Free Edge of the Wilderness by Stephanie Grace Whitson Page A

brave’s midsection and driving him backward. The wiry soldier’s strength surprised Daniel, who found himself lying on his back holding his hands in front of his face to fend off the man’s blows.
    When Jensen showed no signs of letting up, Daniel lurched to one side and with all his strength managed to unseat him again. The instant the soldier landed in the dirt beside him, Daniel put one hand on his assailant’s throat, gripping hard enough to cut off Jensen’s air supply. His face red, his eyes bulging, Jensen grabbed desperately at Two Stars’s hand. When he was satisfied that most of Jensen’s fury had been spent, Daniel let go, only to receive a well-placed punch to his left eye that made him roar with pain. He released Jensen and leaped up. Meaning to land a kick to the soldier’s rib cage, he once again found himself on the ground as Jensen grabbed his raised foot in midair, threw Daniel to the ground, and was atop him again.
    Over and over the two men rolled, until Jensen let out a yelp and, pushing himself away, grabbed his left wrist with his right hand and ran for the nearby creek where he plunged his singed hand into the water. The sensation in his backside told Daniel he, too, had rolled too close to the campfire. Smiling ruefully, he stood up and pounded the seat of his pants.
    Two Stars followed Jensen to the creek, but at his approach Jensen took his gun from his holster. Waving it in the air he said, “Hold it right there. Don’t come any closer.” He winced and shook his hand. “I may have a singed paw, but I’m still man enough to fight you off.”
    Daniel backed away and headed for Pope’s shelter. Emerging in a moment with a bucket in hand he headed for where Jensen still knelt by the creek. “Good fight,” Daniel muttered in English. When Jensen looked up at him in surprise, Daniel grabbed his hand and plunged it into the pail of animal fat he had retrieved from Pope.
    “Let me see,” Daniel said.
    Jensen complied, withdrawing his hand from the pail of fat to reveal bright red skin, which Daniel inspected closely.
    “Not bad,” Daniel muttered. He looked at Jensen. “Finished fighting?”
    Jensen squinted up at him. “You finished giving me the silent treatment?”
    “What does silent treatment mean? ” Daniel asked.
    “Not talking. Silent.” He grimaced and looked away. “I know what you think. You think I’m some kind of idiot just because I can’t track like you. Well, I’m not.”
    Daniel stood up. “I touched the fire once when I was young. My mother taught me how to care for it. Keep your hand in the pail for now. Before you sleep, have Pope wrap your hand with more fat inside the rabbit skin. By tomorrow morning, your hand will be fine.” He headed back to camp, then stopped and turned around. “Jensen,” he said abruptly.
    Jensen looked up.
    “You don’t know what I think,” Daniel said. “About anything.” He raised one corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “Except for one thing.”
    “What’s that?” Jensen asked.
    “I think you fight pretty good,” Daniel said.

    With the arrival of warm weather, Daniel began to feel restless. They had come out of Mankato in February and traveled nearly seventy miles to the northwest, camping on Rice Creek, just south of the Minnesota River and almost exactly between what had been the Upper and Lower Sioux Agencies. Other scouts were added to the original five until ten were in camp. They spent the next few weeks going on expeditions, either up the Minnesota River or westward. Only once did they think they saw tracks indicating hostile Indians, but nothing came of it and they headed back south to camp.
    Scouting proved to be little more than a new kind of prison. Wherever the scouts went, they were confronted with brokenness. Burned-out cabins and destroyed agency buildings served as constant reminders that the deserted landscape had once been home to hundreds of peaceful Dakota Indians. While the scouts weren’t