Edge of the Wilderness

Fifteen


He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker: but he that honoureth him hath mercy on the poor.

—Proverbs 14:31

Simon sat back in the dust, holding the starving Dakota woman in his arms. He and Elliot had been crossing to the agent’s office to arrange for distribution of their supplies when they noticed the woman weaving back and forth across the trail where a company of mounted soldiers had just passed. She would stoop over, picking at the dust, tuck something into a skin bag at her waist, and then go on a little farther. When she staggered and fell, Simon ran to her. She whispered something.

“What is it?” Elliot knelt beside Simon.

“Soup,” Simon whispered hoarsely. He reached into the bag at the woman’s side and withdrew a few filthy kernels of corn. “She said she was making soup.”

The two men looked around them at the steaming piles of manure left in the wake of the cavalry’s passing. They looked at the woman, limp in Simon’s arms. Her fingers were coated with manure.

“Dear God in heaven,” Elliot whispered, disbelieving.

Pulling the semiconscious woman into his arms, Simon struggled to his feet and headed across the barren earth toward the agent’s quarters. Elliot walked ahead of him. Together, the men burst through the door unannounced.

“What’s this?” Harry Finley looked up from his desk, frowning.

“It’s a starving woman,” Simon said between clenched teeth. He laid the woman gently on Finley’s desktop.

Finley jumped up, wrinkling his nose. “Get this stinking piece of flesh out of here,” he barked. “She’ll have lice crawling all over the place.”

“I want guns,” Simon said tersely. “Guns for fifty men—that is if I can find fifty able-bodied men. I want you to authorize a hunting party to be led by my brother-in-law and myself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Finley snorted. “I’m not going to arm my prisoners!” He lowered his voice. “Be reasonable, Reverend Dane. I know things are wretched. That’s why I’m in the process of contracting locally for supplies.”

“You can’t get enough fast enough,” Simon retorted. “We have nearly a thousand starving people just outside the stockade. The last relief supplies you got were spoiled meat and worm-ridden flour. These people need fresh meat or they are not going to survive the winter.” Simon leaned across the unconscious woman’s form. “How many more children must die? You be reasonable, Finley. These men aren’t going to rise up against you. Sending out a hunting party isn’t dangerous. It’s common sense.”

The agent scratched at his grizzled day-old beard. He looked at the unconscious woman on his desk and turned away in revulsion.

Simon spit words between clenched teeth. “If you refuse to do this, Finley, I will personally see to it that you are drummed out of your office if I have to carry this woman to Washington, D.C. and lay her dead body at the president’s feet!” He knew he should lower his voice, but he didn’t try. He touched the woman’s hair. “They aren’t animals, Finley.” He walked around the desk and faced the man. “She is someone’s wife. Someone’s mother. In another time, in another place, she could have been your wife. Your mother. How would you feel if it were your mother picking through manure to salvage corn?’

Finley looked down at the sagging flesh on the scarecrow-thin woman’s bare arm. She was regaining consciousness, but she made no effort to move. She simply lay on his desktop, her open eyes glazed over.

Simon turned to Elliot. “Take her to Mother Friend,” he said quietly. “The tent just outside the east gate.” He gestured with an open hand. “A red sunburst painted over the door. Get a bag of grain out of the supply wagon for them.”

“Won’t that start a stream of people—?”

“I’ll be along directly.” He nodded at Elliot. “Don’t worry about a mob scene around the wagons. These people share everything.” Elliot scooped the woman up and started to leave.

Without turning away from Finley, Simon said, “Tell Mother Friend to spread the word that I need the fifty best hunters in the area to meet me at the gate in an hour.”

When Leighton had gone, Simon returned to the opposite side of Finley’s desk. Finley grasped the back of his desk chair and leaned over, inspecting his desktop carefully. He balled up a piece of paper and swiped it across the surface. While he worked, he talked. “I’m not an evil man, Reverend Dane. I know the people are suffering. I’m trying to get more help. If the drought had lifted—” He sighed.

“If you know these people,” Simon said more calmly, “you also know they are just as terrified of the hostile Sioux as you are. That’s why they don’t scatter over the reservation and try to build homes. That’s why they haven’t cultivated more land. You cannot expect them to go away from the protection of the troops and put themselves at the mercy of this godforsaken wilderness without means to protect themselves. Without a way to hunt. It’s ludicrous.” He pleaded, “You wouldn’t do it, Finley. Not with your loved ones. Nor would I.” Once again, he asked, “Just give us fifty good rifles and let Elliot and me take a hunting party out. I don’t even need your wagons. I can use the ones provided by the Dakota mission.”

“All right,” Finley said. “But I’m sending a military escort along, and the minute there is any trouble—”

Simon had already turned his back and was headed out the door. He waved his hand in the air. “There won’t be any trouble. You have my word.”



They had come in under cover of early morning darkness when most of the natives were asleep inside their tepees. Now, as Elliot walked through the open stockade gate an old woman sitting outside a tepee gave a cry and stood up. Immediately, dozens of faces appeared from behind and inside tepees. A small group of elderly men hobbled to the road. They were nothing like the “noble savages” pictured in eastern newspapers. The faces were weathered, the hands so thin they were almost clawlike. Some of them wobbled so Elliot wondered they could walk. He felt as though he were walking through some terrible nightmare, surrounded by surreal, half-human figures. When he finally located the tepee with the red starburst over the tent flap, he felt a huge sense of relief. Just as he arrived, a well-preserved old woman with a waist-length white braid stepped outside.

“Reverend Dane—” Elliot began, feeling awkward about his inability to talk to the woman.

“You are with Reverend Dane?” the woman said in English.

Leighton nodded. He looked down at the still, unconscious woman in his arms. “She fainted inside the stockade—”

The woman gently drew the woman’s hair away from her face. “Buffalo Moon,” she whispered, stroking the forehead. “Bring her inside.”

Elliot ducked and went inside, laying Buffalo Moon on a worn animal skin beside a small fire in the center of the room. He stood up, surprised at the neatness of the meagerly furnished tepee. The old woman dampened a cloth and dipped it in a gourd of water. She knelt beside Buffalo Moon, bathing her face gently while making comforting noises deep in her throat.

“We brought supplies,” Elliot finally said. “I’ll bring you a sack of flour.” He ducked back outside where a group of natives waited quietly. When he returned with the flour, the people gathered around, smiling happily. One patted him on the back, another reached up to touch his white hair, jabbering something that made the others laugh.

Presently Simon drove up with one of the supply wagons. A small crowd gathered to welcome him. When Simon jumped down to greet them, they pounded his back. One old man wept openly. Simon put his arm on the man’s shoulder and led him back to Elliot’s wagon.

“This is Buffalo Moon’s father. He wants to thank you for bringing the flour.”

Another woman touched Elliot’s hair, eliciting laughter from the group.

Simon grinned. “She says you must be called Silver Fox.” He added, “It’s a compliment, Elliot. I didn’t get a Dakota name until I’d been among them for quite a while. And even then it wasn’t very complimentary.” At Elliot’s questioning look, Simon shrugged. “They called me Many Words—in honor of my long sermons.”

“Do they still call you that?” Elliot wanted to know.

Simon shook his head.

“Well?”

“It’s difficult to translate.” Simon headed for Mother Friend’s tepee. When Elliot followed and insisted on knowing about the name, he said gruffly, “It’s something like ‘He Who Brings Words That Heal.’ He ducked inside the tepee. “Will she be all right, Mother Friend?”

The old woman had already broken open the bag of flour. She knelt on a ragged rug, mixing a lump of dough in the wooden bowl before her with her hands. She looked at Buffalo Moon and shrugged. Forming a flat cake of dough, she set it directly on the hot coals from the half-spent fire. “Once I get a little of this into her, she should feel better. Whether it is enough to save her, only God knows.”

Simon nodded toward Elliot. “This is my brother-in-law, Elliot Leighton. Ellen’s brother.”

At mention of Ellen, Mother Friend stood up. She approached Elliot solemnly, squinting as she looked up at him, gazing into his eyes. Presently she smiled, revealing two missing front teeth. “She did not carry such sadness in her eyes. Still, I see her in you.” She held out her hand. “Welcome.”

Simon explained to Elliot, “Mother Friend is the one I told you about who took such good care of Gen and the children during the outbreak.”

Elliot bowed stiffly. “Thank you. Miss Jane Williams spoke of you as well.”

At mention of Miss Jane, Mother Friend smiled broadly. “You must tell Miss Jane that I have not forgotten her. I hope she comes back to us soon. We don’t have many children now, but those who have survived would love a school. They always loved Miss Jane.”

Elliot and Simon left, spending the rest of the day driving their wagons to the various small encampments huddling around the agency, trying to give each one a little flour, a little meat. At one camp, a family insisted that Elliot and Simon come in and join them for a meal.

“This is ridiculous,” Elliot protested. “They’re starving and they want to share with us?”

Simon smiled. “Not bad for bloodthirsty savages, eh, brother-in-law?”

That evening, the religious meeting was another surprise. Nearly everyone who came in said something to Elliot or patted him on the back. When a congregation of nearly one hundred had gathered, a frail-looking man Elliot had not yet met stood up. Opening what was obviously a Bible, he read a passage and then began to speak in low tones to the assembly. It was a short sermon, for which Leighton was grateful. After the man spoke, several individuals in the congregation stood up. It did not take Elliot long to realize he was witnessing some kind of personal testimonial service. Singing followed for nearly an hour before the assembly broke up and people trudged home.

After sundown, Elliot joined Simon and fellow missionary John Masters, impressed by the latter’s obvious level of education coupled with a passion for his ministry among the Dakota. Masters said, “I wish we had gotten decent housing in time for the Misses Williams and Huggins to join us. The people are fairly clamoring for instruction, both in God’s Word and in the basic skills.”

“Surely you wouldn’t bring women here,” Leighton said brusquely. He looked around at the crude buildings inside the stockade.

“Their presence would be a great comfort,” Masters said quietly. “Miss Williams was a particular favorite at Hazelwood station. She’s a gifted teacher. Once winter arrives in full force, there will be hours and hours of idle time. It would be an excellent opportunity to reach some of the adults.”

“What about the children?” Leighton asked.

Masters stared at him for a moment before saying carefully, “There aren’t many left.”

Leighton swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I—” He looked at Simon. “I guess you did write that. I just didn’t think—”

“You thought I was exaggerating,” Simon said. “Most people do.” He sat back. “That’s why this abominable situation is allowed to continue.” He made a fist and pounded the table gently. “We need someone in the East making the citizens aware of things here. Someone trustworthy who has a heart for the Indian.” He willed his voice to sound calmer. “I cannot but think that if people knew the extent of the suffering here, something would change.” He sighed. “But in the immediate, there’s nothing we can do but hunker down and face the winter.” His face brightened. “We must pray that the hunting expedition is successful.”

Leighton had thought Simon was speaking in a metaphorical sense. To his surprise, both missionaries immediately bowed their heads and without hesitation prayed aloud, asking God to send game their way.

In the morning, Elliot woke and staggered, half asleep, out of the tent he and Simon inhabited. Simon was nowhere to be seen. Presently, a group of natives gathered on a hillside just beyond the cluster of lodges where Mother Friend lived. Leighton pulled on his dark blue coat and, turning the collar up against his neck, climbed the hill to find Simon down in a hole, shovel in hand. Beside the hole lay what was obviously a dead body wrapped in a threadbare blanket.

Mother Friend came to Leighton’s side. “Buffalo Moon,” she said tersely.

Leighton thought for a moment. “I’m sorry. I wish Simon and I had arrived sooner.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Mother Friend said. “She had lost the will to live. Her husband is in prison. When her son died last week, she had nothing left to keep her spirit on the earth.”

The mourners gathered around the open grave listening as Simon read from the Dakota Bible. A cold wind picked up as they listened, lifting hair off shoulders, sending a collective shiver through the crowd wrapped in moth-eaten buffalo robes and worn blankets.