THE SYCAMORES STOOD in the mist like rooted spirits. The path through them seemed enchanted, as though I might come out of the fog and find myself along Basket Creek. But the River Crow didn’t turn into the Basket, and that was easy enough to see. There were no ledges or falls—it just meandered about like a lazy brown snake. I followed its course, and as the mist began to burn off, I came upon a sign rudely nailed to a tree: STARTS HERE, MEEKER COUNTY.
By noon, I could see the houses and barns of Manannah. People were all about, more than I would have thought to see—a celebration perhaps. Charred pork and sweet beans came to mind, but those hopes faded as I drew closer and heard shouting. I came upon a man loading a wagon, a woman with a crying child seated above. “What’s going on?”
“The Sioux have risen!” he cried. “They’re killing everyone!” The man climbed up and took the reins, but he could do nothing as the way was blocked by another wagon. He called on God to damn all.
A lanky fellow with a brimmed hat hurried over and gave no greeting. “You come in from the south?”
“Kandiyohi,” I said, as though it were a town and not a cabin.
“You running from the savages?”
“None that I know about. What’s happening?”
“Not sure,” said the man. “A fellow came in from Henderson last night, scared to death. Said the Sioux were attacking the settlements.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t seen a thing.”
The man said he was glad to hear that, though he didn’t seem less worried. He put out his hand and introduced himself as Otis Whitmore. I told him my name. He asked what brought me to Manannah, and I said I’d come looking for work. Mr. Whitmore scratched his neck. “Well, our hired man left this morning, but we’re not taking on help. Don’t know anyone who would be. Half the town is leaving, and the rest of us are trying to figure out what to do.”
A fine hello this was. I had gotten myself to Manannah, the town where Noah White said I should stake my claim, the town where people were “gettin’ along good,” last he heard. Now it seemed they were taking the place apart. And what should I do? Should I try to save my scalp and keep on going? To St. Cloud? To St. Paul? It wasn’t a happy thought but then neither was being cleft by a hatchet. The best I could do was take a look at those who were fleeing and those who were staying. I did and decided to stay.
An hour later, the settlers who remained gathered under a hickory, maybe seventy or eighty in all. I stood back and watched as, by show of hands, the men elected a commander, a farmer named John Hillsboro, a former captain who had fought in Mexico. Hillsboro accepted the post wearing his blue army coat that no longer covered his belly. He didn’t look impressive, but the townsfolk knew their man. His first words were an order. “Stop fortifying the farms,” he said, eyes moving from man to man. “I want everyone here.” Hillsboro then pointed to four houses that were to be the corners of a fort we would build.
I was part of the brigade that began work on the fort while others went out to their farms for supplies. Using fence rails, barrels, and whatever else, we made walls that might have kept out a stray mule. It looked like a barnyard after a windstorm. The next day we took it all apart as the trunks of young trees were brought in and stood upright. By the following afternoon, we had something that could pass for a stockade so long as you were coming at it from the west. It would take another day or two for the walls to meet on the other side.
Captain Hillsboro seemed pleased, and there was talk about how we could hold out in the fort for a week, if need be. By then the soldiers from Fort Snelling would have arrived with cannon and bayonet—every hour surely brought them closer. We also waited for the return of a wagon that had been sent to St. Cloud to buy guns and powder. Some thought that it might come back with volunteers to help us. In the meantime, no one in Manannah worked for anyone. We all worked for each other, sharing the danger and the food.
Otis Whitmore introduced me to others, including his wife Mary and his brother James, a leaner version of himself. People were friendly, but no one was particularly curious about me. They had plenty to think about and were happy to see anyone who could lift a rifle. During the day, Otis and James would go out to the farm to check on things. Other men did the same. Hillsboro may have been the commander in the blue coat, but inside the fort it was Mary Whitmore who gave most of the orders. I stayed there and helped with what I could, most often standing guard, looking to the west for signs of attack and to the east for those of relief.
At night we sat about fires. People spoke of their former homes along the Allegheny and Shenandoah, now left behind with parents, sisters, or friends. Scraped clean of those attachments, like hides readied for a window, we sat in the dim light and awaited a common fate.
On the fourth afternoon, I was outside the fort standing guard with three others. Like grazing deer, we looked up at the same moment—a crack, a rifle shot. From the west, across the big meadow, a man with a rifle was running toward the town. He stopped, bent over, and then ran again, making hurried looks over his shoulder. Two men dashed out to meet him and as good as dragged him the last hundred yards. The wide-eyed young man was gasping for air. “Indians!”
“Did you see ’em?” Hillsboro asked.
“No. But Seth and Stuart sure did. Only an hour ago. They sent me back and went to warn the Brochners.”
“We’ve got to go meet them,” said one young man.
“Now, Wes,” said Hillsboro, “every man is needed here.”
The young man shook his head. “Seth’s my brother, and I ain’t gonna let him get kilt. He’d come for me.”
The church bell began to ring, and the captain gave way. “Okay, but no more than five. And I want you to go no farther than Hollister Creek.”
Wes looked about. “Who’ll come with me?”
The feeling of danger surged through me like whiskey. I felt alive and closely bound to people I hardly knew. Faces spoke. Eyes told stories all by themselves. I raised my hand.
* * *
The five of us began at a slow run and soon got strung out in a line with me at the end. The track was rutted, and I was watching where each foot came down. I didn’t want to twist an ankle, and I didn’t want to be left behind, but that fear didn’t last long. My time in Kandiyohi had made my legs hard. I could keep at it as well as any of them.
When we reached Hollister Creek, Wes held up his hand. “I’m going on,” he said in a low voice. “You all stay here with Charlie; he’s in charge.” He looked about, daring anyone to mention the captain’s order not to go farther. Then he looked at me. “Your name’s Joseph, right?” I nodded. “Joseph, I want you to head up the creek and watch at the bend above. The rest of you set up here. If you hear me shoot, it’s trouble.”
Wes waded across the creek and started up the track. I crouched and crept upstream. At the bend, the bush willows grew thick on my side of the creek, good cover but no comfort, as every place was wet. There was nothing to do except nestle into the slop and watch for Indians. I tried to breathe quiet so I could hear the slightest noise, but that made things worse, for what forest does not have sounds? And you can make out of those whatever you wish, so in trying to hear Indians, I began to hear them, creeping closer but never appearing.
I couldn’t say how long I was there, each minute was its own world. Then I heard a sudden noise, a splash. My hands gripped my rifle, and my eyes swept the far side. I could see every leaf that moved. No one. Then another splash, but this time I saw the stone that had caused it. I looked down the creek. Charlie waved for me to come.
When I reached him, Charlie put a finger to his mouth and motioned up the track where Wes had gone. By this time, whatever had been on the track was now in the bush. We took cover. I got behind a skinny birch which didn’t hide a thing, but that’s what was there, so I got behind it and pointed my rifle at the far shore. I heard the crunch of small branches. “Charlie,” a voice called out. “It’s us. Don’t shoot.”
“We’re here,” called Charlie. “Come across.” Then out of the woods and into the creek came Wes and four other men, guns held high. When they got to our side, Wes said he didn’t think they were being followed. No one had seen any Indians since the first sighting.
We returned to Manannah at a fast walk and in good spirits, entering the fort to the sound of cheers. Captain Hillsboro wanted a report. “How many were there?”
“I saw six or seven right out,” said the young man named Seth. “But there were others in the woods behind. There might have been a dozen, maybe twenty. It looked like a hunting party.”
“Hunting party?” said Hillsboro.
“Yeah,” said Seth, “like we’ve seen before. If they had wanted us, we was easy pickin’s.”
“Well, you might be right,” said Hillsboro. “Or perhaps they’re just scouts. We’ll have ten men awake at all times during the night.”
That evening, the young men sat outside the fort and told stories of our afternoon sally. And much pleasure there was in the telling. “Hey, Charlie,” said Wes, “for two bits, we’ll tell Jenny Lindross that you shot yourself three Indians.”
There were a few chuckles, but Charlie wasn’t amused. “Keep at it, Wes, and you’ll be eatin’ dirt.”
The girl that the boys teased Charlie about was serving food that night. She wore a smock of unbleached muslin, made grayer still by the smoke of the fire she tended. Her bonnet was simple, but from it escaped strands of fine brown hair that hung down in wisps about her face. As she spooned supper onto Charlie’s plate, she gave him a look of relief—he had returned safe from the day’s adventure. Charlie, aware that his friends might be watching, made a show of hardly noticing her.
Then it was my turn. Jenny ladled the stew onto my plate, and I looked up into a pair of light brown eyes, the color of the River Crow when struck by the sun. Jenny smiled, perhaps because I was new to town or perhaps because I was out with the boys at Hollister Creek. I couldn’t tell, but Jenny smiled, and I felt a tremor.
That night I drew the early watch, and when it was my turn to bed down, I fell asleep within moments. But I did not leave the day’s adventure behind, and this time, as I dreamt, the savages came across the creek. I was captured and forced to watch as Charlie, shrieking, was carved up before my eyes. Then I was stripped naked to meet the same fate, and when my nature was discovered, I was thrown over a log and abused in every horrid way. Then came the knives. I must have been crying out in my sleep, because when I woke, breathing hard, I could see others in the dim light, looking at me.
* * *
No more Indians were seen that week, but rumors arrived daily. This town or that had been wiped out. Soldiers were coming to help us. Soldiers weren’t coming to help us. During the day men went out to their farms in threes and fours, well armed. Those who stayed in the fort shared the work, all except the McAllister brothers, who sat around and ate their grub. Willie and Jake had come to town hoping to buy horses cheap. They offered little, but more than would be gotten if the horses were run off by the Sioux. A few people did business with them, but no one sat and ate with them.
Captain Hillsboro went over to the brothers and asked for help in bracing the north wall.
“I ain’t working for you, Cap’n,” Willie said. “I ain’t scairt of no Indians and don’t care nothin’ about your blue coat neither.”
These were words that would have taken the skin off a man’s back in the army or maybe got him tied to a post and shot. Hillsboro looked at Willie. Willie stared back. Jake kept his face in his plate, but I could see a flash in his eye.
Two older men sitting nearby rose to their feet. I did the same. The four of us would have been no match for the two of them, but the captain acted like he had the whole town at his back. “I think you best leave,” he said.
Willie didn’t budge, but his voice rose. “And if we don’t?”
Hillsboro didn’t try to match Willie’s words but rather went the other way, to a whisper. “Just do it.”
The moment teetered as though it were balanced on the edge of a table. Then Willie cooled. He and Jake finished eating and began to saddle up, making a show of being slow about it. They mounted and rode off at a walk, a string of four horses behind. One of the older men spat on the ground.
* * *
The next afternoon a wagon approached from the east. Everyone cheered as though it were a column of soldiers, but it was the Manannah men who had gone to St. Cloud. As they came to a stop, two repeating rifles were lifted high as proof of their success. They had four more in the wagon and a tiny cannon that could fire grape. They also had several St. Paul newspapers, and everyone wanted to know if the stories were true. One paper was held up, and there it was on the front page: SAVAGES ON THE FRONTIER! SETTLERS MURDERED!!!
“What about the soldiers?” someone called out.
“Ain’t no soldiers comin’,” said a man on the wagon. He endured a few curses and then defended himself. “I’m telling you there ain’t no soldiers. They’re just sitting around Fort Snelling.” This news was greeted by angry shouts. What were the soldiers for if not to come help us?
That evening the newspapers were read aloud. The St. Paul Times told of an uprising in the south in which settlers, perhaps a hundred, had been butchered like livestock. The Democrat reported the massacre like it was news of a steamboat that had struck a log, tragic but not of great worry. J.P. Owen in the Daily Minnesotian went so far as to mock the story: “Immigrants may come on with safety. The purported Indian war is as great a humbug as excited mortals in Minnesota were ever known to invent.”
“I’d like to bury an axe in his head,” shouted one man. “See if he thinks that’s humbug.”
“They’re all owned by the banks!” shouted another.
And so we gave voice to our opinions, but no one knew for certain what had happened. A massacre in the south, yes. But was the violence spreading? Could the newspapers be trusted? Would the soldiers come? Soon, it became clear that most of the men wanted to get back to their farms, soldiers or no soldiers. What good to be cautious only to starve? The best Captain Hillsboro could get was an agreement to maintain stores at the fort. I wasn’t sure what it all meant for me. Then I remembered Otis Whitmore saying something about losing a hired man. I went over to where he was loading his wagon.
“Mr. Whitmore,” I said, “would you be willing to take me on? I’m a good worker and don’t eat much.”
Otis looked me up and down, barely able to disguise his doubts. I certainly wouldn’t be pulling any plow. “Let me talk to the others,” he said.
Otis went over to James and Mary. They talked for a bit, casting quick glances in my direction. Then Otis nodded and walked back to me. “You can come on,” he said. “Two dollars a week.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, offering my hand. These were low wages, but I didn’t care. I would have a roof over my head and food to eat. More important, I would get to know the land and people around Manannah.
After loading their wagons, most folks stayed put rather than go home in the dark. I played a few songs on the violin, but it was not a gay evening. We sat before the fire hoping the Indian scare was over—that petition no doubt contained in some prayers. I offered my own, for if it pleased God to let us live in peace, I would work that summer for the Whitmores. Then, if I found some well-watered land, I might stake a claim of my own.