Heart of the Sandhills (16 page)

Jane Leighton thought for a moment. “If I didn’t know better I’d say she’s actually a little lonesome for Aaron.”

Mother Leighton raised her eyebrows and looked at Jane, who grimaced and shrugged. The women turned and looked down on the garden. In a moment, Hope and Amanda descended the gazebo stairs together, hand in hand. Amanda deposited Hope on the tree swing and then went back to the gazebo for Meg. She guided Meg down the stairs and settled her beneath the tree. Then she went to the rose garden and plucked a blossom. Handing it to Meg, she began to push Hope on the swing.

The heart of the prudent getteth knowledge; and the ear of the wise seeketh knowledge.

—Proverbs 18:15

The Sandhills of Nebraska had secrets. The morning after he had written Amanda about how desolate the area was, Aaron topped a hill and had his breath taken away by the beauty of an inviting, lush valley surrounded by mountains of sand. At the far end of the valley a towering lone cottonwood reigned over the scene.

“Look at that, little wife.” Daniel nodded toward the sparkling blue lake nestled in the valley. “Almost as blue as your eyes.”

Gen smiled at him and urged her horse forward. Daniel watched her descend the hill into the valley, his heart swelling with love and pride. The journey had been hard, but she hadn’t complained once. She’d been a willing assistant to Edward Pope who had become devoted to her. She and the three Dakota scouts, along with Aaron, had continued Edward’s education in the Dakota language, and many evenings now they conversed in Dakota. Some of the soldiers made fun of Edward for his stammering attempts, but he pressed on, undaunted by his mistakes and the ease with which Zephyr Picotte had learned the language.

“It ain’t so different from the other dialects,” he said one evening when Edward bemoaned his own ignorance. “I lived out here all my life, Pope. You can’t expect to just pick it up like me.” Zephyr spit into the fire. “Why do you bother, anyway?”

Edward shrugged. “Never know when it might save my life. Or someone else’s.” He took a drink of coffee and grimaced. “Besides that, I never been too good at anything but cooking in all my life. Didn’t do good in school. Can’t ride all that great.” He ducked his head, embarrassed. “Back at Fort Ridgely I wanted that buckskin mare Chrisman’s riding back at Fort Ridgely. He said I didn’t deserve a good horse if all I was goin’ to do was cook. Said she’d probably throw me and hightail it off anyways.” He shrugged. “He’s probably right, I guess. About the horse. But I kind of like knowing something that all the other boys don’t.”

“‘Guess I understand that,” Zephyr said. And after that he had begun to help Edward, even teaching him some sign language.

The men were delighted with the campsite and the access to fresh water. Gen hid inside the cook’s tent when it became apparent they did not consider one Indian woman a reason to deny themselves the pleasures of shedding their clothes and romping in the water. The entire day turned into one all-consuming laundry day and water fight until someone yelled from atop a hill about a herd of antelope on the next rise and several of the men pulled on their half-dry clothes and tore out of camp to go on the chase.

Elliot spent the evening writing reports and writing home.

Aaron wrote Miss Whitrock, which Gen observed had become something of a daily event.

As evening approached, the men settled into small clutches of activity, some playing cards, some smoking, others treating their horses to a dousing with the cold water or wading in the shallows with improvised nets, hoping to snag a fish and vary their hardtack/bacon/biscuit diet.

Daniel spent most of the evening meticulously washing down his white stallion, who had taken on the look of a pinto after being spotted with sweat and grime over the past few days.

Gen frowned in her sleep and brushed her cheek. A moment later, she felt something close. Something leaning over her. She opened her eyes with a start. Daniel pressed his finger to her lips.

“Follow me,” he whispered. When she did, he led her alongside the lake, away from the campfires and around to the opposite side of the water where a stand of reeds hid them from the camp.

“You have a dirty face,” he said, brushing her chin with his thumb. He pulled her down to sit in front of him. When she did, he began to take down her hair. From his pocket he withdrew a comb. For what seemed like an hour, he combed her long hair until it hung, sleek and shining in the moonlight. He rested his hands on her shoulders for a moment. He was so close she could feel his breath on her hair. Her heart began to race when he leaned forward to nuzzle her cheek. Then he unbuttoned the top button of her waist. “My gift to you for today, little wife. I’ll keep watch while you take a bath. The water is cool and fresh. There must be a spring feeding the lake.”

The black sky overhead twinkled with a million stars. Gen sighed. Cool water. How wonderful that would feel. Dust and sand had been collecting in her hair for over a week. It made her scalp itch. It gathered in the creases of her hands and along her cuffs until she despaired at the ringlets of filth around her wrists. She didn’t think she smelled quite as bad as some of the soldiers, but she wondered.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

He nudged her back. “Go.”

She slipped out of her waist and her skirt. “I’m a good target for any hostiles watching from up there,” she said nervously, suddenly aware of how brightly her white undergarments shone in the moonlight.

“There are no hostiles watching,” Daniel said. “But there is one very
un
hostile Indian watching who thinks you had better hurry into the water.”

“Or what?” Gen teased. She sunk down into the water and pulled her petticoats up and over her head. Finally, she slipped beneath the surface, sighing with pleasure as the cool water swept across her skin like silk. She lay back on the surface of the water, floating and staring up at the sky. At the sound of something hitting the water near the edge, Gen startled and rolled over just as Daniel’s hands slipped around her waist. He pulled her close and they slid together beneath the surface of the cool water.

“It’s true, Picotte. There’s a new spirit in Washington.” They were sitting around a small campfire that had died down to little more than coals. Elliot had been leaning against his saddle for support, but now he crossed his legs and leaned forward earnestly. “The Peace Party has more influence now. The new treaty can change things.”

A low laugh rippled across the water from the opposite side of the lake. Elliot and John Willets, Aaron and Edward, looked self-consciously at the fire. At the sound of a splash, Zephyr Picotte drug a stick away from the edge of the fire and began to whittle. “Shame one of the boys couldn’t of caught that fish in his net today. Sounds like a big one.” He chortled, then returned to the subject at hand. “Which treaty you talkin’ about, Captain Leighton? The one from ‘65 or the newer version?” He flipped a wood chip into the fire. “Seems to me none of the Sioux up in Powder River country care much about either one.” Laying the stick in the embers, he drew his pipe out of his pocket, lit it with the glowing stick, and leaned back against the massive cottonwood tree. “I been interpreting for peace commissions and treaty-makers since before this boy was born.” He waved his pipe at Aaron. “And I can tell you that at the exact moment the most recent peace treaty was being signed down on the Missouri, the hostiles up on the Powder were having a grand old time raiding travelers along the Platte Road. At this very minute there’s nearly four thousand lodges of Sioux camped up there and not a one of ‘em has any intention of letting whites come through their hunting grounds. Building a road through that country means war, pure and simple. And if the government don’t believe it, they better brace for a repeat of that Fetterman affair that happened last winter.”

“But the Peace Party—”

Zephyr interrupted, “No offense, Major. I know you mean well. But hasn’t your Peace Party figured out yet that a treaty with the peaceful Sioux loafing around the forts isn’t worth much unless it’s signed by the hostiles causing all the trouble?”

“Swift Bear and Standing Elk signed last year.”

Zephyr laughed. “Swift Bear and Standing Elk are about as hostile as those two,” he nodded across the lake to where everyone knew Genevieve and Daniel were enjoying a midnight rendezvous. He leaned forward. “Listen, Major. You got to make Washington understand they can’t expect to just send a list of demands up to Fort Laramie and wait for Sitting Bull and Man Afraid to come filing in like good citizens and touch the pen.”

“Touch the pen?” Elliot asked.

Captain Willets spoke up. “When they don’t write, they touch the pen and someone makes their mark for them.”

“But both those men you mentioned have been to other peace councils,” Elliot said stubbornly.

Zephyr agreed. “So would you if the word was out that who-ever came in would go home with pack mules loaded down with presents and arms and ammunition. Sure they came in. But they were smart enough to get someone they trusted to read what they were signing out loud. And the minute they realized the treaty allowed for a road through their hunting grounds, they weren’t going to sign—unless it was a promise to fight anything with white skin that set foot in their territory.”

“I don’t mean to argue, Mr. Picotte,” Elliot said. “I want to learn. To understand.” He paused. “But I’m confused. I read the commissioner’s report. He was there when Sitting Bull and Man Afraid refused to sign. He didn’t try to hide that. He reported it.” He scratched his head. “But does that really matter? Sitting Bull and Man Afraid aren’t all that influential anymore, are they? The commissioner explained that Sitting Bull is just an unimportant leader of that small group called the Bad Faces. And isn’t Man Afraid a peace chief?”

Picotte looked at Elliot, dumbfounded. He puffed on his pipe energetically. Then he began to cough. Coughing became laughing. Picotte slapped his knee and laughed until tears were rolling down his cheeks. “Lord God in heaven, help us all!” he finally choked out. When he had finally managed to stop laughing and puffing, he set Elliot straight. “Captain Leighton. I don’t know what nonsense you’ve been reading, but the fact is Sitting Bull is the recognized leader of several thousand warriors up on the Powder River. He’s shrewd and he’s also very well aware of his considerable ability to raise an impressive battle force. The last time I saw him in council he was boasting that he has more warriors than the Great White Father, and that no one was going to take his lands against his will. Now, you and I both know that isn’t true, but it’s going to take some talking—or some pretty impressive fighting—to convince him of that.”

Elliot pondered this new information, making a mental note to check into a certain Indian commissioner’s credentials when he returned to Washington. “Obviously Washington doesn’t always get trustworthy information.” He paused. “That was part of the problem in Minnesota. No one back East would believe the situation was serious. Ignorance was certainly part of the reason for the Fetterman debacle. Carrington went in there honestly believing he could build that road and there wouldn’t be any serious trouble.” Elliot swatted a mosquito. “That’s part of why I’m here. We may be misinformed, but we are determined to finally forge a lasting agreement between the people of the United States and the natives. And the more accurate information I can gather, the better the chances are that will happen. There’s a very good chance those three forts up in their hunting grounds will be decommissioned soon.”

“That’s a start,” Picotte said. He tapped his pipe on the earth beside him to clean it out. “I believe you’re sincere, Captain Leighton. I’ll give you that. Guaranteeing those lands without white interference is probably the only way to peace. But we both know the railroad’s coming, the buffalo skinners are killing, and the whites aren’t going to be content with stopping at some imaginary boundary just because a bunch of savages don’t want ‘em to advance. From where I sit, it’s hopeless for the Sioux. But they aren’t going to admit it. Not yet.” He went on. “I was at Sitting Bull’s camp a few weeks ago. The place is crammed full of skins and dried meat. They have more horses and mules than I could count . . . and not a few have a brand that looks suspiciously like it says, ‘U.S’.”

“I’m not surprised,” Elliot said. “Carrington reported he lost seventy head from Fort Phil Kearney alone. That doesn’t count other raids.”

“Exactly my point,” Picotte nodded. “At the moment those lodges are filled with very rich, very happy people. And they are fighting exactly the kind of war they like. Now why should they care about making peace with the white man?”

“What do you mean, the kind of war they like?”