The Indian girls, all students of Netta Druce at the Red River Agency School, sat at their places in absolute stillness. The children, with their little hands clasped together on the desk tops, ranged in age from five to twelve years. The contrast between the school room and the civilized furniture in it with the primitiveness of the small students’ attire of buckskin dresses and beaded moccasins was stark, yet had a certain charm at the same time.
The officers’ ladies, Pauline Blackburn, Minnie Robertson, and Violet Harris, beamed at the little girls from where they sat at a table especially placed in the front of the room for them. They had all dressed in their finest dresses as if making Church Call with their husbands. Pauline’s more fashionable finery was obvious even to the untrained eyes of the Indian children.
Sergeant Guy DuBose, once again acting as an escort, stood by the door at the back of the room. He wanted to take this unique opportunity to fill his eyes with the uninterrupted sight of Pauline. But Mrs. Robertson and Mrs. Harris glanced at him too frequently.
The teacher wasted no time in beginning her program. “Ladies,” Netta said addressing them in a formal manner with her own hands folded in front. “I am most happy and pleased to welcome you to the Red River Agency School. This is a government-sponsored institution staffed by the Christian Pacification Society. The cost of operation is borne by both groups. The money from our society comes from generous donations by the Christian brethren who are members. That amount accounts for more than half our funds, so we like to think of our effort here as more of a philanthropic enterprise than an official one.”
Pauline Blackburn raised her hand. “Excuse me, please, Mrs. Druce. I noticed that the class is made up of all girls. Is there another for the Indian boys?”
“Alas, no,” Netta sadly replied. “The culture of the Chogola Comanches, indeed of all the Plains Indians, does not permit their young males to participate in such activities. I must confess that we must pay even the families of these little girls with trinkets and other items from the agency store. Without these well-intentioned bribes, I fear the Indian fathers and mothers would never send their daughters to us. But it is a start, and we thank the Good Lord for even this rather disappointing beginning.”
Guy noticed that the Chogola girls had adapted rather well into the learning environment. He also could well understand why none of their brothers attended. No self-respecting Comanche boy would tolerate having to sit inside a stuffy room learning lessons he considered useless and feminine. Knowing how to read did not help one hunt buffalo, make weapons, or learn the powerful medicine necessary to be a full-fledged male member of the tribe. Their culture was based on warfare pure and simple. The warriors’ entire reason for existing was to hunt, fight, and plunder. Guy knew from firsthand experience that they were experts at all those dangerous activities.
“Our primary concern, of course,” Netta continued, “is the saving of their souls. The first lessons here are those of the Holy Gospel, and we make it a part of every lesson whenever possible. As a demonstration of this I shall ask Rebecca, Mary, and Rachel to sing for us. I only wish we had a piano to accompany them, but I am sure you will agree that their sweet voices more than make up for the lack of musical instruments.” As the little girls dutifully got out of their seats and went to a place in front of the class, Netta explained, “I have given them Christian names to replace those of their tribe. I consider this a big step toward their eventual conversion. When they accept baptism, they will be ready with proper names that God can understand.” She turned to the girls. “The ladies are ready to hear your song.”
The little trio of six to eight-year-olds launched into Jesus Loves Me. They sang in English, yet in the tremor of their small voices Guy could recognize the tonal values used by the Indian women in their songs of triumph and mourning after a war party returned to camp. He wondered if Netta Druce and her husband understood how deeply rooted the Indians’ own religious beliefs were imbedded in their souls.
When the song finished, the girls smiled in open pride at this display of their accomplishment. Pauline, Minnie, and Violet, completely charmed by the singing, applauded and cooed as the girls returned to their seats.
This was followed by several recitations of lessons and poetry. The final performance, the piece de resistance, was the entire class standing up to sing the Battle Hymn of the Republic. The conclusion of this rousing song brought the officers’ ladies to their feet. They clapped heartily as both teacher and students took their bows.
Netta sat her students down. “Ruth, will you please take charge of the class while we are gone?”
A beautiful Indian girl of twelve years stood up and walked to the front. She was sensuous even at that age, her buckskin dress swaying with her graceful gait. “Yes, Mrs. Druce.”
Guy knew some handsome young warrior would seduce her away from the white people’s way in another couple of summers. If that likely event didn’t happen, the powerful medicine of her culture would cause the young Chogola girl to let go of the white man’s hand and return to the road of her people.
But Netta Druce didn’t seem to notice. “Have the class practice the alphabet until it is time for school to end for the day. It is only for another half hour.”
The Chogola girl named Ruth looked up at the clock.
Netta glanced at the women. “I have taught her to tell time.” She turned her attention back to the girl. “Do you understand, Ruth?”
“Yes, Mrs. Druce.”
Netta turned to the three women. “Please come with me. I would like to show you the rest of the agency. I hope not to sound immodest, but my husband and I are very proud of our accomplishments here.”
“Dear me!” Minnie Robertson exclaimed. “Are we going among the teepees?”
“Oh, no,” Netta said. “My husband would not permit it. He says there are things there that—well, excuse me!—but there are things and activities in a primitive Indian camp that ladies shouldn’t see.”
“What things?” Violet Harris asked.
“Violet!” Pauline exclaimed. “You are so wicked!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Minnie exclaimed. “Even I’ve been among the lodges. The worst thing one might see is a woman nursing her child.”
“Outside?” Pauline asked incredulously.
“Yes, my dear,” Minnie said. “Outside.”
Netta led the way to the door. They walked past Guy with Pauline trailing. As he opened the door and ushered them through to the outside, he and Pauline gave each other a subtle but meaningful look.
“I’ll show you our store,” Netta said. “The goods are not as nice as those at the sutler’s, and certainly not as elegant as those in town shops, but they do quite well for our Indian brethren.”
They walked across the yard to the building. Guy, with Pauline to his direct front, brought up the rear. After entering, they stood off to the far side of the counter while Netta showed some blankets, metal pots, and simple tools. Guy moved his hand forward and touched Pauline’s arm. She stepped a bit closer, keeping her eye on Netta.
Then her hand slipped into Guy’s.
It was wonderful! She could feel the warmth of his flesh against hers. The sensation flooding her memory anew of evening strolls and country balls on the Berger Plantation. But she was no longer a virgin, and the touch of the man she loved carried her thoughts past innocent courtship to passionate lovemaking of the sweetest kind. Pauline wanted Guy more than she ever had in the past. Her need for him was womanly and physically demanding, yet the emotional side of her love had matured and intensified also.
Guy’s own sensations of love melted away the bitterness that once only alcohol could dull. He didn’t give a damn about anything except having Pauline as his own. It was a desire he knew would have to be satisfied. At that particular point, Guy DuBose was ready to take on whatever sort of hell would descend on him if he made a move to covet an officer’s wife. The only thing that held him back was not wanting any of the bitter wrath to hurt Pauline. Guy knew the situation would have to be carefully and thoroughly planned out. He had eight months left to serve in the army. There was nothing he could safely do until he received his discharge.
Netta interrupted the lovers’ thoughts as she walked toward the door. “Now I’ll show you our two milk cows,” she said. “Palmer originally came here with five, but one was struck ill and died. The other two, I am afraid to say, were killed and butchered by the Chogolas—the very people the unfortunate animals were supposed to serve.”
“Ungrateful wretches!” Minnie Robertson exclaimed.
“Indeed,” Violet agreed.
Guy recalled that the cows were killed when a winter undershipment of government beef ran out. The Chogolas, at that low point in an extremely bitter winter, faced starvation. As the ladies moved away, he had to let Pauline slip out of his hand.
The walk to the barn was a short one. The building, with numerous stalls for animals, was long and dark. Palmer Druce was inside working with a pitchfork as he hurled hay into the feeding troughs of the dairy cattle. A Chogola man, who had taken heavily to civilization’s whiskey, worked with him. The Indian had even adopted regular clothing though he kept his hair long and braided. He was a common sight at Fort Alexander, proving an example of how harmful the White Man’s Road could be for an Indian bred to warring and hunting.
“Good morning, ladies,” Palmer Druce greeted. “Come and look at my beauties.”
The two cows, munching contentedly, lazily swung their heads to observe the unusual sight of the women in the barn. The guests made appropriate complimentary remarks which set Palmer to talking about his grandiose plans for the barn. “I’ll soon have this place fully stocked with every useful animal there is. Why I’ll have plough horses, mules, cows, goats, and sheep. I fully intend to have the Red River Agency operating without a red cent from the Federal government. There is every chance that we might even become self-supporting.”
“Most admirable,” Pauline said.
“Go on and look around,” Palmer said. “You’ll be able to see that we’re ready to take on more than the Chogolas if the need arises. There are the other tribes of Comanches and even the Kiowas in this area. Eventually all will have to be settled someplace. I believe the Red River Agency is the best location.”
The agent was not so much interested in favorably impressing the ladies themselves as he was having them return to their husbands with glowing accounts on how the agency was being run. There had been several run-ins with the military bureaucracy. If the army at Fort Alexander was favorably impressed, their official reports would reflect it.
Minnie and Violet walked forward to look into the stalls and tool rooms in that part of the barn. Pauline gave Guy a meaningful look, then walked slowly and deliberately in the opposite direction. Guy shot a quick look at Netta. She had been drawn into an earnest conversation of some sort with Palmer. Guy, turning slowly, ambled off in the direction that Pauline had taken.
They met in an empty stall that had heavy draft horse harnesses hanging over the entrance. Pauline went into his arms and lifted her face to his. For the first time in twelve years, Guy pressed his lips against those of his true love. She responded with quick breaths, grasping him hard and holding him, tears coming to her eyes. They parted reluctantly, but immediately kissed again. This time without so much urgency, but with more softness.
“I love you with all my heart, Pauline,” Guy whispered huskily.
“And I am yours, darling,” she said. She sighed, remembering her true status of being wed to Gordon Blackburn. “I want to be yours.”
“I’ll work it out,” he promised.
“I must get back,” Pauline said hearing the other women’s aimless wandering getting closer.
“I’ll wait a few moments,” Guy said. “Go ahead.” He stood behind the horse tackle, giving her a chance to join the others. After a few moments, he stepped out and, unnoticed by them, rejoined the group.
In the next stall, where she had been gathering eggs from the nests of the hens who roosted in the barn, Inez continued to kneel behind the cover of the wooden wall. Only after the others had left, did she walk out with her basket of eggs.
Netta made her goodbyes to her visitors. Guy helped the ladies up into the side saddles, then mounted his own horse. At that time the Indian girls trooped out of the schoolhouse and headed back for the Chogola camp. All waved at the visitors. The ladies replied in kind. After more cordial farewells to Netta, the small group rode out of the agency yard, turning south for the river ford.
Netta walked back toward the house and noticed Inez standing on the porch. She frowned at the Mexican girl. “What are you doing there?”
“I just picked up some eggs, Señora,” Inez said.
“Did you finish your chores in the front of the house?”
“No,” Inez answered.
Netta’s expression showed her displeasure. “Then why, pray tell me, did you go gathering eggs?”
Inez shrugged. “Because I wanted to. I don’t like working in the house so much. I cannot breathe there.”
“You spent too much time in that Indian camp for your own good,” Netta said. “It seems we shall have to work much harder to recivilize you. Then you will be more comfortable indoors.” She paused. “Or would you rather return to the Chogolas?”
“That is a terrible thing to say!” Inez snapped. She had spent almost three years of being raped nightly by an Indian warrior who had chosen her to be his woman.
“Well? Do you?” Netta pressed. “I’ve not been satisfied with you, Inez. You are obstinate and lazy.”
“So! You give me back to the indios, eh? That is good of you,” Inez said. She was infuriated by this casual attitude toward the hell she had endured. “I thought you were—were—cristiana.”
Netta understood the Spanish. “Of course I am a Christian, you wicked girl, and I am doing my best to bring you into our fold.”
“I was not a Chogola’s woman by choice. I have always been catolica,” Inez said. “So I am already belonging.”
“You are a sinner!”
“You are the sinner,” Inez said. She smirked and tossed her head. “You dream of the sergeant, no? Is that not as bad as being in bed with him? That is what you really want I think.”
“You shut your mouth!” Netta said furiously.
“Well, I tell you something,” Inez said. “You are not woman enough for him. I see him kissing the other lady in the barn.”
Netta was so surprised she could not respond.
Inez leaned toward her. “I saw the Sergeant DuBose kiss the new lady in the barn. They were in the stall next to where I pick up the eggs. They were hot—hot with passion for each other.” She laughed. “I think they make love the first chance they get.”
Netta trembled with hurtful anger, but she recovered enough to speak. “Get in the house and tend to your chores!” she said. She turned and walked back to the empty schoolhouse. She went up to her desk at the front and sat down in the chair behind it.
The one thing that kept life bearable for her was the secret fantasy romance with Sergeant DuBose. Her mind continued to be filled with pictures of him carrying her away to some phantom love den. During the warming weather, with more and more exposure to him during frequent visits by troops to the agency, her dream world had expanded until all her thoughts were consumed with the illusory love affair.
As long as he remained unattached, that mental world could whirl on with some sense of reality—even hope. Now all that had been dashed.
Netta knew that the young Mexican woman was speaking the truth. She had no doubts that the handsome sergeant had finally attracted someone— even a married officer’s wife—to his arms. Even though it was inevitable, it cut her as deep as if she were truly a woman scorned. Now, alone and miserable, Netta wept with the grief the loneliness of her life had burdened her with.
“It isn’t fair!” she cried to herself. “I hate him! And I hate her! It isn’t fair!”