Fervent Charity (6 page)

Chapter 6: September 1900

G
ustie liked how autumn descended
gently over the prairie, without the fanfare that attended its arrival in the east, where trees and foliage ignited with color. Here, with few trees, the signs were subtler: birds flying in clouds or Vs overhead; a drying and thinning of the air; a growing crispness in the breezes drifting down from the north; the crops going from green to gold, or, in the case of flax, blue; the hay bales dotting the fields and then suddenly disappearing into barns; the people working from dawn to dark to bring in the harvest; the smells of cooking, canning, preserving wafting from every house.

Today, on the Red Sand, the smoke from the fires mingled with the fog and drifted low, collecting in pockets, stirred by the running feet of children and dogs. The dogs, kicked away from the stew pots by the old women, received their morsels from the children who streaked from fire to fire and were fed by everyone.

Old men smoked, laughed and told stories of the buffalo days when they ranged far—even crossing the Big Muddy—to hunt and count coup against their enemies. Good days! Young men listened to the old ones or gathered to play plumb stones and gamble. Women, young and old, prepared food, tended babies and visited. The fires were kept smoky to discourage mosquitoes. A few men who could intimidate, either by physical presence or moral force, patrolled the grounds looking severe. Chief Little Bull had directed, “You find anyone drinking...” and finished his sentence with a jerk of his head, which signified a cold dunk in the lake, the trail home, or both.

On this day, the people of the Red Sand were celebrating the wedding of Sarah LaBourteaux and Clayton Nighthawk. The LaBourteaux family had been among the earliest Christian converts on the Red Sand, which, by the luck of the draw and the whim of the United States government, made them Episcopalians. Whether church members or not, almost everyone turned out for this happy event. A wedding was an opportunity to visit, an occasion for a feast.

Jordis and Gustie had traveled from Crow Kills to Shoonkatoh, where the mission church rose up in two stories of unadorned yellowish brick, starkly perpendicular to the subtle undulations of remarkably flat land—Gustie in her spring wagon drawn by her black mare and Jordis on Moon, the white horse that was nearly as much a part of her as her own limbs.

The fog was now merely dew on the grass. A white, glacier-like cloud loomed high up from the horizon filling half the sky. The sun was in the other half and daybright remained undiminished.

Blankets were spread in front of the church and covered with pots and pans, utensils, tobacco, new blankets, moccasins, even a saddle—items that would later in the day be part of a give-away from the bride’s family. Beyond these were two wood tables laden with food. Gustie pulled her wagon in close to the tables, and as she and Jordis unloaded their contributions to the feast, Father Flagstad came flying towards them, his cassock flapping and his long arms gesticulating. “Miss Augusta! Miss Jordis! Bring your wagon...come this way...we’ve got some sick folks here who need to get to Wheat Lake and you’re all hitched up and ready to go.” Jordis and Gustie followed him around the church.

Father Flagstad, the Episcopal priest, was tall and gangly. His red hair ascended to a frisson above a hairline that had long ago receded from a freckled expanse of forehead. His nose sloped thinly down to a point. Though only in his early thirties, his skin was dry and lined from exposure to the elements. As he spoke excitedly, tiny flecks of saliva collected on his thin lips. “They pulled in on three wheels, the whole family looking worn to the bone and starving. The little ones are sick.” His protruding eyes darted back and forth behind spectacles that continuously slid down his nose. “The missus is sick too. She won’t say so. Says she’s just tired. But to my eyes she is not a well woman. We’ve gotten out of them so far only their names—Ina and Reuben Lesner—but nothing else. Don’t know where they’re going or where they came from.”

In spite of his unprepossessing appearance and his unhinged sort of gait, Father Flagstad emanated kindness and self-assurance. He had come to the Red Sand several years ago, a widower with two sons. He had built his own house and dug his own well, with help from his parishioners and even the Catholic priest in Wheat Lake. As far as Gustie knew, he was well thought of by the Dakotah.

Gustie observed Ina Lesner sitting on the ground leaning against a cottonwood tree. Her fair skin was sallow and stretched thin over the bones of her face. Her oily hair was twisted into a messy knot on the top of her head. She held a rosary. Her two children, not as emaciated as she was, were covered by a thin blanket and lay with their heads on her lap. Their faces were rosy with fever.

This poor family, stumbling onto an Indian reservation sick in body and soul, struck a sorrowful chord in Gustie. She turned to say something to Jordis, but she was already attending the Lesners’ horses, who were sagging and spotted with sores.

Winnie Little Bull and Carrie Red Standing Horse knelt on either side of Ina Lesner and her children. Winnie had a dish of stew and Carrie a bowl of water. Sluggish flies began to buzz around the boy. Carrie brushed them away. Cradling his head in one of her long slender hands, she bathed his face with cool water.
Where is Dorcas?
Gustie wondered. She expected to find her here busy with her herbs and medicines.

Gustie identified Reuben Lesner at once, pitifully shabby, as thin as his wife, looking dazed and helpless among the men who circled his dilapidated wagon, shaking their heads and muttering in discouraging tones.

Dakotah youngsters gathered in open curiosity around the strangers. Carrie’s youngest, Louise, tall for her age and slender like her mother, reached out and touched the colorful rag doll that the Lesner girl clutched in her hand. In contrast to the drab aura that enveloped the Lesners and their few possessions, the many-colored doll spoke eloquently of a loving mother garnering scraps after the quilting and the mending were done, and of hours with her needle fashioning a treasure from almost nothing.

Ina Lesner instructed her daughter softly, “Give her the doll, Angela. I’ll make you another one. I promise.” The girl handed her doll to Louise who smiled at her, bolted, and ran to show off her new plaything. Mrs. Lesner turned her head toward Winnie. Her voice sounded like one dry sheet of paper slipping off another. “I wish we had something more to give you.”

Gustie knew better than anyone that the generosity of the Dakotah people was without parallel; no repayment was expected. Winnie smiled and offered the woman a chunk of bread soaked in broth. Gustie fingered the piece of antler she wore on a leather thong around her neck, a gift from Dorcas, and wiggled her toes inside the moccasins that Carrie made for her. Among people who had little, gifts meant a great deal.

Jordis unhitched the Lesners’ team. As Reuben Lesner watched her lead his horses away toward the lake, Chief Little Bull reassured him, “Don’t worry. She will take care of them like they are her relatives.”

Father Flagstad bent over Mrs. Lesner. “Miss Roemer will take you in to Wheat Lake to the doctor. It’s not far. Red Standing Horse will follow with your things in his wagon.”

She nodded gratefully and was helped to her feet. Her husband left the men contemplating his rig to help her into the back of Gustie’s wagon. When she was settled, Little Bull picked up her son and Red Standing Horse her daughter, and the two men carried them to their mother’s lap. In the arms of these big men, the Lesner children appeared like drab dolls themselves. Reuben Lesner climbed in beside his family.

The priest continued, “We can’t fix your wagon here. Besides that broken wheel, you’ve got a cracked axle. We’ll haul it into the blacksmith in town tomorrow.”

“I have no money,” Reuben Lesner said.

“Well, the smithy’s a good Episcopalian,” Father Flagstad smiled, exposing his crooked teeth, “and he owes me a favor. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be looking in on you. We have a Catholic parish in Wheat Lake. I’ll see that Father Gregory knows you’re there, too.”

Ina Lesner nodded and in her papery voice said, “God bless you.” She closed her eyes.

Winnie made final adjustments to their blankets while Carrie smiled up at Gustie perched on her wagon seat. “You’ll miss the wedding,” she said.

Behind them, the Lesners’ few worldly goods were transferred to Red Standing Horse’s box wagon. Above, a small cloud calved from the glacial cloud and, borne on the high air currents over Shoonkatoh, cast a shadow over the brooding lake. A sudden wind lifted Biddie’s mane and ruffled Gustie’s hair. She pulled away from the feast site, leaving behind the sounds of barking dogs, iron spoons scraping the sides of iron pots, and people talking about hunting and fishing, old times, the plenitude of the gifts, and the beauty of the bride.

The sound of two wagons pulling up in front of his small office at the end of Wheat Lake’s Main Street brought Doctor Clark Llewellyn outside. A handsome, slender young man, the doctor looked slight in the presence of Red Standing Horse, who stood over six feet tall and weighed nearly three hundred pounds.

The first thing Gustie remembered hearing about the doctor, a newcomer to the Dakotas, was that he was afraid of horses.

The locals laughed at this man who had to depend so entirely upon an animal that made him sweat. Still, the doctor accomplished his rounds with good humor, both on the reservation and off and looked forward to the day when he could afford a motor car.

Clark Llewellyn was fresh out of medical school and single. Hoping to ignite a spark between him and her eldest daughter, Alvinia Torgerson had already invited him to dinner, but Betty was in love with her poor farm boy. Alvinia had not considered the evening a waste, however, since Alice was almost seventeen, and Betty could still change her mind.

Doctor Llewellyn asked Red Standing Horse after the health of Carrie and the children, greeted Gustie and then followed her around the back of her wagon to meet his new patients. A grim look crossed his face, but he covered it briskly. “Right, then. Let’s get them inside.”

The second room of the doctor’s modest office had four narrow beds. They laid the children in one of them and Mrs. Lesner in another. “You can bunk in here with your family, Mr. Lesner,” the doctor invited.

Reuben Lesner nodded gratefully, took his hat off and sat gingerly on the edge of the extra bed, his hat in his hands. Doctor Llewellyn’s offer could have been simply a kindness, suspecting the man had no money for a room, but Gustie wasn’t sure. She was no physician, but, to her eyes, Reuben Lesner was not looking particularly well either.

“Have they had something to eat?”

“They were given stew and bread. I don’t know if they were able to eat much,” Gustie replied.

Red Standing Horse unloaded the Lesners’ belongings, piled them under the eaves and headed back to the mission while Gustie helped the doctor settle them in. The entire family was immediately asleep. She wondered how long it had been since they had lain in real beds.

Doctor Llewellyn walked Gustie outside. She asked, “Any idea what’s wrong with them?”

“Besides malnutrition and exhaustion, I’m not sure. I don’t like the looks of that boy. On your way out of town, could you stop by the Tollefsons? Ask Mrs. Tollefson to come around. She acts as my nurse. Good she is too.”

Gustie smiled at the lilt of Welsh music in the doctor’s speech. No, he would not remain a bachelor for long, not while Alvinia had marriageable daughters.

How eager people were to marry!
The rhythm of Biddie’s hooves on the dirt road reminded Gustie of waking up a few nights ago to what she thought was the sound of hoof beats. Once her eyes were open, however, and staring into the darkness, listening, all she could hear was the regular thumping of her own heart. She threw back the quilt, lit the lantern, put on her glasses, and picked up the pocket watch lying on her nightstand. It said two o’clock.

She pulled on some warm clothes, tucked her hair up under her old conductor’s cap, and took the lantern outside. A damp wind eddied around her, licking the glass lamp, unable to consume its small fire.

When she opened the barn door the amiable mare whickered her customary greeting even though Gustie was four hours earlier than usual. Gustie led her out of the barn and over to the fence. She hung the lantern on the post, unsnapped the lead rope and re-attached it on either side of the halter for reins, and giving herself a leg up on the slats of the fence, mounted Biddie’s bare back. On the dark road to Charity, low cloud cover meant she had to trust her own good night vision and the mare’s instincts to keep to the road.

She nudged the horse into a fast walk. The worst that could happen was that she would get to Charity, the feeling of urgency that had drawn her out on this blustery night would dissipate, and she could go home and back to bed. No one but Biddie would know of their wild goose chase. They covered nearly three miles when the mare stopped suddenly and snorted. Gustie heard panting sounds of grief and exhaustion before she was able to discern a figure in the road.