Through Rushing Water (33 page)
The lieutenant's mustache twitched. “Don't have orders about him either.”
With Will's persuasion, the soldiers allowed Big Snake a trip to the latrine. Then they hauled the tall man into a wagon and rode south.
“Where are they going?” Sophia asked Will.
“To arrest Standing Bear.”
Will entered the school, battling the wind for control of the door. He nodded at the empty benches. “Students went home early?”
The wind had whipped his curls into a coronet. Sophia longed to touch them, to draw him close, to run her fingers through his hair . . .
“We sang, read a story, held a spelling bee. But they are all so distraught. And this wind, pounding the building, and the dark clouds. We felt under attack.”
He gave a grim nod.
“We prayed about the council. How did it go?”
“Standing Bear and Big Snake are back from Fort Randall.” He cleaned out the stove. The temperature climbed to comfortable in the afternoon, but mornings came with a chill. “Solomon Draper, the editor of the Niobrara
Pioneer
, spoke up for the tribe. He's a lawyer. He asked Kemble to show the paperwork saying the tribe had to move, and when the inspector couldn't come up with it, he called him a liar, thief, and scoundrel, and recommended hanging. Kemble called him meddlesome and refused to let him talk anymore.”
“Meddlesome? I like Mr. Draper's style of meddling.” She drew her shawl about her shoulders. “Why would Mr. Draper advocate for the Poncas?”
“Niobrara shop owners appreciate the tribe's business. And they're afraid if the Poncas go, the Sioux will move in. The tribe sold off the last of their horses to send Draper to Washington to plead their case.”
Oh dear. Long Runner had told her the bloodline of their horses ran back to the Spanish conquistadors. But what else did they have to sell?
Will put a hand on her elbow and turned her toward him. His brown eyes searched hers, as if reaching into her depths. “Sophia, what you said yesterday, about not letting your students get shot. You're not . . . you wouldn't . . .”
He shook his head. A lock of hair fell across his cheek.
To keep from smoothing his curls back into place, Sophia busied her hands with closing the school. “I am named after a martyr. When the tsar took my classmate as his mistress, my father spoke up. He lost his title, his lands, his country. God provided for us. So how can I fail to act?”
“But, Sophia . . .”
“Christians must not be afraid when God asks us to do right, to say what is true. Think of John the Baptist.”
“Who got his head chopped off.” Will shuddered. “We've still got work to do on this side of heaven. If something happens to you, who will tell the Poncas' story? Who will say what happened here?” He reached toward her face. “Sophia, pleaseâ”
A line of wagons creaked along the path. Last evening's thunderstorm had left the road a muddy mess. Will and Sophia moved out of the way.
“Where you going?” Will yelled to James, who drove the lead. Lone Chief sat beside him, his face wet with tears.
“The half-breeds have seen the light.” James's sarcastic tone indicated the light they had seen was in Kemble's vicious eyes. “They're heading to Indian Territory.”
Sophia studied their faces and found only fear, grief, defeat. “It is like watching a runaway train heading for a broken bridge. What can we do?” She pulled out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
Will's broad shoulders shook. “Pray,” he said in a choked voice.
“Mr. Dunn!” Joseph ran toward them, gasping, his face pale. “Please come,” he gasped. “My father needs you.”
“What is wrong? What happened?” Sophia asked.
The boy let out a sob. “Elisabeth.”
A
pack of coyotes howled on the bluff, adding their voices to the cries of pain echoing through the village. Sophia hauled herself out of bed and went to the window. A curtain of yellow-green light rippled across the sky. Aurora borealis onâwhat day was it? The second of May.
Sophia dressed, then tiptoed downstairs, although how anyone could sleep through the Poncas' mourning wails was beyond her comprehension. Outside, the noise filled her ears. She took a few steps, moving far enough from the house to see the full sweep of the lights, then realized she was not alone.
The aurora's light showed a man with hair waving back from his forehead to curl at his nape. His straight nose tipped down a fraction at the end, balanced by the curve of his chin.
Will.
She took a breath. He turned.
“Where's your coat?” Will opened his arms, beckoning her into the shelter of his blanket.
Sophia glanced back at the house.
He invited her again with a tip of his head. “C'mon. Anyone who looks will only see one.”
She stepped into the circle, her back against his broad chest, against his heartbeat. His big hands held the corners of the blanket to her shoulders. His wrist brushed her neck with a gentle rasp of hair. The man was as warm as a coal furnace.
Sophia had never let anyone this close before, not to her body. Nor, if she was honest with herself, to her heart.
Pale-green lights fluttered across the sky like a sheer curtain in a gentle breeze.
“What does it mean?” she whispered. “Could it be a sign?”
“Other than electrical particles dancing?” Will's breath warmed her ear.
Electrical particles seemed to dance through her body too. Her thoughts fluttered like the lights. “Do the Poncas . . . have any beliefs about the aurora?”
“Some believe the Milky Way is a holy path. I've never heard the people talk about the northern lights. Maybe . . .”
“Yes?”
“Maybe God's reminding us He's in charge. Reminding us to look for His work, His beauty.” He hummed
“Cantique de Noel.”
This close to her ear, his music covered the sound of lamenting, his breath warmed her neck. She leaned against him, surrendering to the surge of joy that came with his nearness. He smelled likeâwell, like himself. With a hint of fresh-cut wood.
“Please sing.”
“âA thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.'”
Sophia listened to the words, and to the timbre of his voice, with a bittersweet mixture of sadness and longing.
Dear Lord, where is the hope? Where is the new morn for the Poncas? How long, oh Lord?
“âOh night divine, oh night divine . . .'”
The aurora faded to a mist, then disappeared altogether. Morning, glorious or not, broke over the Ponca Agency.
“Thank you for watching with me.” He opened the blanket to let her back into the house. She found herself reluctant to move away from him, to leave the safety and contentment she felt in his arms.
“Will.” Sophia took his hand, but then she could not think of the words, in any language, to express her appreciation for him. Not for this morning alone, but for her entire time with the Poncas. Will had made the year not just endurable, but a season of spiritual growth. In everything she had tried to do here, she could count on Will to work with her, to guide and aid her efforts.
Sophia stretched on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
“What are you doing up here?” Yellow Spotted Buffalo climbed up the ladder and sat next to Will. “Shines White will not need his roof when we are evicted.”
“We are keeping an eye on the village.”
And trying not to think about Sophia. How she tucked into his arms with a perfect fit. How she smelled like honey and spices from another country. How she had kissed him. If he had turned his head an inch, he could have caught her lips with his.
Will nailed another wood shingle into place. And they were taking a break from building coffins. Burying Brown Eagle's Elisabeth nearly did them all in.
He caught a flicker of movement on the path and heard the clop of a horse's hooves. In seconds Will shinned down the ladder and headed toward the stable.
James dismounted and ran a hand over his face. All done in. He could pass for a man twice his age. “Kemble assumed charge of the wagon train in Columbus. The roads are near impassable. No shelter, inadequate food. Awful.”
A rumble of thunder warned of another storm. Will relieved the horse of his saddle. Yellow Spotted Buffalo took the tools back to the warehouse. The men who had been plowing and planting wheat and corn in hope of answered prayers left the fields.
James hefted his knapsack and trudged toward the house. “I need a drink.”
“You need Someone stronger than drink.”
James turned on him, his face flushed. “You see God helping these people? Ever? Stopping the Brulé, holding back the grasshoppers, bringing rain on a regular basis?” He shook his head. “Me neither. I'm beginning to think He means for the Poncas to die off, like the passenger pigeon and the buffalo. It'd be a better fate for them than that godforsaken Indian Territory.”
Will didn't blame James for his cynicism. He had been praying every day, several times a day. Yet Elisabeth and Julia hadn't been healed. The tools he'd requested hadn't come. And the Indian Office still seemed bent on driving the Poncas from their land. He swallowed. “God's going to work it out,” he said.
Soon, Lord. Don't hold back Your hand
.
They washed and stepped inside.
Nettie narrowed her eyes. Her jaw was clenched so tight, words hissed through her teeth. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
Before Will could ask what was wrong, thunder crashed and the storm broke. A voice echoed from the front room. “I'm Inspector Howard. Here to solve your Indian problem.”
W
ill augered a hole in the hay wagon's floor, fit a table leg into the space, and swung his mallet to smash the leg down. Spotted Horse had spent hours smoothing this table's surface. He had measured and sawed the legs with precision.
All for nothing. All that hard work, gone to waste. The furniture he'd taught them to build, torn apart to make wagons for their exodus.
Will hefted the hammer in his hand. He'd rather take a swing at those rats from the Indian Office.
The other legs went into their spots, then he nailed the tabletop to the uprights.
Next came Fast Little Runner's table, oiled and ready to assemble. But it would never be finished. Brown Eagle had built well too. It took all the strength Will had to yank it apart.
He worked his way around, disassembling furniture, patching with scraps, until he had a wagon box as ramshackle as everything else the Indian Office had forced on the Poncas.
He took a step toward the toolbox, then let the auger and mallet drop to the dirt floor. There were no more wagon frames, no more lumber. Nothing more he could do.
Will slogged back to the house through the mud from the rainiest May ever. He toed off his shoes, yanked off his wet clothes, and fell into bed.