Through Rushing Water (26 page)

“More than one, I'd say.” Nettie's glance slid from the pot she stirred to Sophia's project, but she avoided eye contact. Perhaps the Poncas did not look into each other's eyes to avoid seeing all the pain hovering there.

The older woman sat down at the kitchen table and unraveled hours of work. “Sophia, a sock is too ambitious for a first project. Let's try a scarf.”

“Ambition is a stumbling block for me.”

Will hauled in two buckets of snow, then he joined them at the table. The pile of shavings on the floor indicated that he, too, had been keeping Nettie company today.

“What are you working on?” Sophia asked him.

He held up a branch with a bend in it. “Making a cane for one of the elders in Hubdon.” His knife worked over the bent end, smoothing it into a handle. It seemed so much simpler than knitting, perhaps she might—

Henry shuffled in and rattled the empty coffeepot.

James took up a stance blocking the doorway. “Let us reflect on our accomplishments of the old year and our goals for the new one.”

“Let's not.” Henry stomped to the far corner of the room.

The agent read from a sheet of lined paper. “‘Our tribe has made considerable progress. All wear citizens' clothes and send their children to school. We had an orderly and efficient distribution of the annuity in October. We haven't had an attack by the Brulé since June.'”

“But their clothing is inadequate to keep them warm,” Sophia said. “And the annuity was only a fraction of the money owed.”

“Yes, and the Poncas should get the credit for their treaty with the Brulé.” Will's knife kept its even pace.

The agent reported on acres cultivated, but did not say how little had been harvested, or how many cattle and horses had been lost. His goal for 1877 was for the Poncas to be self-sufficient farmers. He raised an eyebrow at Henry. “Well?”

Henry stared out the back window, arms crossed, shoulders hunched. “Fifty-two sermons, seven baptisms, three marriages, twenty-one funerals.” He spat out the words rapidly, as if he had prepared for this interrogation.

“And your goal for the new year?” James taunted.

The reverend's expression was colder than the north wind. “Plod on.”

“We shall continue to labor in the fields of the Lord,” Nettie said. She reported gardens now grew beside every home. She had taught some of the women canning, although they did not have much to work with.

“Don't forget,” Will said, “you fed us, fixed lunches for the students, kept us in clean clothes, and did all the housework.” He noted that everyone was out of tepees and into cabins or frame houses, a total of 236 homes. All dirt floors had been replaced by wood. Barns, outbuildings, gristmill, sawmill, church, and school were usable. He had a crew of four who could build homes and furniture. Most of the men knew how to make basic repairs.

Will paused his carving to give the agent a narrow gaze. “For the new year? Depends on if we get any of the supplies I asked for.”

“You built the latrine and vestibule for the schoolhouse too,” Sophia said. “You provide firewood for our stove.”

“And the stoves here too,” Nettie added. “And haul water.”

“Sophia?”

She pondered the question. What had she accomplished? What good was she?

“Sorry. Should have warned you,” Will said to Sophia. Then to James, “Everyone else is used to your New Year's questions. Give Sophia a day or two to think on it.”

The agent had no intention of waiting. “You've had consistent attendance of twenty-eight—”

“Twenty-five,” she corrected.

“All of them are writing their names and counting to a hundred,” Will said. “Frank, Marguerite, and Joseph are in the third reader already.”

“Marguerite's in the third reader?” Henry asked. “Maybe she should come work with Mother.”

Sophia would not permit him to divert her best student. “Marguerite shows great potential to become a teacher. What an asset she will be to the tribe, an inspiration to her students.”

James and Henry stared at her, mouths open.

“It's a good idea,” Will said. “Marguerite's got the patience for teaching.”

Nettie rolled the yarn into a ball. “If we don't tell the Indian Office she's Ponca—”

“Mother!” Henry could not decide who to scowl at first. He settled on Sophia. “Any goals for this year?” he asked, his tone indicating he expected her answer to be no.

“I have been thinking—”

“Dangerous,” Henry muttered.

“—about the students in the other villages. Could we transport them to school, perhaps in a wagon with a cover?”

“Would need runners in winter,” Will said.

“True. Or perhaps we could pay families here to board students during the week.”

“Pay them with what?” James tapped his pencil against the door frame.

Even in her grief, Nettie found something to celebrate. “Sophia, you've had a successful letter-writing campaign, bringing in clothing and shoes.”

James said, “You haven't quit.”

“Hey. That's right.” Will straightened and set down his knife. “She didn't quit.”

“Pardon me?”

“Why God doesn't whack you over your fool heads with lightning bolts, I'll never know.” Nettie rapped the table with the knitting needles. “Pay up and be done with it.”

James dug a quarter from his pocket and tossed it to Will.

Sophia blinked at the agent. “You bet I would not stay?”

The needles waved dangerously at Henry. “You too. I heard.”

“And you? Oh ye of little faith.”

Will stacked the coins in the middle of the table.

Sophia turned to Will. “So. You won the bet.”

“I'm thinking . . .” The ends of his wide mouth curved up. He added another from his pocket and pushed the quarters to her. “
You
won.”

“And I am thinking . . .” Sophia slid the stack toward Henry. “The only place for such ill-gotten gain is the offering plate.”

This time even Henry smiled.

Henry shuffled out of James's office around midnight. “Why are you still awake?”

Sophia looked up from the kitchen table. “There is no sense lying down if sleep will not come.”

“So this place has finally gotten to you too.” He leaned on the door frame. The lantern light showed the despair in his eyes. “It eats away at you, the constant failures, each worse than the last.”

“But you have had successes. Seven baptisms, did you say? Fifty-two sermons? Perhaps that is the problem. You have not had any respite from your duties. Do not the clergy attend annual meetings?”

“Not going. Don't want to hear how wonderful everyone else is doing. How they've got all their people baptized, Sunday school's packed, half dozen men of the tribe have become priests and deacons. To see their scorn about my miserable, paltry seven baptisms.”

Sophia felt a rush of sympathy for the poor man, bearing such a burden on his shoulders. “God knows your struggles. He does not judge by numbers.” Although administrators seemed easily beguiled by quantities.

“Everywhere else we've had success starting churches. In Michigan we had the building up and paid for in less than a year. In Wisconsin the original congregation grew into two. In Illinois we raised support for three missionaries.”

“Three? You, Nettie, and me? I should write and thank them.” She pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery. “What is the name of the church?”

“No. They don't want to hear about failure.”

“A wise man gave me some good advice,” Sophia said. “Ignore the rushing waters.”

Henry chose to ignore her instead. He shuffled into his room and slammed the door behind him.

The blankets sparked in the January-dry air when Will climbed out of bed. Breathing in froze his nose, and breathing out made a white puff. Woolen drawers didn't keep him from shivering. He added a second shirt, pants, another pair of socks, then carried his boots into the kitchen.

What's this? A small bear at the table? No, it's Sophia, wrapped in her fur coat, head on her arms.
Driven downstairs by the cold in her room, no doubt. Will had tinkered, patched, and repaired. He'd made bed warmers for Sophia and Nettie from old popcorn makers some church in Connecticut had decided they needed. With her room catching the north wind and her bones carrying less natural insulation, Sophia couldn't sleep through the cold like Nettie.

There was no way to help it—building a fire made noise. The door squeaked, the shovel scraped, the wood thunked . . . and Sophia groaned.

“Sorry.”

She pushed the hair off her face and blinked at him. “Do not apologize for making it warmer in here.” Her voice came out low and sleepy, firing up thoughts he shouldn't be thinking.

Will lit the lantern, not wanting Henry to find them together in the dark. Letters, appeals for aid, spread across the table. She wrote neatly, of course, with enough flourishes to make the script elegant, but not enough to make it unreadable. And of course, she used fancy words, but not enough to confuse a simple carpenter.

“Dakota League of Massachusetts, Indians' Hope Association of Philadelphia, Providence Indian Aid Association. I didn't know there were so many groups.”

“Not to mention the Baltimore Indian Aid Association and the Board of Missions Women's Auxiliary. I hope they are not all discussing the color of napkins to use at their next tea or dithering over bylaws.” She stacked the letters. “My ink froze.”

Will took the bottle from her and set it on the stove. “I was wrong about your letter writing. The apostle Paul did it too. In First Corinthians, he talks about asking the wealthy churches for aid to the poor.”

“Thank you. Few men are strong enough to admit a change of mind.” She awarded the compliment like knighthood. “So, you will commence letter writing?”

“Don't know anyone worth the price of a stamp.” His insides got all squirmy. “Figure it's one of those situations where some are called to be apostles, others prophets, others teachers.” Will had been called to build, that much he was sure of. Everything else he'd leave up to God.

Sophia's blue gaze fastened on his as if she could see straight into his soul. “Perhaps.”

Will pushed away from the table to fuss with the coffeepot. Maybe he was hiding again, not wanting to try something new, afraid his lack of schooling would show in his writing. He could put a note for the bishop in his next letter home, since they were already praying for him.

He dampened a clean cloth and turned back to the table. “No inkblots on your letters, but you got yourself.” He nodded at her cheek. Instead of taking the cloth, she tilted her face toward him. Her perfect, porcelain-smooth face.

Will swallowed, pulled up a chair, and touched her. He hoped she didn't notice his hand shook. Maybe she'd chalk it up to the cold. The mark came off with one swipe of the cloth.