Soaring Eagle Read online

  When it appeared that Jim was finished, Soaring Eagle rose and went back to his own buffalo skin to ponder the revelations concerning the white captive. In the quiet, he heard the man breathing deeply and knew that he was sleeping again. His mutterings continued, but there were no more screams.

  When the sun rose, Jim found that he had been untied and was free to move about the tepee. The woman named Prairie Flower offered him a thin gruel to assuage his hunger. As he ate, they watched one another curiously. The woman appeared to be past middle age. A bad scar across the bridge of her nose marred what had undoubtedly been a beautiful face. Kindness shone in her eyes and sounded in her voice when she spoke. “There is water not far from here. I will show you.”

  Jim nodded and followed the woman to a slow-flowing creek. For all her years, she walked gracefully and quickly. Jim sank into the water and tried to wash the grime from his hands. Pushing up his tattered sleeves, he scrubbed at his arms, too, then his face. He was still squatting in the middle of the shallow creek when Soaring Eagle came for him. Together, they walked to the center of the camp where Sitting Bull waited to talk.

  When Jim entered the council circle and was shoved into the center, he stumbled and fell headlong in the dust. His wet clothing was caked with mud. There were jeers from a few of the younger braves, but Sitting Bull quickly motioned for them to be quiet. Jim looked up and was amazed to see something that looked like kindness in the chief’s face. He wore no paint. His thick braids reached almost to his waist in front. One lone eagle feather adorned the scalp lock in back.

  Jim scooted back and sat cross-legged across from the chief, waiting. Sitting Bull looked his captive over carefully before speaking. When he finally spoke, he asked no questions of Jim.

  “I have never thought I was against the white man,” he said. “Any white man who comes to my land to trade is welcome. I don’t like to start a fight, but the whites have come into He Sapa. The soldiers have built their forts where the treaties said they would not. All I want is to see how and where I can find meat for my people. Still, the soldiers line up to kill us.”

  Sitting Bull stopped abruptly. “Tell me, soldier, what do they call you?”

  “Jim Callaway.”

  “Jim Callaway. Do you see this land?” The chief gestured toward the horizon dramatically. “Before your people came, I could ride my fastest pony for a week and still not come to the end of the land where my people could hunt and live. Now the whites have come, and they want me to go to the agency where I will have to tell the Grandfather when I am hungry.”

  Rumbles of anger sounded in the throats of the men around him. Sitting Bull continued, “When the white men first came among us, all they wanted was a place to build their tepees. Now, nothing is enough. They want all of our hunting grounds, from the rising to the setting sun. They want to kill our warriors. They even kill our women and children. They will not leave us in peace. So we take up our weapons. My warriors are brave, but the white men are too many for us. They have made a spider’s web around us, and we cannot escape. Still, we will not die without a fight. So, Jim Callaway, you must tell me. Where will the soldiers come to fight again? I want to meet them.”

  Throughout the long speech, Jim had watched Sitting Bull’s face become animated with the conviction of what he said. When he asked the inevitable question, Jim reluctantly shook his head. “I cannot tell you where the soldiers are. They will come to fight, but I do not know where. Your men found me like this,” Jim indicated his tattered clothes. “I was waiting to die. The sun has risen and set many times since I saw any soldiers.”

  “We will have to kill you if you do not tell us what we must know.” The words came from behind Jim, and he recognized the voice of Soaring Eagle.

  Jim answered tersely, without looking around, “I told you last night that I’m done with the soldiers. I want nothing more to do with them. Kill me. I know nothing to help you.”

  Sitting Bull and Soaring Eagle held a brief conversation as if Jim were not present. Soaring Eagle told of their nocturnal conversation bluntly. Other braves held council with one another. The younger men were eager to kill the white intruder.

  After considering Soaring Eagle’s information, Sitting Bull concluded the council simply. “He has nothing worth killing him for—no horse, no rifle. He was leaving our country. We will let him go. But first,” Sitting Bull suggested, displaying his legendary generosity, “we will feed him and give him a horse.”

  Soaring Eagle had dragged Jim Callaway into camp as a prisoner, but Sitting Bull’s decision transformed him from prisoner to a stranger in need of help. Soaring Eagle grasped the chance to show hospitality. “Prairie Flower has stew cooking. We will feed him. When he is ready to travel, I will give him one of my ponies.”

  Sitting Bull nodded with satisfaction at Soaring Eagle’s generosity. “Good. You will be a great leader one day, Soaring Eagle.”

  None of the younger braves murmured against Sitting Bull. They knew that his hospitality was meant as a sign of strength, not weakness. Some among them regretted not having stepped out more quickly than Soaring Eagle to show their own goodness.

  Soaring Eagle was surprised to feel a sense of relief at not having to kill Jim Callaway. Killing wounded animals had never brought him pleasure.

  When Soaring Eagle brought Jim Callaway back to his tepee as a guest rather than a prisoner, Prairie Flower welcomed the stranger warmly and began to chatter happily.

  “I knew they would not kill you,” she assured Jim. “He hides it well, but in his heart Soaring Eagle is a kind man.” Being allowed to live by the very people he felt he had persecuted brought Jim a measure of peace. He listened with interest as Prairie Flower boasted about Soaring Eagle.

  “Your son saved my life,” Jim finally said. He didn’t express any gratitude, he just said it, hoping that the woman would continue to talk.

  “Son?” Prairie Flower said. “No, he’s not my son. His first mother died. Then there was another woman from among your people.” Prairie Flower’s voice softened as she went on. “She was my friend. Did you know her? Did you know the one called Jess-e-King?”

  The name sounded a familiar note from the past, but Jim shook his head, not wanting to remember.

  “She was a good woman,” Prairie Flower went on, barely acknowledging Jim’s presence. “She came among us and took Soaring Eagle to her heart when he was still in his cradle board. She was with us for many years. After she was taken from us, Soaring Eagle became as my son. But he still carries Walks the Fire with him, near his heart.”

  Standing just outside the tepee, Soaring Eagle listened intently, angered by Prairie Flower’s easy acceptance and casual sharing of his background with a stranger. He lurched inside and barked at Prairie Flower. “We will not kill him, but we will not be his friends. Feed him and get him ready to travel. That is all.”

  Hurt shone on the kind, scarred face. Soaring Eagle’s voice softened with regret. “They are not all like Walks the Fire, Unci.”

  It was Prairie Flower’s turn to be angry. “And you think I do not know that! I was with you when we walked through the camp where the soldiers had been. I helped pick up the bodies! I helped find lodges to take in the orphans!” As she spoke, she grew more animated, until finally she stood before Soaring Eagle, shaking her finger in his face. “I know they are not all like Walks the Fire! But this one,” Prairie Flower shook her finger in Jim’s direction. “This one has been mad with grief for what he has done. You said you found him waiting to die. I say he has suffered enough. I say here is a good man who must live. And if he is to live in my tepee, I will talk to him as I please!”

  Prairie Flower snatched down the waterskin from the lodgepole and shook it at Soaring Eagle. “I am going to get water,” she announced angrily, “and when I get back, if Jim Callaway wants to know about the Lakota, I will tell him!”

  Prairie Flower stormed out of the tepee. After she left, Soaring Eagle stood still for a moment, pondering he
r speech. Then he squatted by the fire and, without looking at Jim, said casually, “You are a hard people to understand, Jim Callaway.”

  “You are a hard people to understand, Soaring Eagle,” came the echo.

  For the first time, the two looked at one another as men.

  Chapter 6

  For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.

  Jeremiah 29:11†

  There were just two of them. He had stumbled over them in the dark, feeling his way along the cold stone edges, shivering and withdrawing his hands. Now, in the daylight, he inspected them more closely. Grass had grown up around the graves. As he leaned over the tombstones, Jim’s attention was drawn to a huge yellow and black spider that had spun a lace hammock between them. Dangling in the breeze, the spider waited for dinner to be caught in its web. Jim watched for a long moment, studying the web. He reached out impulsively to brush it away but stopped his hand in midair and denied the impulse.

  The two stones were little more than huge red rocks, probably hauled from one of the fields that surrounded the abandoned farmhouse. Their inscriptions said only “Ma” and “Pa,” the words crudely chipped away from the center of each rock. “Ma” had apparently died before “Pa,” for the cedar seedling planted behind her stone was taller than Pa’s by a foot.

  Jim stood up and walked to the well. By unwinding and mending the rope at several places, he made it long enough to reach the water below. In the barn he had found a bucket. Letting it down, he drew up water and gave both trees a thorough drenching. Drops splashed from the bucket onto the spider’s web, and the creature sought refuge in the tall grass growing around the graves.

  Having watered the trees, Jim set to work pulling the weeds that had sprung up around the graves. After only a couple of hours’ work, the plot appeared well cared for. Jim stood back and grunted with satisfaction.

  He turned his attention to the house and barn. Why had such a good start been abandoned? he wondered. The house was modest but seemed well built. On the north, a low porch sheltered the front door. Wrapping around one side, the porch also covered another entrance toward the back of the house. This door faced east and looked out toward the barn. The door facing the barn had blown loose and hung flapping on its hinges. The place had obviously been empty for a while. The roof seemed tight and the siding was in place, but an attempt at paint had long since worn off the exposed wood, showing only under the porch in a few faded splotches.

  Jim inspected the massive barn. The owner had had big plans, all right. Inside there were eight box stalls, and on the wall opposite the stalls, elaborate harnesses hung covered with cobwebs and dust. Beyond the box stalls were two other large stalls, big enough to hold several sheep or goats. A ladder, ascending the far wall, gave access up to the hayloft.

  Jim climbed the ladder. In one corner of the loft a pitchfork stuck out of the hay, as if its owner had just heard the supper bell and left his work. Jim ran his rough hands along the posts and beams of the barn, admiring the workmanship. Whatever had happened, the man who built this barn had had plans to stay for a long time.

  A mouse skittered across the floor, and Jim hopped aside as a yellow cat shot by in hot pursuit. In a moment, the cat reappeared atop the huge pile of hay, his prize dangling from his mouth. Jim turned his back on the scene and retreated down the ladder. He walked to the far end of the barn again, outside and around the back, stepping over a fallen fence post and into the corral. Deliberately he opened every stall door, letting light pour into the stalls.

  They needed mucking out. Jim retrieved the pitchfork from the hayloft and began clearing out each stall. In a corner of the barn, he found a hinged box half-hidden under a rotting saddle blanket. Inside was an array of tools that had obviously been cared for by loving hands. Taking up the hammer, Jim extracted a few nails and repaired a broken corral rail.

  There was no reason for doing the work, and yet restoring the broken things in this abandoned farmstead brought an odd type of peace. Jim had weeded the burial plot and cleaned out the barn. Night was fast approaching. With it came a gnawing hunger. It would not be the first night Jim Callaway had bedded down without eating. Pulling a clear bucket of water up from the well, Jim drank deeply, climbed the ladder to the barn loft, and fell asleep.

  Jim woke at dawn and sat upright with the sudden realization that last night, for the first night since Slim Buttes, the eyes of the Indian children had not come to haunt his sleep. He had slept fully and deeply, and the first moments of his waking had been curiously peaceful. Something about this place had seemed to welcome him. He was in no hurry to move on. But the pangs of hunger in his belly reminded him that he had to do something about eating, and soon.

  From outside, the sound of a wagon rattling into the farmyard interrupted his plans to try fishing in the creek out back. Lying flat on his belly, Jim slithered to the edge of the loft and peered out the haymow at the intruder who had climbed from the wagon and stood by the graves, scratching his head in wonderment.

  The intruder looked about him, hands on hips, and began to speak to the sky. “My, my, won’t you look at that! Now who’d be comin’ out here cleanin’ up them graves?” Joseph’s eyes scanned the farmyard for signs of life. Only the open door of the barn gave a hint of human habitation.

  Jim was just about to believe that he would escape detection when a little gray dog shot out from under the wagon seat, into the barn, and to the ladder, yapping furiously. The man clamped his hat back on his head, drew a rifle from under his wagon seat, and followed the dog to the ladder.

  “Whoever you are, you’d better come down outta that loft right now,” a deep voice boomed.

  Jim Callaway stood up and brushed the hay from his clothes. He called from the loft, “Calm down, mister. I mean no harm. I came into the farmyard late and just spent the night up here in the loft, that’s all.”

  “You got nothin’ to hide, then you quit yer hidin’ up in that loft.” Joseph silenced the little dog and carefully aimed his rifle at the broad back that descended the ladder. As the young man turned around, Joseph noticed the tattered clothes, the unkempt beard, the long hair. He wondered at the whiteness of the beard, the redness of the hair. He had seen that happen before—once. Joseph had been called on to help sift through the remains of a fire. A young wife and her two children had died in the fire, and her young husband had stood by, helpless to rescue his family. His beard had come in white, too, even though the hair on his head was black as a raven. This boy had been through something horrible. Even with the military buttons removed, Joseph recognized the tattered Army uniform. He squinted his eyes and muttered, “Suppose you just tell me what you been doin’ here on the Baird place, anyhow? And if I believe yer story, maybe I’ll lower this rifle, and we’ll talk some more.”

  Jim Callaway met the hard stare of Joseph Freeman calmly. He stood up straight and answered honestly. “I’ve been wandering for quite a while, mister. I just stumbled into the farmyard last night. Everything was dark. I figured the folks was asleep and wouldn’t mind if I slept in their loft. I planned on offering to work for the night’s board this morning.” Jim glanced out at the graves, “But it doesn’t seem there’s anybody around.”

  “Why you been wandering?” came the demand.

  Jim looked away and blinked several times. Swallowing hard he said quietly, “Look, mister, I’d tell you if I could. Fact is, I can’t tell you. . . . I’m not a criminal or anything like that. . . . I just can’t. . . .”

  “You’re a military man.” Joseph stated it as fact, and Jim flinched and swallowed hard. His gray-green eyes met Joseph’s hard brown stare and looked away. But before he looked away, Joseph saw it. He knew the look, because he’d seen it in dozens of eyes before. Every slave he’d ever met who was running away from the past had that look about him. This boy—and to Joseph he was just a boy—was running away from a past too awful to talk about. Something in
the straight shoulders, the square chin, the attempt at an honest answer touched Joseph. The stare said, “I’ve got a story to tell, but don’t you ask it because it’s buried too deep. I’m trying to be an honest man. I’m looking for a new start. Just don’t ask about that thing in my past, and I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll be going if you’ll just lower that rifle.” Jim said it as calmly as he could, but his eyes pleaded kindness.

  Slowly, the rifle was lowered. “Why’d you fix up those graves?”

  The broad shoulders shrugged. “It just seemed to need doing.”

  “Why’d you clean out these stalls—mend that fence?”

  At the look of surprise on Jim’s face, Joseph said, “Yes, I know every board and every rock on this place. I been watchin’ it for years. So why’d you clean out these stalls—mend that fence?”

  Jim repeated, “I really don’t know. It just seemed to need doing.”

  The stillness that arose between the two men was broken by a voracious growl from Jim’s long-neglected stomach. Joseph Freeman suddenly laughed, a deep, booming laugh that filled every corner of the barn.

  “Well, while I figure out what kind of varmint you are, guess you’d better come out here and eat some of Miz Hathaway’s biscuits. I don’t want no dead varmint on my hands!”

  Jim sat in the shade of Joseph’s wagon and wolfed down three huge biscuits before Joseph questioned him again. “Now, listen here, young man, you don’t need to tell me your whole life story if you don’t want to, but you got to tell me a few things. You’re thin as a rail, and you need a good pair of duds. Are you running from the law?” Joseph looked into the gray-green eyes and demanded, “And don’t you be lying to me, either. You runnin’ from the law, that’s your business, and I’ll let you run on. But I want to know the truth.”

  Jim looked squarely into the kind face. “No, sir, I’m not running from the law.”