After breakfast with A Company, Winslow waited for an hour, then walked toward the adjutant’s office. He entered and found Tom Custer talking with Cooke, the lieutenant he’d met the day before. “The general wants to see you before you take the oath,” Custer nodded, and led the way across the parade ground to the line of officers’ houses. The Custers lived in the middle of the row of seven, in a roomy two-story house with an inviting veranda. They were met at the front door by a petite woman. “This is Mr. Winslow,” Tom Custer said. “The general wants to speak with him.”
“He’s in the study, Tom.”
The captain led the way. Custer was sitting at a table littered with books and papers, but jumped to his feet to greet the men. “Mr. Winslow? Glad to see you. Tom, I told Weir you’d see him about that trip to the Yellowstone.” Then he waited until the captain left. Turning to Winslow he invited him to sit down. He himself paced the floor restlessly as he talked, filled with energy that almost crackled. Tom had seen his photographs, but the art of photography was young, requiring the subject to remain absolutely still. Custer looked rather ugly in most of these, but in person he was quite different. His long golden hair fell over his collar, and the sweeping tawny dragoon’s mustache sharpened the bony nose and accented the depth of eye sockets. There was a hungry look about him, a hawkish air that was intensified by the driving quality of his rapid speech.
“You’ve come with high recommendations, Winslow,” he nodded, his light blue eyes fastened on his guest. “I believe my brother has told you what I need?”
“Yes, General.”
“Can you do it?” Custer demanded abruptly. “If you can’t, say so now. After we’re in the field, it’ll be too late for me to replace you.”
“General, I know the country and I know Indians. I was a soldier in the Confederate Army for almost five years, so I know what discipline is. That part of the job I can do.” Winslow gave Custer the full impact of his gaze, emphasizing his words by speaking slowly. “But I have to tell you that I think the whole thing is a mistake.”
“In what way?” Custer demanded.
“We’ve made a treaty with the Sioux. If the government wants the Black Hills, they should pay a fair price for it.”
“True. That should have been done,” Custer said, studying Winslow more carefully. “I have said so many times. But it will not be done. The decision was not mine, but the responsibility is. Now, can you give me your full loyalty, knowing that you will be in battle against the Sioux?”
“Yes, sir, I can.”
Custer waited, but seemed pleased at the brevity of Winslow’s reply. “Very well, I think you’ll do. Now, tell me about the Black Hills, about the Sioux. Be specific and accurate.”
For the next half hour Winslow reported what he knew of the people and the geography of the country. Finally Custer nodded. “Fine! Very fine, Winslow. Go get yourself sworn in. You’ll have the rank of sergeant, as my brother told you. If you do well, you’ll be breveted as a second lieutenant.”
“Thank you, General.” Tom rose and returned to the adjutant’s office. He was impressed by Custer and hopeful that in the days to come he himself would prove to be of value to the Seventh.
Lieutenant Cooke was expecting him, and when Winslow told him that he passed muster with the commanding officer, the big officer swore him in. “You are now a sergeant in the Seventh Cavalry, attached to A Company,” Cooke said. He scribbled out a note and handed it to Winslow. “Sergeant Hines will show you around and get you outfitted.”
Winslow found Sergeant Hines working in his office. “I’m assigned to A Company, Sergeant,” he said, handing him the note.
Hines stared at it hard, then looked up. “A sergeant, is it? That’ll not go well with the men, Winslow.” But he rose and led the way to a room at the end of the building marked ORDERLY ROOM. “Granger, give this man an outfit.”
Winslow carried his supplies to the barracks and laid them out on the table: underwear, socks, field boots and garrison shoes, blue pants and blue blouse and two blue wool shirts, campaign hat, forage cap and dress helmet with plume, sabre and sabre sling, carbine with its sling, Colt revolver, Springfield carbine, ammunition, cartridge belt, canteen mess outfit, entrenching tools, saddlebags, housewife kit, bridle, lariat and hobbles and picket pin, a razor, a silvered mirror, a bar of soap, a comb, two blankets, a straw tick, a box of shoe polish and a dauber, an overcoat, a rubber poncho with a hole through the center, a pair of wool gloves, a bacon can, currycomb and brush, a pair of collar ornaments with crossed sabres, the regimental number seven above and the troop letter below and a set of sergeant’s stripes.
After inspecting his outfit, Tom said to Hines, who had just come out of his office, “I need to find someplace for my little girl.”
Hines nodded. “There’s a vacant shack on Suds Row. Not much, but it could be made livable. You can take that.”
“I’ll look at it,” Winslow replied. “Be back for my things as soon as I can.”
“You’d better speak to Captain Moylan,” Hines said. “It’s different having a sergeant living out of the barracks, but I’ll see that you get the house.”
“I’ll be coming in and out with the scouts at odd hours,” Winslow said. “This way I won’t be waking the men up.”
After getting directions to the house, he left the barracks and headed for Suds Row. Two women were washing clothes outside, and when he asked about the house, one of them pointed to a small structure at the end of the line. When he left, the woman grinned broadly at the other, saying, “Ain’t he a dandy feller, Maude? What’d you do if he came tapping at your door some night when Al was out with the troop on a patrol?” The other giggled knowingly.
Coming back from inspecting the shack, Tom stopped by the women. “My name’s Winslow. I’m going to need some help getting that place in shape for my daughter,” he said. “Be glad to pay whatever it would cost to get the job done.”
“Oh, we’ll take care of it,” the woman called Maude piped up. “Have it clean as a pin by late afternoon.” The two women watched him head back toward the main part of the fort, then fell to speculating about the new addition to the Seventh.
Winslow was aware of their interest, but it came as no surprise. An army post was a small world, and any addition was certain to become the object of intense curiosity. He would have to prove himself with the company, and that would not be done with words.
He found Eileen and Laurie outside and gave them his news. “I need to go to Bismarck and pick up some things for the cabin,” he said. “But first I’ve got to get a wagon to bring them back.”
“Oh, that’s no problem,” Eileen said at once. “The quartermaster lets me borrow one whenever I go to town. Perhaps I can help you with the curtains and things?”
“It’d be a kindness,” Tom said, flashing a smile.
The three of them spent the day in Bismarck, picking out furniture and other things needed for a house. They visited the few stores there, taking time out at noon to eat at a restaurant. Afterward, they drove back to the fort.
Winslow was pleased to discover that the two women had done an excellent job of cleaning the house. It was not large, only two rooms, the larger used for cooking, eating, and everything else except sleeping. The bedroom was reserved for Laurie. She was delighted with the small bed they’d found, so while Winslow put up the stove and arranged the outer room, she and Eileen worked on the smaller room and made the place look as cozy as they could.
Finally at five, Winslow said, “Time to eat. Tonight, I’m the cook.” He made pancakes, bacon, and some fried potatoes. They laughed a good deal at his efforts, but he said, “It’s my last hurrah, so eat and don’t make fun of the cook!”
Afterward, he and Laurie walked Eileen back to her house. They were laughing over something Laurie had said when suddenly Winslow halted as abruptly as if he’d slammed into a post.
“What’s wrong, Tom?” Eileen asked.
Winslow’s face had
grown hard, all traces of gentleness gone. He was staring at an officer who had come out of Custer’s house.
“That’s Lieutenant Grayson,” Eileen said. “Do you know him?”
Spencer Grayson was coming toward them, engrossed in conversation with a second lieutenant. He was smiling at something the other had said when he saw Winslow. The smile disappeared, replaced by a blank stare.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Eileen said and started to introduce Winslow, but he whirled and walked away, with Laurie running after him.
“Well, what’s that about?” the lieutenant with Grayson asked in surprise. “Who was that, Eileen?”
“His name is Tom Winslow,” she answered, watching the pair disappear. Then she looked at Grayson. “Do you know him, Spence?”
Grayson nodded slowly, “Yes, I know him.” Then he turned and walked away without another word, anger in the set of his shoulders.
“Well, the gentlemen are acquainted,” the lieutenant remarked. “But I don’t think they like each other.”
Eileen moved on to her house. The scene mystified her, but she knew intuitively neither man would discuss it. She had seen the rash anger wash across Tom’s face, a side of him she would never have suspected.
Winslow himself walked away from the encounter in white rage, forgetting Laurie, but snapped out of it when she asked, “Daddy . . .is something wrong?”
Winslow took a deep breath, forced himself to smile, and said quietly, “No, Laurie, nothing’s wrong.”
But after Laurie went to bed, he stood outside, staring across the space that separated Suds Row from the Officers’ Row. He had been excited about his new position, convinced that he had done the right thing. Now he knew that nothing would be right—not as long as Spence Grayson was on the earth!
CHAPTER NINE
A Leap of Faith
On Wednesday morning, Faith awoke with a strong determination to find a place of her own. She had gone to bed wondering if there was an area of pride in her that needed to be mortified. For hours she had wrestled with her own spirit and God without resolving the matter, but when she awakened, she found her confusion replaced by certainty.
As she dressed and brushed her hair, she thought of the events of the past few days. She lived with the Crenshaws in a comfortable white frame house with three bedrooms, and because the couple had no children, there was plenty of room for guests. Reverend Crenshaw had taken it for granted that Faith would stay with them, but from the beginning she had sensed that Mrs. Crenshaw was not too happy about the arrangement. It was not that she openly opposed the matter, for she was agreeable—outwardly.
Faith had had her first hint of the problem on Monday when Ada Crenshaw was asked to visit one of the church members who was ill. Mr. Crenshaw was gone, so as she left, she said to Faith, “Pastor Crenshaw will be back this afternoon. You can tell him I’ll be home by four o’clock.”
“Of course. And I’d like to do some of the cleaning, Mrs. Crenshaw.”
“Oh, it’s all taken care of, Miss Jamison.” As she uttered those words, a frown creased her forehead as if something unpleasant had occurred to her, but she said only, “You didn’t come all the way to Dakota to clean houses. I suggest you spend the afternoon with God.”
The manner in which the woman had spoken was distinctively unpleasant—at least to Faith. Not that what she said was wrong, but her tone carried a rebuke, as if Faith were so far from Christian maturity that she needed to repent or go back East.
But Faith had merely agreed. “That’s always a good thing to do, isn’t it?”
However, she had not taken the woman’s suggestion, but had wandered the streets of Bismarck, stopping to visit several of the businessmen she had met at church the previous day. They were surprised to see her, but pleased, especially Nick Owens, chairman of the missions committee, a man about thirty, who owned a large hardware store. He had left his assistant in charge of the store while Owens himself escorted her around town, introducing her to many of the other merchants.
“I’m glad you did this, Miss Jamison,” he said when they returned to his store. “We’ll get support for the work from some of the men you met today.” He was happily married, with two children, but had not lost his ability to appreciate a fine-looking woman. Faith’s auburn hair was glossy in the afternoon sunlight, and the pearl-gray dress with white lace trim made her look charming. There was so much zest and enthusiasm about her, Owens decided, that most men would take a second look.
“Thank you for taking me around,” Faith smiled, and thrust her hand out like a man. “I’m anxious to get to the mission. So far the only Indians I’ve seen have been the ones here in town.”
“Well, they’re a strange people,” Owens nodded. “Very spiritual people.”
Faith looked at him with surprise. “You mean the ones who are Christians?”
“No, I don’t mean that,” he said, and tried to explain it to her, his homely face serious. “White people sort of put God in a box. When they need Him, they open the lid and invite God to come out. When they don’t need Him—at least when they think they don’t—they keep the lid on, never giving Him much thought.”
“What an odd way to put it!”
“It’s true enough, isn’t it?” he shrugged. “But you won’t find it that way with the Indians. They live in a world that is full of gods. None of them the true God, of course, but the Indians don’t know that. They’re very conscious that the gods are there—and I don’t mean in a box. Their gods are in a tree, in the bear they kill—so much so that they pray to the bear before they kill him, asking his pardon.”
“Is that actually true, Mr. Owens?”
“Oh, sure. You’ll find this out for yourself, Miss Jamison. You won’t have any trouble convincing the Indians there’s a God. They know that better than most white people. The trouble comes when you present Jesus Christ to them as the only true God.”
Faith was deeply interested in what the merchant was saying—so interested that she was totally unaware of the glances they were getting as they stood in front of his store. She had that habit, or ability, as it were, to shut everything out of her mind except the thing at hand.
“I never thought of that,” she admitted. “I suppose they want to see some sort of evidence that Jesus is strong—stronger than their gods?”
He laughed. “You’re pretty sharp, Miss Jamison—or should I call you Reverend Jamison?”
“Please don’t!” Faith exclaimed. “I like first names best, so let’s make it Faith and Nick—at least when we’re alone.”
Owens was surprised and pleased. “That’s the way I like it,” he admitted, “but a man is never sure what a woman thinks.”
“Just try to forget I’m a woman, Nick,” Faith urged. “The Scripture says in Christ there’s neither male nor female.”
Owens shook his head. “That may be fine theology, Faith, but it won’t work here in the West. Too many woman-hungry men. You’ll discover that soon enough, if you haven’t already. Show your face at the fort and there’ll be gallant young officers right at your heels!”
Faith laughed at his warning. “Then I’d better stay away from them, Nick.”
“They won’t let you do that.”
Faith had left him, pleased with her day. When she arrived at the parsonage, the pastor was there. As she entered the house, he came out of the study, asking, “Sister, do you know where Mrs. Crenshaw is?”
“Oh, she went over to a family named Judson. Mrs. Judson’s sick and she needed someone to take care of the children.”
“Perhaps I’d better go myself.”
“Your wife said she’d be home by four.”
“Oh? Well, in that case I can catch up on my work.”
He returned to his study, and Faith changed clothes, then went to the kitchen. She hesitated, but decided to start the evening meal anyway. Mrs. Crenshaw had mentioned what she intended to prepare, so Faith plunged in. As she went about the kitchen, she sang to herself, happy a
nd content. She felt a new sense of freedom and realized that it was because she had cast off old ties—the past was behind her, but the future, hard as it might be, was a challenge that stirred her.
Four o’clock came, but no Mrs. Crenshaw. Faith kept the food warm, but at five, she went to the study. “Pastor,” she said, “the meal is ready. Should I put it in the oven and wait for Mrs. Crenshaw?”
Crenshaw pulled out his large gold watch, studied it, then said, “She’ll probably be home soon. We may as well go ahead.” Rising from his chair, he walked with her to the dining room, and ten minutes later they began the meal.
It was a pleasant time as he shared about the work among the Indians. Faith told him of her visit to town, of meeting the businessmen, and then what Nick Owens had said about the Indians. Crenshaw was a good listener, and his attitude encouraged Faith to speak more openly than she had with Owens. The time went by so fast that both of them were startled when Ada Crenshaw walked in. Neither of them had heard the front door close, so engrossed were they in conversation. “Why, Ada—” Mr. Crenshaw said, rising to his feet and pulling a chair out for her.
He seemed rattled, Faith noticed. Her eyes flashed to Ada’s frowning countenance. Why, she’s jealous of her husband! she thought, astonished at the very idea. But she quickly discovered she was not mistaken, for after a most unpleasant half hour, Mr. Crenshaw fled to his study, flushed and embarrassed at his wife’s actions. He had tried to converse with her, but she only nibbled at the food and gave him short, cryptic answers.
“Miss Jamison,” Ada said when the study door closed, “I don’t want to seem critical, but do you think your behavior is wise?”
“My behavior, Mrs. Crenshaw?”
Mrs. Crenshaw drew her thin frame up stiffly, her lips compressed so tightly that her words seemed to escape only with difficulty. “You’re very young and inexperienced in the work, Miss Jamison, but you must learn to observe certain . . .formalities.”
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