Edge of the Wilderness - By Stephanie Grace Whitson Page 0,34
try to cross back into Minnesota.”
The farmer took his hat off and swiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. “I know all about that. What’s that got to do with you?” He settled his hat back on his head.
“They decided to divide the scouts up into camps. They left three of us at Fort Ridgely to help protect the settlers coming back. Someone rode in yesterday and said they found a campsite down here. They said an Indian child was buried in the old way, high in a notch of a tree. Captain Willets sent us to check it out.”
“Us?” The farmer looked around warily.
Daniel jerked his chin up, indicating the cornfield behind him. “My friend Robert Lawrence is in there hoping you don’t kill me.”
“Come on out of there, Robert Lawrence,” the farmer called loudly. He took two steps backward and waited. At the opposite end of the cornfield a few stalks of corn moved. The farmer repeated, “Come on. I see where you are. I won’t shoot.”
When Robert finally appeared, the farmer motioned him to stand beside Daniel.
“How come your uniforms don’t match?”
“They give us old uniforms,” Robert said. “Whatever they have.”
“I heard about that Indian campfire,” he said. “It’s on my neighbor’s place. Down by the creek that runs through his south field.” He shuddered. “Small child wrapped in a buffalo robe high up off the ground. It ain’t Christian.” The farmer nodded at Robert. “You got one of those papers that tells what a fine citizen you are?”
Robert nodded.
“Let’s see it.”
The farmer looked over Robert’s paper carefully and added it to his pocket. “You two walk down here from Fort Ridgely?” he asked abruptly.
Robert answered, “We left our horses tethered to a bush just over that ridge. They aren’t very well broke. We didn’t want to trample down any of your crop.”
At the farmer’s look of surprise, Robert shrugged, “We were farmers before the trouble last fall.” He added, “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone riding half-wild horses through my cornfield. Not until after harvest, anyway.”
“You find any trace of hostiles on my place?”
Robert nodded. “They passed by here maybe two days ago. Probably a small group of women. Maybe a young boy with them. That would explain how they got the dead one up so high in the tree. We’ll follow them and take them to the fort.”
The farmer frowned. “How can you be sure it was women?”
“Warriors ride stallions,” Daniel said. “All this group had with them was one half-lame mare.” When the farmer still looked doubtful, Daniel went on to explain how he could tell the sex of the horse he was tracking.
The farmer shook his head. “Well, I’ll be.” He studied the ground for a minute before clearing his throat and asking, “If that was a stallion and you’d found yourself a hostile Indian, what’d you do then?”
“Take him back to Fort Ridgely.”
“What if he didn’t want to go?”
“Then we shoot.”
“You’d do that?” the farmer asked. “You’d shoot one of your own?”
“A warrior planning to murder families is not one of my own.”
The farmer studied Daniel and Robert carefully, taking in the ill-fitting uniforms, the high-crowned felt hats, the long dark braids trailing down the men’s shoulders. “You two hungry?” he asked abruptly.
Daniel started to say no when his stomach growled. He grinned sheepishly.
“Get your horses and come on up to the house,” the farmer said. “My missus just made a raspberry pie.”
The men hesitated.
The farmer waved at them. “Come on. My Marjorie ain’t some fool woman that faints at the sight of an Indian.” He curled up one side of his lip in a crooked smile. “My granddad was friends of Chief Paducah on the homestead in Kentucky. Indians never did us any harm, and we done what we could to make life easier for them.” He turned to go, and it was then that Daniel and Robert noticed the man limped. “Johnny Reb burned us out so we come here.” He turned back. “I never learned to be afraid of Indians. Hope it don’t get me killed.” He limped away.
Robert and Daniel retrieved their horses, then followed the farmer to his cabin. When they reached the farmyard, they found him bent over a bucket of cold water splashing his face and washing his hands. At their approach, he stood up. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, wiped them on the seat of his pants, and extended his hand. “Jeb Grant.” When a plain, dark-haired woman appeared in the doorway