I'm up early this morning. The song birds are out chirping as the dawn light breaks over the far horizon. Everything is still but not for too long. Senator Crane is coming today.
Enjoying the peaceful solitude while it lasts, I am making my way on a winding path outside of town that leads to a shallow part of the river. There, everyone gets water. Here, I plan to get water for Miss Cole. It's best to run simple errands like this in the wee hours of the morning before the rowdy town wakes up from its slumber. It's best to keep a low profile like I do to avoid unwelcome harassment.
At last, I make it to the banks of the river. It looks still but I don't let its powerful current fool me. The buzzing of grasshoppers and chirping of crickets are the only sounds I presently hear.
Drawing the extra large bucket into the river's edge, my mind goes to Ruth. Pure and good Ruth. She was so mean to me last week. The way she runs hot and cold only confuses me. I pray for her and I pray for Father. They need healing. Lots of people need healing. Especially after what Pawnee Killer did to the railroad's surveying camp. May God forgive them all.
The bucket is full of water now. I pick it up and make my way back on the dusty path. With each step I take, the water sloshes out of the bucket, dampening my pants. But I don't care. It's so hot out right now, I welcome it as much as I would welcome a rain shower.
As I see the church steeple in sight, my thoughts linger back to Ruth. She is so petulant. So childlike. The way she pouts and stamps her foot when she doesn't get her way. Ruth never does this in front of Father but I have seen her do it behind the church, just yesterday. It was after Father gave her the cold shoulder when she told him she was glad to have a family again. She caught me staring at her little tantrum only after it caused me to chuckle out loud. Embarrassed, she dashed into her tent, tying it up. At times, Ruth is but a child by the way she acts. At other times, she exercises poise and measured maturity that is rare to see in a girl of 18. Is she a girl or a young woman? It confuses me even more that the attributes that make her a woman get to me. For one, her angelic face beguiles me.
No, I will not allow myself to think of Ruth as a lovely young woman. She is my sister by way of Reverend Cole adopting me as his only son. And it feels wrong to find my sister lovely to look upon. But she has such a lovely face when she smiles but her smile is rare.
Finally making it back to the church tent, I set down the bucket of water. I can hear Reverend Cole's raucous snore reverberating from the church quarters. A rooster announces its triumphant crow to the town that it is time to wake up. I walk into the back of the church tent and head for my quarters. It is time for morning prayers.
After prayers, I enjoy a hearty breakfast of oatmeal at the table.
"It's going to be a busy day," Reverend Cole says frankly. "We will need our energy Joseph– "
"I want to come!" Ruth interjects, pursing her lips into a defiant pout.
"Watching Senator Crane come onto the train platform is no place for a little girl," Reverend Cole admonishes her. "The crowds will be unpredictable."
"I am not a little girl, Papa." Ruth frowns. "I am grown!"
"Ruth!" Father warns her sternly.
I pick up from Father's tone that his words for Ruth are not out of a loving concern but a general practical concern for keeping women folk safe. Reverend Cole would do the same for other women. Glancing at Ruth, I can tell she has discerned the same meaning I got and it hurts her.
"I cannot wait to see Father and Pawnee Killer," I say earnestly. "I have so many things to talk about."
"But I want to come, Papa!" Ruth insists through whining. "There is nothing to do in this town. Nothing but reading the bible, doing chores, meals, and prayer time. Nothing at all. I am curious to see what the Senator looks like."
I smile slightly at Ruth. Her curiosity is tantamount to my curiosity. I can't help but genuinely like her. I do. She is only tough because she has endured so much. Abrasive. That's what Father calls it.
Ruth can be abrasive toward me but she is only doing it to protect herself. The girl is so young and has so much to learn.
Father raises his eyebrows in an almost menacing way. "You're not coming, Ruth."
Ruth looks down at her lap. I can see the flush staining her porcelain cheeks. It's beautiful to watch this right now.
"Dear sister, have heart," I urge her.
Ruth ignores me, sighing that she cannot win. She finishes her bowl of oatmeal in silence. Father does the same thing, eating silently. Meals are more silent now that Ruth is back in the picture. Awkward silence. Father is unhappy Ruth is here and Ruth is unhappy Father is cold toward her. And I am unfairly in the middle of this. New families. Old families. Every family has their squabble, I guess.
After breakfast, Father and I make our way out toward the railroad platform. The sun is already high up in the sky, sending a scorching burn that makes sweat bead on my forehead. I take off my hat and wipe my forehead. There is already a crowd assembled. It is miserable out here and the crowd gathering around the platform seems to make the heat that much more unbearable.
A trombone toots an excruciating blast while a french horn blasts off-key. Mr. Durant is giving orders on the platform, making sure everything is ship-shape before the Senator's train arrives. A huge banner's message warmly welcomes the arriving Senator. The edge of the platform is draped in red, white, and blue flags.
"The colors are patriotic, Joseph," Reverend Cole murmurs.
I nod, not fully understanding what it is about the colors that make it patriotic.
Durant is pointing and shouting at the musicians. Shading my eyes, I recognize one of the musicians. The scantily clad woman playing the French horn is a prostitute. That fascinates me. I want to say something on that matter but know this is not the time to ask Father. I have learned so much from him and by watching the townspeople's customs.
As the photographer moves toward the platform's edge, I see Mrs. Bell linking her arm with Mr. Durant. She looks breathtaking in her straw bonnet that shades her bewitching face. I can see that the two of them are having a serious conversation and I wonder what it is about.
Turning my head to the left, my eyes settle on the formidable iron beast, chugging slowly along its tracks toward the platform. Ba-boom, ba-boom. My heart is racing. This is the man who will talk to Father, Chief Many Horses. Mr. Durant excitedly orders the small trio of musicians to play.
"'Battle Hymn of the Republic,'" Father says wistfully.
I hear him but I am riveted with the train coming to a screeching halt. The noise of the iron beast is so raucous, it thunders over and drowns out the jubilant music. Everyone is watching in anticipation– even the Swede and Mr. Bohannon. The townspeople, negroes, whores, many are assembled. I don't see young children out and understand why Father believed this event was inappropriate for his daughter to attend.
A couple men dressed in fancy suits and top hats emerge from the halted train. Mr. Durant enthusiastically shakes hands with the first man. That must be Senator Crane. Senator Crane grabs Mr. Durant's shoulder in almost an embrace. Is this a custom the white men have with each other when they are friends? Is this how they greet each other?
"Ladies and Gentleman!" Mr. Durant exclaims, delivering a flowery grandiose speech with aplomb. "It is an honor for me to introduce a true friend of the railroad who has come here with the full backing of the United States Senate, to meet with the Indians, to thwart their opposition to our cause. From the great state of Illinois, Senator Jordan Crane."
The audience of mostly men applauds the Senator. He is tall, slightly lanky, and has white hair. Senator Crane has seen many winters. The Senator stands there with a smug smile on his face. I can see the pride shining in his eyes. He is arrogant and that gives me pause. Father, Chief Many Horses, is stubborn. The Senator most likely is as well. How will they ever reach an agreement? This needs prayer. Surely, the Lord will hear my pleas for peace.
"On behalf of my fellow committee members, I thank you for that warm reception. But down to business. As Mr. Durant said," he says, pointing at the head of the railroad, "I am here, laurel branch in hand, to meet with the Indians."
Reverend Cole gives an applause full of hope. I look at him with skepticism, suspicious of the Senator's intentions. I don't trust the white leaders.
"But, in the other hand," his pointy finger crumples stiffly into a menacing fist, "I wield a cudgel. And that cudgel is the full and mighty force of the United States Military."
The riled up crowd gives an approving uproarious applause that makes my stomach turn.
"If these savages want to scrap, then by God, we'll give them one they won't soon disremember."
The crowd eats up the acrid vitriolic speech, cheering and hooting. They are all too influenced by a far too influential man. A powerful man that does not seek peace but war. Surely, my father, Chief Many Horses, and my father, Reverend Cole, can reason with this unreasonable man. The Lord must find a way.
Out of the corner of my eye, Father turns his head toward me, giving me a downcast look. He had high hopes like me for the Senator to change things around. I am unable to take my eyes off the platform. Mr. Durant is praising the Senator. It's evident. Mr. Durant wants his railroad built and Senator Crane wants his land. Treaties be-damned.
"What are we going to do?" I ask Father with pleading eyes.
"We will be good examples of good Christians," Father strictly admonishes me. "The Lord works in mysterious ways, Joseph. It is up to I to convince your father, Chief Many Horses, and to convince the Senator and Mr. Durant that there is a peaceful resolution to all this mess."
"And how will you do that, Father?" I ask, unsure of Reverend Cole's plan.
"If I don't talk to the foreman, Mr. Bohannon, first, there will be bloodshed. That bellicose Senator has aroused an angry fire in the railroad workers that needs to be extinguished. I need to convince Mr. Bohannon to keep his men in check."
"Can I come with you, Father?" I ask.
"No," Reverend Cole firmly replies. "Go back to the church tent. Stay with Ruth. She is a burden to us but we have to keep her safe. If her mother were only alive, the girl wouldn't be any trouble to us." He clears his throat, "Ahem!" and strokes his beard in a pensive manner. "Keep the drunks out. With your band of Cheyenne coming to town, people will be drinking and ready for a fight. We need to keep the law and order cause the Swede and his men aim not to."
"What about Mr. Toole? He is unpredictable. I worry about men like that– "
"Just worry about keeping the church intact," Father interjects. "Tidy it up. We're going to have visitors and I want the house of the Lord looking clean. We want to honor the Lord, Jesus Christ, do we not? When your people come to visit."
Nodding docilely, I reply, "I will do as you say, Father."
We make our way back to the church tent while the blood thirsty crowd breaks up, going back to what they were doing. As the Reverend and I near the church, he halts in front of the Starlight Saloon.
"Go on, Joseph. I have business to take of," he tells me with a gentle smile.
I nod, making my way toward the church tent. Glancing behind my shoulder, I watch Father step into the wicked saloon.
Once I step into the back of the church tent, I see Ruth drying off the last dish; a tin cup. The girl has a cross look etched in her face. She looks up at me, nods, then shyly stares at her apron.
I can tell she is bothered by not being allowed to attend the welcoming party. Ruth and I rarely talk except about the bible and chores. That conversation we had the night she experienced that horrific nightmare, well, it was rare that we talked more. I try to make friendly conversation with her but she rebuffs me. She has dealt with a lot. That may have shaped her into the way she is but I want to help the poor girl. Ruth Cole needs a friend. I see the way the catty townswomen ignore her. They don't approve of Father allowing her to stay under the same roof with an Indian. But to be Frank, she stays under her on tent roof. No one knows, not even Father, that she slept in my bed. That is our little secret.
Finally, she stares into my eyes in as close of a direct way that I have ever known. Her light hazel brown eyes don't sparkle but are lovely to look at as I am doing at this very moment.
"Joseph," she finally says, "we need to sweep the church. I'll do that if you can get the cobwebs off the rafters."
"I'll help with that." I nod willingly. "We can set out bibles. And when my people come, I will share the joyful word of Jesus Christ with my brothers and sisters. Jesus has changed my life and I hope that he will change theirs."
Ruth nods approvingly. She is still a good Christian deep down.
As soon as Ruth drys her hands on calico cloth, the two of us get right to work. Standing on a chair, I take the broom and get all those (what Ruth calls "pesky") cobwebs off the rafters. Ruth dusts the tables and cleans the wax off of them until I am finished with the broom. After I complete that task, I hand Ruth the broom. She takes it from me, not saying a word.
Sweep, sweep, sweep. Ruth gets up the dirt and dust in silence, taking huge brushing swipes with the broom. I move to polish the cross near the altar. It is not too untidy but I want the worship space to be perfect when Father arrives. I wonder what he will think of the town and the people I have gotten to know. It makes me wonder what he will think of Ruth. I already know what he thinks of Father. Chief Many Horses does not have a very good opinion of him.
Once we finish our chores, we both find seats on opposite sides of the room. Ruth does not look at me but I can't help looking at her. It's more of a gaze. I am openly gazing at her without the censure of others. I want to know more about her. She's a curiosity to me now more than the Stranger was just a few weeks ago. I acknowledge that I do not know his story but I also do not know Ruth's story. How did she travel here? And what of her mother? Mostly, why does she act so cold toward me when I am so warm and hospitable to her? Dear girl needs a friend and I am willing to be that friend.
Ruth stands up and walks briskly into the back of the church tent. Holding my head in my hands, tired, I stare at the dusty ground. Hearing gentle footsteps, I look back up and see she is approaching me, carrying a tin cup full of water. After she gives it to me, I give a gracious nod, thankful for her kindness in thinking of my thirst. She steps into the back only to return a moment later with her on cup. We silently sit in these wooden chairs, sipping our cups of water.
"Oh, how I wish this were tea!" She murmurs, thinking I did not hear her.
Her words render me to smile. "I have seen Mrs. Bell have tea with Mr. Durant," I inform her.
"My Father and I were brought up to be more humble with the resources our Lord has given us," she says earnestly. "I am thankful for them."
I don't believe Ruth is lying about that but I can tell she is uncomfortable about discussing more. Uncomfortable. Ruth is uncomfortable around me. Perhaps for many reasons. But if we were friends, we could be … comfortable.
Getting up, Ruth informs me, "I have some mending that needs my attention. I won't be long and will help you with the bibles when I am done."
I watch her leave, listening to the gentle rustle of her black frock. From the back, her hair is pulled up in that elaborate way white women favor. It's striking on Ruth and brings a maturity that is missing in her childlike character. There is something about Ruth. Something. My mind grapples with that indescribable something. Something about her that … charms me. Mrs. Lily Bell certainly charmed me but she is a polished refined woman of aristocratic stock. It would make more since that I would be attracted to someone like Mrs. Bell. Sure, our cultures are different but I just hit on it – she comes from a noble upbringing, the same as I. After all, I am the son of a chief.
In my hand, I fiddle with the tin cup that is now almost empty. Gazing at the water, I can barely see the reflection of my face. Biting my lip, I want to hold back what I know is in my heart. What I know is a sin. It's attraction. I am attracted to my adopted sister. I am attracted to Ruth. But she is not my blood sister. Yet, if something came of it, it would be treacherous if it were discovered. It's as if I can see into the future the misery of … No, I cannot allow to get ahead of myself. I must keep this to myself. Even Ruth, if she knew, could never return my affections. What am I saying? I must not view her the way I did Mrs. Bell nor Star Dancer. She is a child.
Standing up, I set my cup on the chair in which I was sitting and I leave the church tent for a stroll. While walking, I endure the prejudice, the hatred, and the stares of ignorant folk while trying to clear my mind. Ruffians yell disparaging invectives at me but I don't care at this moment. Too much is going on. Father is coming to town. How will he react toward Reverend Cole? And to Ruth? If only I had the ability to see into the future. What man does not wish to have that power?
A stiff wind blows, sending dust flying into the air and intensifying the noxious fumes of decay and waste. I head near the tracks where Mr. Durant's red caboose rests in front of the bustling town. The grass around the town is a vibrant green from all the rain we have received. Voices catch my attention from across the caboose. Furtively turning my head, I witness the Stranger, Mr. Bohannon, talking quietly with the leader of the Negro workers, Elam Ferguson, in a utility tent. The wind blows hanging lanterns and other devises hanging on ropes. Their meeting is easily discernible as surreptitious.
Seeing Mr. Ferguson reminds me of the much talked about boxing fight he had with Mr. Bohannon while Reverend Cole and I were visiting Chief Many Horses. While Father failed at witnessing to a dove, the dove threw her head back and laughed, telling father how Ruth got the blood of the Negro splattered on her face for standing too close. I couldn't believe this to be true. Not Ruth! She is so pure and has a keen sense of awareness where a nice girl like her should and should not be. A boxing match is considered not ladylike. Reverend Cole did not believe the dove and nor shall I.
Mr. Bohannon makes to leave the tent. Quickly and quietly, I hide behind a small white tent.
"If you want a re-match, you know where to find me!" Mr. Ferguson yells after Mr. Bohannon.
"Yeah," Mr. Bohannon says nonchalantly, puffing on his cigar.
Turning around, I head back for the church tent. To be caught eavesdropping by either Mr. Ferguson or Mr. Bohannon is the last thing I need. I am not interested in a boxing match with these men of dubious characters.
By the time I make it back to the church tent, Ruth is already pulling bibles out of a crate. I immediately move to offer her a hand with a stolid expression. She returns a shy smile. Picking up a stack of bibles, I take them into the worship space. By pointing her hand at a bench in the top left, Ruth directs me where to place the books. I set them down and return to the private quarters to fetch another stack of bibles and repeat the same process once more.
From there, Ruth gives me a nod. Somehow, I understand her meaning by picking up a stack of bibles, carrying them against my chest while she takes one bible off my stack and lays it on the wooden bench. Bible after bible, Ruth and I walk around the church while working on our task. I follow her, watching her gracefully turn the corner with her voluminous skirt. The way she walks, it's almost like she has no feet and is floating.
Ruth bends forward, takes a bible from me, and bends back to set it down. Something about this girl gets to me. Maybe it's her mystery? All of this flashes in my mind as I let my curiosity get the best of me.
"How did your mother die?" I ask gently, holding back a smile that I can't help but have when I'm around Ruth.
"Consumption," she answers with candor.
I can tell I have made her uncomfortable. Ruth does not speak of her past but I just know she had to have been close to her late mother. She takes another bible from me and sets in down on the bench.
Wanting to give her comfort, I inform Ruth with a slight smile, "She's with God now." Not waiting for her reply, I pick up another stack of bibles.
Ruth crosses her dainty hands over her abdomen and says wistfully, "Yes, she is."
I walk closer to this angelic child and look her straight in her hazel brown eyes. It's that something forbidden that I feel more strongly as I step closer. Attraction. Ruth locks eyes with mine but only for a moment, then, as if ashamed, she averts her eyes, breaking our stare and focuses her hazel brown saucers on the stack of bibles I'm carrying. She feels it, too. Attraction.
Not caring, I continue to stare at her as she quietly takes another bible off my stack. I can feel her resistance to what is between us. I don't blame her but I don't want to alienate Ruth. She needs a friend. Without saying anything, I read her mind that she is reproachful of herself for feeling what I feel. What is between us is attraction and that can only be overcome if we ignore it.
As she lays that bible down on the bench, I inform her, "My mother died when I was just a boy."
Eyes beaming with curiosity, Ruth takes a bible while I continue, fondly recalling, "I remember her taking me to the creek to wash in the mornings." Exhaling with a grin, I tell her, "She'd pretend to drop me and then grab me fast."
A smiling Ruth takes another bible as I continue talking. "No matter how many times she did it," I shake my head, "it would always make me laugh."
Ruth and I look into each others' faces, smiling big. At this very moment, I have never felt so happy, opening up to someone about who I am.
My eyes fall to the ground as I say wistfully, "She's with God now, too."
There. I touched on common ground. Both our mothers have walked on. I didn't even think about it until I just said it. It astounds me.
Turning to face me, Ruth looks me in the eye and asks earnestly, "Was your mother a Christian?"
I shake my head. "No."
Ruth stares at her feet for a second before asking full of conviction, "Then how can she be with God?"
My smile fades while I lower the stack of bibles below my waist. I am stupefied. Ruth goes back to her business of setting out bibles while I stare at the ground. I thought I was beginning to know everything about Christianity. Why would my mother not be with God? She never knew him in the first place. Is it a Congregationalist's belief that all that are lost will burn for eternity in the fiery pits of Hell?
I shudder internally from that last thought. It stings. It feels callous and unfeeling what Ruth just said to me. I don't know if it was intentional but I feel hurt. To say something ill of one's mother is a horrible thing.
Watching her turn the corner, still in shock, I slowly step forward and follow her. Ruth turns around and faces me. She is not ashamed at what she just said. Clearly, Ruth does not think she did anything wrong. But it feels wrong. It feels like a slap in the face. Sucking in my pain, I smile at her as she takes another bible with a solemn face. Setting it down, she refuses to look me in the eye.
All of a sudden, it dawns on me that she resents me. That is why she is so callous and cold and distant from me. That is why. I clasp my hand in front of my mouth and clear my throat. I empathize with how she feels. Father should not have replaced her with me.
"I'm sorry your father left you," I explain forthrightly, "and your mother alone." I step closer toward her.
Ruth's body language and demeanor stiffens. Turning completely around, she looks into my face, glaring at me. Tucking a bible under her arm, Ruth snaps, "My father did not leave us."
She is barking at me and I am getting fed up with being her scape goat. I have done nothing wrong.
"He was called away on his great Christian mission."
I cannot help but stare at the tent wall, wanting to roll my eyes. My aunties used to talk down to me like this. This child has gall.
"He's a servant of God," she goes on. "He was called to help the inferiors … " Ruth's voice drops down a level as she stares back and forth at my face and the floor, "like the negroes."
"And the Indians," I snap back, filling in the rest.
So, she is prejudice like the rest of the town. A child so full of pride to admit she is better than what she terms as "inferiors" but too afraid to say it directly to an inferior's face like me.
Ruth stares back and forth at the floor and my face with a pained look etched in her own face. She looks like she is about to cry. Funny how she thinks she is the victim when she is the perpetrator. I am deeply hurt and insulted by someone who I thought more highly of. Someone I thought was good and pure but is as equally wicked as the other gossiping women of the town.
Aggravated, I stalk of into the back and grab my hat. I pass back through the worship space and see it is Ruth who is now stupefied.
Tipping my hat at her, I mutter insipidly, "Good day," and leave the church. I need my space and I need to clear my head. My father and my people are coming soon.
"Joseph!" She yells remorsefully after me.
But it is too late. It is unchristian-like but I cannot think of forgiveness right now.
*Note* What is going on in Ruth's head? Things are getting real. Stay tuned for more! :-)
