that her husband was dead? The sad part was that Greggory Evans had not once mentioned her name when he came to help. He had seemed totally unaffected by his wife’s departure, and even in the throes of death he did not ask for her. It was as though she had never existed for him. By now Beverly was at Cheyenne, perhaps on her way someplace even farther away. There had been no letter, no way to contact her to let her know she was a widow now, free to marry someone else without getting a divorce… if, indeed, Herbert True intended to marry her at all.

  She decided not to tell her father about her own injury. He would be worried enough about the cholera epidemic. She was mostly healed now, and Otter Woman was no longer a threat. She rose from her desk, everything aching from weariness. Over the past two weeks she had slept an average of three hours a night. Reverend Phillips had insisted she go to her cabin and get some rest, but even when she did lie down, sleep would not come. There had been too much loss. She had seen too much horror and misery, and she was worried about Black Hawk and Little Fox. She had at least managed to bathe and change her clothes, although she wore her plainest, oldest dresses now because of the heat and the hard work of cleaning up human filth. A fire was kept burning night and day in front of the school-house, where bedclothes and the garments of those who had died were quickly burned.

  She looked into the mirror at a pale, haggard face, deep circles under her eyes. She wore her hair twisted into a bun, the simplest way when there was work to do. She prayed the disease was finally beating itself out. Every day there were fewer who got sick, and those who had lived through the entire ordeal were apparently out of danger. The
overpowering heat of summer had finally abated, and late September had brought pleasant days and cool nights.

  She splashed water on her face and toweled it off, deciding to eat something before finishing her letter and going back to the school to help Janine and John. She still felt the sting of Anita’s loss, would miss her terribly; and she wondered how she was going to get children back to school without Anita’s help.

  She was headed for the bread box when she heard a horse ride up close to the cabin. Before she could get to a window to see who it was, someone pounded on her door. She quickly opened it to see Black Hawk standing there, holding Little Fox in his arms. His eyes betrayed his terror.

  “I did not know where else to take him,” he said, agony in his voice.

  “Dear God!” Evelyn stepped aside, her joy at seeing Black Hawk again, alive and well, spoiled by the fact that Little Fox had apparently contracted the sickness. “Bring him in and lay him on my bed.” She directed Black Hawk to her bedroom, where she pulled back the bedcovers. The man gently laid his son on the cotton sheets, and Little Fox groaned. Evelyn could see he was much thinner, knew he was probably terribly dehydrated. Death usually came when the patient was almost drained of body fluids. “We have to get some water into him.”

  “He will only spit it up,” Black Hawk told her.

  “We have to try. The only hope of salvation is keeping water or hot broth in them and working to keep the fever down.” Evelyn hurried out and returned with a cup of still-warm water. “This has been boiled. We have learned that boiling water kills whatever germs might be lurking in it. When there is a lot of sickness like this, it especially helps to boil the water. Hold him up a little and I’ll try to get some into him.”