Free Edge of the Wilderness by Stephanie Grace Whitson Page B

confined behind a guarded fence anymore, they were still under the watchful eye of Private Brady Jensen. Daniel had hoped their fight would have put them on better terms, but nothing changed. Jensen still watched everyone suspiciously, still considered himself above “fraternizing with a bunch of savages,” still despised Edward Pope for getting along.
    There were days when Robert Lawrence’s persistent faith made Daniel angry. The man quoted Scripture he had memorized and even hummed—albeit off key—Dakota hymns when they rode together. He reminded Daniel they were better off here than back in prison in Mankato. He listed things he was thankful for.
    “Remember Daniel in the Bible,” Robert said one night by the campfire. “He was a captive in a strange land, but he did not forget his God. We must be like that. God knows where we are, and when He is finished teaching us here, He will take us somewhere else. As long as we have Him, we can be at peace.”
    But Daniel felt no peace.
    One May morning when the sky was a brilliant blue, Daniel saddled up his bay gelding and rode out of camp alone. He followed the river; up and down rolling hills and greening valleys, past where Sacred Heart and Hawk Creeks flowed into the Minnesota River, across the Yellow Medicine River, past the Upper Agency until he came up over a rise and looked down on the charred remains of what had been the Hazelwood Mission. He took in a sharp breath and let it out slowly, surprised at his physical reaction to the ruined site. He urged his horse past what had been missionaries Mary and Stephen Riggs’s two-story home, picking his way through the remnants of Mrs. Riggs’s white garden fence and heading across the open space to where the sawmill had stood. It was there, after a serious talk with Robert Lawrence about the merits of life at the mission, Daniel had caught his friend Otter drinking whiskey behind a woodpile. Daniel looked away from the blackened rubble and glanced toward the north. He hoped Otter was up there across the border, still living the old life, still hunting buffalo, still free.
    A half-burned book lay on the ground near the school. The winter had nearly obliterated the print, but Daniel could tell it was a Dakota grammar book. For the first time, he wondered how the missionaries felt about what had happened. Their lives, too, had been destroyed.
    Robert Lawrence had been talking about trying to have church services at the scouts’ camp. Big Amos and the army cook Edward Pope expressed interest. Daniel’s gaze lingered on what was left of the mission church. Dr. Riggs would be pleased to know that some of his converts had not forgotten Christ, Daniel thought. Perhaps they should try to have services. Perhaps it would help.
    Dismounting, Daniel walked toward the place where a wild vine was sending green tendrils up over the blackened remains of the teachers’ cottage. He bent down and touched a green shoot, remembering how, by the end of last summer, the mature vine had nearly swallowed up the entire porch. He wondered what had become of the brilliantly colored little bird that used to flit around the orange blossoms, totally impervious to the presence of Miss Jane and Blue Eyes as they sat on the porch drinking tea.
    Sitting down on the earth beside the vine, Daniel pulled Etienne LaCroix’s journal out of the blue sash at his waist. He leafed through it, watching Blue Eyes grow up in the sketches. Presently he closed the book and, standing up, tucked it back in his sash. He looked around at the mission and frowned. He should never have come here. Now he was in a darker mood than ever.
    He looked down at the journal. He should throw it away, he told himself. Stop thinking about her. Both Robert and Big Amos had wives. Robert had children. Sacred Lodge had said they would be brought to the scouts’ camp. It had not yet happened, but neither Robert nor Big Amos brooded or complained. They simply went on with their duties.