Spring for Susannah (37 page)
The boy hauled him over to a bigger tepee, one with smoke coming out the top, and pulled him inside. It was warm here, at least, and he could smell meat cooking.
Misun motioned to a spot beside the door. A spot on the boy's buffalo rug, more comfortable than sitting on the ground. When Jesse's eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw two others sitting by the fire: a woman who might have been Susannah's age and the young girl who sometimes brought him food. “Your mom and sister? Do you have a dad?”
The woman raised her hands, looked up to the smoke hole, and said a few words before handing out breakfast. Jesse didn't recognize what she said, but it sure looked like saying grace.
Warm habitation, hot food, and best of all: no sign of the sergeant.
Susannah shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets and walked with her back to the wind, stomping her feet on the frozen ground. The train had steamed into town, necessitating a recess. Even if she had been able to teach over the distraction and noise, the children couldn't be seen in the army mail station. If some train-riding officer objected to their use of government property, her students would be out of a school and she'd be out of a job.
Today, the approach of the Northern Pacific coincided with the disappearance of the sun behind a cloud bank. Susannah tightened the wool scarf around her ears. The children and Jake raced around in a bilingual “blindman's bluff,” oblivious to the chill. They gave little notice to the passenger whose arrival lengthened their break.
The man got off the train and raised his arm to secure his hat, but even though Susannah couldn't see his face, she knew it wasn't Jesse. This man moved too hesitantly. Besides, Jesse wouldn't come on a westbound train.
The stranger disappeared into the store. Mrs. Rose would give her all the detailsâand moreâthis evening.
The engine built up a full head of steam for the climb out of the valley. Opaque white clouds swallowed the locomotive and lapped the platform of the store. The expanding hot metal of the firebox cracked and boomed in the cold air. A whistle blast sent the train westward and signaled the end of recess.
The students raced inside to thaw at the stove before resuming their lessons. Susannah had paired each Hansen child with a Rose. At first it didn't seem fair to burden the English speakers with teaching duties, but the Hansens' thirst for knowledge kept the wild Roses on task. In fact, a bizarre competition developed among the Rose children: “My Norwegian talks better than your Norwegian.”
Susannah took a seat between the two oldest for their arithmetic recitations, keeping one ear tuned toward Robert Rose, who had tried to sneak vulgar names for body parts into yesterday's lesson.
“Mrs. Mason?” The passenger, a burly middle-aged man, entered the building. The students went instantly silent. The man doffed his broad-brimmed hat and rearranged strands of faded brown hair over his prominent forehead.
Jake padded over to administer his standard welcome. The stranger's smile froze. Salt-and-pepper wisps of beard quivered on his lower jaw. He backed toward the door, sneezing and wiping his hooked nose.
“May I help you?” Susannah snapped her fingers, ending the dog's circle-and-sniff inspection. The man sighed his relief and unbuttoned his straight-breasted black coat to reveal a white shirt, black vest, and tie of plain black ribbon.
“Good afternoon. I'm John W. Webb.” His booming voice rattled the windows. A politician?
“Do you have webbed feet?” asked Robert.
Mr. Webb glared and clenched his fists.
“Quiet, class.” Susannah shot the boy a quick frown. “Please excuse the interruption. This is only our third week of school.”
“May I speak with you?” One eye on the dog, the big man inched toward the stove.
Susannah consulted her father's pocket watch, pinned to her bodice. “We have a few more minutes of school. Won't you make yourself comfortable while I finish their lessons?”
“I'd be honored to assist.”
“Very kind of you to offer. How are you at arithmetic?”
“At the head of my class until geometry.”
“Very good, then, if you could listen to Robert and Erik reciteâ” Susannah indicated the two boys wiggling by the west wall. When Erik yanked off Robert's stocking cap, tufts of hair above his ears had pulled upright, standing like horns.
Well, Mr. Webb,
she thought,
there's a clue as to what to expect from that child.
Subdued by the presence of the stranger, the children sped through the lessons, then dashed home in the early dusk of the low clouds.
Susannah fed the stove another cow chip and lit the kerosene lantern.
“Mrs. Mason, I'm stunned. A school meeting in a shanty, guarded by a wolf. No books, no paper, no desks. Half the students unable to converse in English.”
“Run by a teacher without a certificate.” A pregnant teacher, no less. Susannah sat on the opposite bench. “You're from the Territorial Board of Education?”
“Actually, no. I'm a missionary from the Northwest Iowa Methodist Conference. I was told Jesse Mason, brother of a fellow minister, could provide me with accommodations and orientation to the community.”
Ah, a preacher. That explained the voice. “Mr. Mason is out of town on business. I expect him back any day.”
“Mrs. Rose said he was prospecting?”
“A veritable fount of information, isn't she?”
“Mrs. Mason!” The Reverend's pale eyes opened wide, shocked by Susannah's attitude or Jesse's employment, she couldn't tell. The corner of his mouth twitched with a suppressed smile.
“The Roses can provide you with a bed for the night and a meal, unless you're partial to potatoes.”
The mention of food brought him to his feet. “That reminds meâthe relief supplies!” With the easy movements of someone accustomed to physical labor, the man carried in several barrels. He pried open the lid on the largest, revealing apples cushioned with straw, and tins of coffee, cocoa, and crackers. “The smaller barrels are salt pork. The newspapers carried the story of the grasshopper plague, so the congregations in the States sent food for the needy. I could use your advice regarding distribution, starting with yourself, of course.”
“We lost our wheat crop, but we still have potatoes.” Susannah indicated the army crate in the corner.
Reverend Webb tilted his head to the side and placed his hands, fingertips together, in front of his chest, exactly as her brother-in-law did. Must be part of their training, Susannah thought, ministerial posturing.
“Mrs. Mason, how long have you been subsisting on potatoes?”
Although his solemn expression struck her as ludicrous, Susannah's embarrassment at her poverty kept her from laughing. “It's difficult to recall exactly.”
“Six weeks? Then your next opportunity for provender other than potatoes would be a minimum of eight, possibly ten months from now.”
“Except for fresh meat from hunting.”
He ignored her remark as if too outrageous to merit a response. “Mrs. Mason, do you recall Jesus' visit to Jacob's well? His disciples had gone to town for food. He asked a Samaritan woman to give Him a drink of water.”
“Yes, I remember.” Jesus had asked the woman about her husband, but she didn't have one. Was this sermon about Jesse?
“Our Lord is able to feed thousands from a couple loaves and fishes, yet He accepted water and food from others.”
Susannah looked at the barrel and swallowed. This baby seemed to make her hungry all the time. “Reverend Webb, shall we discuss distribution of relief supplies over supper?”
Lord, I don't have to tell You,
this isn't what I had in mind.
B
reath puffing white in the dawn chill, Reverend Webb burst from the store. “Fine morning for a drive! May I be of assistance?”
“Certainly.”
Susannah's heart sank. Last night the Reverend had stated his intention to accompany her to the claim. He wanted to see more of the territory and how its people lived. Susannah really needed time to herself after teaching unruly students and dealing with Mrs. Rose all week. She informed him that Dakota looked the same from a wagon as it did from the train. The ride was long, the wagon seat hard, and laundry was the only objective for the day.
He didn't get the hint but insisted on accompanying her. On the chance he might be a late sleeper, Susannah woke before sunrise. Apparently he was an early riser too. Might as well put him to work. “I could use your help with the oxen.”
Reverend Webb swung the yoke with a practiced ease. Obviously he had done more than study Scripture in recent years.
Susannah fastened the bows and threaded the traces through the loops. “It's really not necessary for you to go with me.” Susannah nodded at Jake seated on the laundry bag. “Between the dog and the shotgun, I'm quite safe.”
“It's a privilege.” The Reverend joined her on the seat, dashing her last hope that he would think of some other activity for the day. He shot a glance at the store, letting out a shudder.
Susannah shook the reins, guiding the team across the Sheyenne and up to the prairie. “The Roses have that effect on me too.”
“And those children,” he groaned. “I've seen better manners in barroom brawls. You are to be commended for endeavoring to teach such hoodlums.”
“You ministered in saloons, Reverend Webb?”
“It is the sick who need a physician.”
Topping a rise, they startled a herd of antelope. Jake leaped off the wagon and gave chase. Susannah grabbed the gun, but the deer bounded out of range before she could raise the butt to her shoulder.
Reverend Webb shivered in stunned silence. For the thousandth time, Susannah wished Jesse were there. He wouldn't have any difficulty keeping the conversation going. And he'd appreciate that the Reverend's nose was larger than his. Now, what could she ask the man to get him talking again? “Saloons. I guess you have quite the testimony.”
“Ah, Mrs. Mason. You know just how to warm the heart of an old circuit rider. I shall endeavor to keep it brief.”
Out here, the wind took the echo out of his voice and blew away a little of his formality. “I was born in Indiana in 1825. When I was fourteen, an accident involving a runaway team took my mother and sister from this troubled life. My father escaped without a scratchâone of the ironies of drink. The other irony is that rather than putting him on the path of reform, his vile habit worsened. Within the year, he joined his wife and daughter in the grave.”
Susannah opened her mouth to express her condolences, but the Reverend continued on, preaching to a congregation of one. Only fourteen. If her parents had died so early, what would have become of her? Perhaps God had been watching over her all this time, even as she accused Him of abandonment.
“As you may have observed, boys of a certain age grow about a foot a year and seem to have a hollow leg when the dinner bell rings. I took on many jobs to fill my belly: farmwork, digging wells, building barns. When a circus came to town offering a prize to whoever could best their fighter, I figured my muscles would win me an easy meal. But their boy knew his business. He flattened me before the end of the first minute. I followed the circus the rest of the summer, hanging around the boxing ring, watching fights, picking up a few pointers, learning how to work the crowd. A fighter takes part of the bets if he wins. Pays better than farmwork.”
Susannah smiled to show him she wasn't scandalized.
“After a while I headed west, arriving in Iowa in '55. I fought my way through the saloons along the Mississippi, keeping myself fed as long as the law looked the other way. One night, after a disputed bout, a gang of river rats jumped me. They tossed my carcass in a graveyard, but I wasn't nearly as dead as they thought. Next morning a preacher came upon me. He conveyed me to the parsonage, where his wife tended my wounds.
“Now, what do you suppose a preacher would do with a captive audience?” He pulled a worn Bible from his coat pocket. “I received healing in body and in spirit.”
Head down, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, Jake trudged out of the next draw and dropped to the ground. Embarrassed about the antelope, he pretended to nap.
“Shall I retrieve your dog?” Reverend Webb offered reluctantly.
“No, he'll be along. You went into the ministry?”
“With a name like John Wesley, what else could I do?”
“What indeed?”
“I promised to keep this short.” His mouth curled in a wry smile. “I served as a deacon and elder in Iowa until I got the call to the Northern Pacific Mission. Like the Good Samaritan who rescued me, I've tended many a lost soul. The tragedy of my father's inebriation and my experience with pugilism has been put to good use in the ministry. Do you believe great victories can come from trials and adversity?”