Winds of the Prairie

By Joyce A. Halvorsen

Winds of the Prairie is Joyce A
Halvorsens second novel. This
stunning book offers a prairies eye view
of early Dakota between the years of
1869 and 1901. As a state for only three
years by 1901, South Dakota speaks with
many voices. The story is seen through
the eyes of Lincoln Kenneth Cassidy
from the age 15 until his age of 57. Yet,
no voice is as clear and as demanding as
that of the prairie herself. She accepts
few novices. Only the stubborn and
brave and those who understand the
prairies ways can survive in these
lands. Born of a Lakota Sioux mother
and white father, Lincoln finds he is
torn between his familys cultures and
traditions. He idolizes the wisdom of
his white grandfather Herman Cassidy,
but is awed and frightened by the power
of his mothers uncles, the Elders from
the Lakota Sioux tribe. He doesnt
know his place and is often confused by
each ones values. Linc meets a young
man by the name of Joseph Hawk, once
a slave in Missouri. They become fast
friends. Though free to leave Lincolns
ranch, the Double-D, Joseph chose
to stay. Joseph often acts as a buffer
and protector between Lincoln and
trouble. A turning point in Lincs life
comes when, as a boy, he is asked by
his grandfather to participate in the
Double-Ds cattle drive. There are
many adventures while on the cattle
drive and he experiences challenges
which nearly break Lincolns heart.
But he survives. Later, as a man and
married with the responsibilities of a
ranch owner, Lincoln desires against
family advise to change the ranch
from that of a cattle farm to include conservation and preservation. The
original state of being of the wild
things of the prairie will have primary
importance. He sees himself as one of
the caretakers of the wild things which
are fast disappearing. When Lincs life
is turned upside down by murder, he
vows to seek retribution. The angels of
mercy and forgiveness call out on one
shoulder and vengeance and hate dance
on the other. Linc has no patience with
being merciful and seeks justice with
a gun. Always beside him is his friend
Joseph. The resolution of this story
is a remarkable twist of fate. Always,
Linc is guided by an inner conviction
that the prairie knows what is best.
Her voice speaks to him even when
he feels lost. Winds of the Prairie
is an heartfelt and moving tale about
resilience and hope of many kinds of
people during the formative years of
the State of Dakota. Ms. Halvorsens
understanding of the human heart and
condition, along with her compelling
prose, engages and crosses the
boundaries of a time period from post
Civil War to a new century that should
not be forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514404539

Joyce A. Halvorsen

Joyce A. Halvorsen, author of “Winds of the Prairie” drew inspiration for this novel from family stories passed down through the generations. Her grand-parents and greatgrandparents immigrated to what is now South Dakota and Nebraska during the early 1900’s. Their stories became the stuff of family legends. Ms. Halvorsen worked for the University of Wisconsin Madison Library System for many years and is a graduate of Edgewood College, Madison, Wisconsin. Upon graduation from Edgewood, she was presented the Class Human Issues award for her research and study of “The Native American Creation Story: Coyote and Changing Woman.” As a former teacher and librarian, she still enjoys researching genealogy and American history. Although this novel is strictly of her imagination, certain people and places mentioned are historical and real. This book is dedicated with deep respect to those who settled the Dakota Territories and the Sioux tribes who were its first guardians. They were, and are still, the back-bone and blood of our nation. WINDS of the PRAIRIE Joyce A. Halvorsen

Book preview

Prologue

Y EAR — 1901. Death. Lincoln Kenneth Cassidy slowed his horse to a walk. An antelope skull stared from the sands of the prairie, brittle and cracked, baked white from the sun. Its hide and eyes were scavenged years ago. This is what became of life on the prairie. Its struggle for existence fed the forces of the prairie with its tenacity, change and loss.

He took a deep breath. It is known, he thought, only the dead speak the truth. He didn’t need these reminders.

He leaned forward on his horse, kneed it to a lope. The gray-bowl sky of the Dakotas curved far off to a flat horizon. Red-tailed hawks skated in a downdraft and soared over dry gullies. As far as Linc could see, except for himself, there were no human-beings here. Only the bones of the dead. If anything survived, it was the wild things and they were dying off, too. Perhaps far away somewhere, living things still owned the lands that were part of this country. Linc was not sure about that.

The high morning sky was layered with thin, mottled clouds. Snatches of careless breezes floated here and there. Autumn rustled in the air; the season spoiled for an end. It would cool off by evening, but in the middle of the day, it was still warm. Linc didn’t often cast his mind back to his early years. But today with the arrival of his daughter after so long, he couldn’t help but recall those moments held firmly in the fist of time.

Lincoln believed in dreams. He once had good dreams which were part of his memory and time, depended upon. They held promise and hope, until the darkest of nights when murder swept into his life.

He thought he could find justice with the force of a gun. But it was cold comfort. The pain inside him was like a knife in his gut. His dreams became only lies, a game played with smoke and mirrors in the night-world of shadows.

For Lincoln, vengeance and hate danced on one shoulder while mercy and forgiveness leaned on the other. Their songs and whispers were strong. Lincoln was swayed easily by the first two; it took courage and heart to accept the latter.

He looked to the ancient ones of the prairie for guidance. But the cowboys and Sioux Indians, herds of cattle and bison and antelope which once claimed the open prairie as their own, were no more. The time of the cowboys and the Sioux Indians and wild things was fast slipping away.

He sought assurance from his past, revisited his life as a boy and young man. But the past could not be changed. He was left with the present. There were two choices. He could continue to nurture the rancor of hate or release it and find vindication in the promise of forgiveness. The power of this peace lived within him. Linc was looking in the wrong places. The winds of prairie remained, as always, constant and free.

Chapter One

The Wonder and Strangeness of the Prairie

L INC SAT ON the rag-rug near the stone fireplace after supper, waiting for his grandpa and his parents to join him. He scratched his head impatiently, and wished he was not thought of as a boy. He was, after all, fifteen summers. It was not unusual for other boys his age to be on their own. He still lived with his family. He frowned.

He hoped his mother would not notice the loss of his moccasins. When he came home from the pond where he’d gone fishing and swimming, he was without them. Linc left them on a rock to dry. The cool, wet soil under his bare feet felt good and he never gave the moccasins a thought, until he got home. It was the second pair she made for him. When they were alone, he would tell her about them. Not when grandpa and his pa were around.

Linc eyed the rack where hats and jackets and coats hung. The pegs held his grandpa and pa’s best Stetson hats. Linc had not earned a Stetson yet. His hat was made of muskrat fur, warm in the winter, but not handsome.

A stool near the door held buffalo grease used to keep the leather shoes and belts soft and supple. A water bucket, always filled for washing or in case of fire, looked half-empty. Getting water was Linc’s chore.

He got up from the rug, grabbed the bucket and hurried to the water pump. In moments he was back. He sat the bucket down hard and water sloshed on the floor.

Lincoln, his mother warned. Wonder if you can fill it right. And what happened to your moccasins?

He hung his head and reached down for the bucket. How’d you know ’bout my shoes? He said as he ducked under her reach.

I got eyes like an owl and I’m able twist my head in all directions. Depend on that, she said. Linc believed her. He returned with the water bucket and, with the utmost care, put the bucket on the floor where his mother could reach it.

I’m sorry, ma. I didn’t mean to leave my shoes, But he had no explanation that suited. His mother sighed.

Linc sat on the rug again and stretched. His legs were getting longer. Soon he’d have to ask for a new pair of trousers. But now was not the time.

He looked around the room. The house was a cabin, and a comfortable one at that. The threshold of the home opened to four rooms: the kitchen with the eating area and the sitting room with the fireplace and off that two sleeping rooms. A ladder lead to a small loft which was Linc’s primary night place.

A butter churn and loom were among the most used items in the kitchen, that and the tallow vat where his grandma and ma dipped long strings of candles. Linc took a deep breath. Bayberry and bee’s wax. Most cabins relied on beef or pig fat for candle tallow. It had a tangy, rancid smell to Linc. His family was lucky to have access to sweet smelling wax from bee hives and the fruit from bayberry bushes. These made excellent candles for light. They were less smoky and had an agreeable odor. Linc always associated animal fat candles with his Lakota aunt’s tepees and lodges.

In the center of the room was a long wooden table which served as many as eight people during harvest time. Finished wooden chairs were expensive, so benches were made from heavy barn boards. His Grandpa Herman Cassidy had the only wood chair, a rocker made of hickory. Grandma Charlotte Cassidy made a padding for the rocker. Every member had their place in the family and their duties.

It was well known that his Grandma Charlotte baked the best pies and churned sweet cream and butter which never spoiled. Linc’s Ma was skilled at hand-work, basket making and sewing. A loom and spinning wheel with baskets of carded and dyed wool was always near her at night.

After supper the men talked of ranching and the prices of feed and the market for cattle. The women usually spoke of babies born, weddings and deaths. They had sewing to do. The men smoked their pipes. There were plans for the future, talk about the new church-school being built, the latest political problems, and what they heard from the reservations. But the best times were beside the firelight when Grandpa Cassidy told stories remembered from the past.

This was Linc’s favorite part of the evening. He looked forward to the tales his Grandpa would tell. At fifteen years, Linc consider himself almost a man. He had heard the yarns many times but he still liked hearing them over again.

Tell me, he said to Grandpa Cassidy. When did you come to the Dakota Territory? What was it like?

Oh, let’s see, my memory is gettin’ old but I’ll see what times I can drum up. Grandpa would lean back, puff on his pipe and his eyes would close.

When I came out here, it was around 1817. I recall that year as it was the year Fort Pierre was first set up. I looked for land out west to settle one day. I was a little early on that score. But I did meet a man named Joseph LaFramboise. The traders laughed when I said his name ’cause I don’t talk French so good. They told me his name meant ‘Little Raspberry’ in the French tongue.

Oh, that’s funny, Grandpa. Linc tucked his knees under his chin and laughed.

Still, he was a good French fur trader and Indian agent. Saved my life once by talkin’ to the Sioux in their tongue. I was taken by a warring tribe and held hostage. LaFramboise lived among the Sioux and knew their languages. The Indians trusted him. He made a deal so I was released. When I was with the LaFramboise’s traders, I was safe. LaFramboise was so well versed in their language that the United States government asked him to be an interpreter. He signed two treaties with the Sioux. It was hard living, especially the winters. Winds were so cold the tips of our mule’s ears froze clean off their heads. There wasn’t settlements, just Fort Pierre and many Indian villages. The fort was located along the river for easy canoe portage of explorers and the military. When the soldiers left, the people continued to call the area Pierre.

What about the mountain men? Linc’s eyes were wide.

I knew many. An easterner like me couldn’t find my way around without guides. The best were out here then. Through Joseph LaFramboise, I met the famous Jean Nicollet who managed the Nicollet Fur Company. I was a green-horn explorer back then. But I learned quickly. No maps, except the Louis and Clark charts had ever been drawn. So we were on our own.

Of course you knew the famous Indians. What were they like? Linc asked.

"Oh, yes. Lived with them. Without the Sioux, easterners like me would have died. I respected them, even when we didn’t agree. The tribes are not as powerful as they once were, not since us white men came and settled. I knew Old Chief Smoke who made good talks between the Indians and white men. I met Crazy Horse and his brother Curly, great warriors. Crazy Horse is a solitary man, a dreamer, the freest man I know. He don’t trust us white folk much, especially soldiers. I hear that Crazy Horse married a woman named Black Shawl and they had a child. Called her They Are Afraid of Her. Seems a strange name for such a little babe, strange and foreboding. Talk is that the child died this past spring."

Grandpa lowered his pipe. It’s said Crazy Horse is still mourning the loss. I was invited to his village for the potlatch after the funeral, but I didn’t go. Not my place.

Who else did you know? Linc leaned on his Grandpa’s knee.

Well, let’s see, I met up with Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa tribe. Sitting Bull is a Holy Man, a man whose word can be trusted. Then there was Joseph Running Deer whose father Philip Lame Deer fought with the Americans back in the War of 1812. The Indians have proud traditions and many brave leaders.

Linc’s imagination was full of tales present and past. He had many questions. Did you ever fight them?

Well, if I had taken that into my head, I wouldn’t be here today. The tribes were strong. A smart white man didn’t mess with them. In my day, the Indians didn’t see the white men as trespassers but as hunters and traders going through. Many a mountain man and guide married Indian women. Those women knew how to take care of their men and families, especially in the winter. When I was a young explorer, I once lived with the Hunkpapa’s. I didn’t marry any of the women. I guess they felt sorry for me. So the tribe gave me a tent and food to eat as long as I worked with the braves and provided my share from hunts. Grandpa paused and relit his pipe.

Weren’t there any towns? Linc knew the answer but the story fascinated him.

There were few white families to make up towns. None like we have now. Gold and silver had not yet been discovered when I was here. No gun slingers or trashy folk were around then. It was just this land and it was wonderful! There were so many animals and plants. Wildlife was abundant. It felt like the great prairie went on forever. There was a mystery about these hills back then. The mountains in the north were considered holy places. Only the great wisdom-keepers of the tribes knew about Dakota’s secrets and wonders.

So you had to go back to Pennsylvania?

Yep. Grandpa leaned forward. After an especially long winter, I knew my time in the territory had come to an end. But I vowed I would return and claim my place here one day. My home was in Pennsylvania. Back there, I was a blacksmith and I had a girl I loved. He smiled at his wife. Charlotte waited for me and when I came back, we got hitched in Lancaster and started our family. You tell the next part, wife.

Grandma Charlotte put her sewing down and shook her head. I told this so many times but I’ll tell it again for Linc’s sake.

Linc lay on his back and listened. His Grandma spoke in short sentences, as if it were hard for her to remember. We had a boy right off. Named him Lee. He is your Pa. He was a big baby. I thought he was just about ready to walk the minute he popped out! She laughed. After that we had the two girls, Olive and Lulu, like twins all their lives. Couldn’t tell them apart. They never married. They are teachers in Chicago now. Then our last was Horace. He went off on his own before the war between the states. She paused and broke a thread as she stitched. He wandered to New Orleans where he met his wife, Alice. Horace joined the Confederate Soldiers and fought the Yankees. We lost him in battle. He is buried in an unknown grave down south. I wish I could put flowers on his resting place now and then… Grandma Charlotte stopped talking. She never could get beyond this point in the story.

Grandpa added, Well, it’s been hard on your Grandma. She’s strong. When our family was getting settled here in the Dakota Territory, she never complained. Not then and not now. She worked with me and I say the ranch would never be as it is without her hands and back. When we came here, we had this portion of the range surveyed and eventually me and your Pa started raising beef cattle, our Angus. So we been doin’ that ever since.

What about how Pa met Ma? Linc liked this chapter of the story best.

That was an interesting story how that all happened, Grandpa said. Your Pa and me often went to the tribal councils to listen to their requests for supplies and such. Your Pa was a young man and that’s where he met your Ma. But being white, he wasn’t allowed to marry with a chief’s daughter.

Grandpa laughed when Linc begged to hear more. Your ma, Lily was an important member of her tribe, the daughter of Chief Little White Cloud. Your Pa had to fight another brave, Yellow Thunder for her hand. And when he done that, he had to come up with six good horses and one wagon as a bride price.

She must have been a beautiful woman, Linc said.

Then as now, Grandpa leaned back and smoked his pipe. "They married, first among the tribe and then, for your grandma’s sake, had a ceremony in our living room by a Christian Minister. There was fiddler’s and dancin’ after they said their ‘I dos’. The tribe came in their best feathers and garb. Your mama wore a white deer skin dress. Your Grandma was afraid there would be all kinds of foolishness if whiskey was around and spoil the day. But she didn’t need to worry. You mama’s Indian brothers were invited and they stood by the door with their hatchets. No one drank more than they could tolerate."

It must have been a great wedding, Linc sighed.

Sure was, Grandpa leaned forward. Best part was that your Pa and Mama decided to have their family right away, my grandsons. There was your older brother first. He was taken from us, died early in age during a cattle stampede. He’s resting up in the Cassidy cemetery. Then they had you. We sure were proud and happy with you. There’s more and maybe one day I’ll write it all down so you will know it all.

Grandpa put away his pipe and Linc was reminded of his chores the next day. Murmured voices surrounded him. The crackle of the fire danced and snapped and made white ashes in the throat of the masonry firebox. Linc was warm and cared for. He knew of no other life but this ranch and the land.

Chapter Two

The Double-D Ranch

H E HEARD HIS mother’s call, Lincoln. Your father and grandfather need you.

Linc’s legs dangled from a large rock, beyond their house. The sky was rose colored and the great sun set beneath the western horizon where it slept at night times. With a faint glimmer, a few stars and the crescent white moon found a home in the sky.

Linc liked nothing better then to watch how the sun and moon traded places at just the right time every night. He was puzzled by their forces and watched as the sun departed in its death march and the cold, silver moon slipped in as a light in the darkness. The sky held infinite fascination for young Linc.

The Double-D Ranch was Lincoln’s yard. As far back as he could remember, its vast plains stretched before him, open and wide. From the time of his youngest years, he was allowed the freedom to run and ride within view of the barn. The only rule was he had to be back home by evening meal.

There was no better place to play than the prairie. It held plenty of excitement for a young boy. Here he found vast burrowed towns of prairie dogs, discovered turtles in the ponds and bats in caves. He investigated nests where, at the twilight, bob-white birds called as if lonesome for a mate. Along the hills were the elegant pronghorn antelope. They were the fastest animals on the prairie. Their ears picked up the least crack of a stick, so Linc hid in the tall grass and observed their habits.

He didn’t often see thundering herds of brown bison. They once roamed without number along valleys. The uncles from his mother’s village said that the herds were culled by hunters for sport, an invention of the white man. They paid others for the privilege of killing the best of the herd. Then the carcasses were left to rot.

Linc had seen the bison remains and felt a sadness wash over him. It was as if a great monster had stolen the tribe’s food and clothing, all they had to survive, and there was nothing to stop this devastation. There were, in the bison’s place increased prairie dog towns and too much weed grass. Linc had to look hard to find the lush green meadows and spring-fed water holes of the old days. The uncles told Linc that the Great Spirit was angry at these two-legged men for killing without thought and so he cursed the lands. It would be this way until men changed their habits and the bison came back.

Linc knew the prairie’s beautiful intimate places, too. There were the many small swift creeks where butterflies and bees took nectar from wildflowers for honey.

Linc explored the caves and rock shelves and ghost villages where the old tribes once lived long ago. He drew chalk pictures on rocks next to the graffiti created by his Sioux forbearers.

It was as if he were a tumbleweed caught just before the storm, destined to wander the prairie lands, pushed on by the winds. He could not conceive of what life was like outside of the plains.

His grandfather came to him where he sat on the rock. Boy, you hear your mother call, did you not?

Yes, Linc said as he slipped down from the rock. I wanted to see father sun end the day. See, he pointed, there is a streak of purple across the sun’s face and many clouds. How does the sun know when to rest each night?

He just does. It is his time. Men do not worry about such things, grandfather said. The sun and moon with all their guiding stars will always be there for you as a guide.

Linc asked no more. Maybe his mother’s uncles, the wise ones of the village would have answers. Linc kept the questions to himself.

They walked together to the ranch house. You will go to your uncle’s village in the reservation. They are preparing a festival. Your mother has asked that you attend. Be on your best behavior. It is important that you listen to what your elders say, follow their lead. Next year you will be old enough to be a man of the tribe. They will speak to you of this.

Linc was excited by this news. He was not often sent alone to his mother’s relations at the reservations. The village was too far away for a boy to ride. But it was decided he needed to be a part of his mother’s family, to learn their ways.

Supper was served in his family’s cabin and Linc hurried to bed early. He had dreams of the reservation. He awoke as dawn crept through his window, stretched across the floor. It pinched the sky yellow with pink stripes, delivered it from its dark night. Linc blinked his eyes and listened. Not even the dog barked. He was anxious to be away, make his own journey.

He grabbed his bedroll, slid down the ladder, snatched a pancake sausage patty and his canteen of water and was out the door. His horse was waiting in the corral, along with one of the Indian wranglers as a guide.

I’m ready, Linc said to the wrangler. Let’s be off!

When he arrived, the village was busy. Festival plans had already started. The men were out hunting and the women and children were gathering foods and preparing the lodges and tents for visitors.

The roasting smells from the cooking pots teased Linc’s stomach. Soon he was sent with other boys his age to collect water and wood for the night fires. The women of the village did most of the work. Linc watched the ceaseless toil of the women. Their sun-burned, earthy hands sewed and painted deerskin leggings and shirts, carried water long distances, made food for the men and boys, served themselves last.

Linc was told he was welcome in their midst. Most in the tribe thought of Linc as one of their own, but he still was a boy, and an outsider. Linc felt this but couldn’t figure out what to do about it.

Time at the villages was not squandered. He was often at the call of his uncles and boy cousins for routine tasks and games. Discipline of children at the tribe was minimal by tradition. It was believed punishments at this stage in a child’s life would damage their growing spirits. This was a major plus for young Lincoln. He felt ready to take on his Sioux cousins in any fight or competition when challenged. He lost frequently in wrestling and foot racing. but he excelled at horse riding.

Evenings were spent in the community lodge. Drums beat with the rhythm of many hearts. They told that it was the story-teller’s time. Rose-colored fires flickered to life. Shadows fell on the faces of highly decorated holy men. They spoke in the old tongue of days gone by, and sang of heroic battles and hunts, of coyote’s mischief making and the white buffalo’s promise to return. Linc’s heart thumped, his skin warmed and he felt as if the spirits in this place whispered secrets to him.

During festival time, women and men showed off their finest bonnets and garments and danced late into the night. Each dance was a story. Linc liked these times best. This is where he learned about his Sioux traditions, within the comfort and circle of his elders.

One night, when all were asleep, except for Old Elder, Linc approached cautiously. Young people had to mind their manners in the tribe.

Old Elder, Linc said in the Lakota language, My heart has a question. May I speak? Normally children waited to be spoken to by their elders. But Old Elder had taken an interest in young Linc.

Old Elder pointed to the rug in front of him. Sit, young Linc. He was whittling a prayer pipe. He put the work aside, folded his arms and gave Linc his attention. What is it you ask?

I do not understand all of the People’s ways. What do you think of the white skin people? How are they different? The question posed a problem because Linc was partly white, partly Sioux. However he did not see himself as any particular kind of people. If anything, Linc thought of himself as some kind of strange hybrid. Unlike his cousins, Linc’s blood was not one thing, but a complicated mix.

Old Elder reached for an old and much used pipe, added some sweet sage tobacco and lit it. It is not an easy question to answer. White skins are no different from the People of Lakota Sioux. They might look strange to Sioux eyes. But inside we are all the same. It is our minds and hearts that are so different.

Why do the Sioux not battle the white skins?

Our people could not stop them. They were too many. It was never easy. When their horses and wagons came into our territory, we welcomed them, often fed them and offered shelter. Mountain men come long ago. These were much like our people, strong and free. They cared nothing about the Great Father in Washington City. These people were wanderers. Many married our women. They were not chiefs but hunters and explorers. Never stay in one place. We trust them.

Old Elder puffed on his pipe. Then new people come from far away east. They bring wagons, with children and cattle, and magic sticks which made the earth theirs. They were not like the mountain men. These white skins were here to stay. They were strangers to our ways. They took land without asking. High in our most holy hills, come men called miners. These people dug into the earth and removed yellow gold stones. They said these stones had value and were theirs. Among them were strange hunters who killed our bison in many thousands. Our bison, given to our people for food and shelter, were hunted until few of these magnificent beasts can be found.

Linc was worried. Am I bad? Is my family bad because we are white?

Old Elder leaned back. Smoke drifted from the fire pit and he emptied the ashes from his pipe into it. You are not bad because of your skin or who gave you life. It is what you do with your years that is of value. You are not ours. You are not theirs. Your world is two worlds. You have the blessing of two spirits within you and the curse. You will be strong because of that or weak. It is your choice. You are the looking glass, the reflection of both peoples. What you say and do with your life is important. As a boy, you have both worlds to wander. You should make the most of this time. Understand?

Linc went to his bedroll that night with many questions in his head. He would wonder about his place between these worlds all his life. But he would never again feel he didn’t have a choice.

At home on the ranch, Linc followed his grandfather around. From boyhood he knew the land’s history. The homestead land was given to the Cassidy family by the government. It contained 160 acres which backed up to the sacred lands of the Sioux.

Grandpa Cassidy was the herdsman of the family. He excelled in breeding an excellent beef, the black angus cross. The Cassidy Double-D Ranch was one of the largest around so there was always room for visitors. It’s hospitality and food was known throughout the territory. His grandfather made the best whiskey which was traded for other objects of value.

When he was a small boy, Linc recalled the Montana tribes which visited the Cassidy ranch. They often stayed until others arrived. Gatherings and dances were held at the sacred grounds, but many chose to begin their visits with the Cassidy’s. Their remarkable costumes and presence, proud and imposing features, amazed Linc.

Once or twice old mountain men with great hunting rifles and traps came by. They rode in with pack mules which labored under the weight of beaver pelts and wolf skins. They came from the west to sell furs. Linc was awed by their fantastic stories of the great animals and mountains and the people far away.

Linc’s father Lee Cassidy was the horseman in the family. He was known for the fine American Quarter horses he raised on the ranch. These horses were selected by the Cassidy Ranch for their work abilities and confirmation. They were handsome horses with good manners, quick, tough and hardy, able to carry a man many miles across the prairie without complaint. His father’s Quarter Horses were often winners at fairs and races in the territory. Linc was present when his pa won a new wagon with his favorite and fastest horse. Most raced for a jug of whiskey, a few coins of money, or more likely, pride.

Linc knew horses well. He was put on his first horse when he was barely able to walk. He took to the horses as if born to ride. He loved their smell, their soft muzzles and alert expressions. They were four-legged phantoms to young Linc, because of the speed they could run. They were smart and able to attend to things the two-legs could never accomplish.

There was in Linc’s mind only one animal greater than his father’s Quarter Horses and that was the wild Mustangs of the southwest. Unlike the Quarter Horse, which was willing to do the bidding of its trainer and owner, Mustangs did not conform to anyone or anything without damaging their spirits. Often captured, so Linc was told, by the Comanche and Apache Tribes, Mustangs could never be entirely broken or trained. Their ancestors were wild Arabian and Spanish horses. It was believed that the Mustang of the southwest never forgot that. These were the horses that galloped in Linc’s wishful dreams.

Linc leaned into his bed. He heard his mother climb the ladder. Soon this place would be off limits to her, as she was a woman, and next year Linc would be counted a man. But tonight he welcomed her goodnight talks.

Mother, Linc said as she sat on the edge of his cot. Will you sing me a song? One from the tribes?

You will never be too old to hear the stories of the tribe. If the stories are not told, they will die. Let me begin, and she sang in a language Linc knew. I am Lily White Cloud, who are you? Then the story went back in time, told of the family and the sacred animals, coyote and white buffalo, who guided the tribe’s spiritual lives.

As she sang, her scent was all around him, warm and soothing. Linc learned these Sioux traditions, the good Sioux road from his mother. His survival in the Indian world depended on his mother’s knowledge. He would have to learn of the white man’s world from his Cassidy father and grandfather. It was sometimes confusing.

Linc curled under his blanket. As she stroked his hair, her voice came, as if from far away, as it repeated the ancient stories of the Lakota Sioux. As Linc drifted to sleep with the sound of her voice, he wondered what his new Sioux name would be? What challenges would he face? He could not fail.

Chapter Three

A Decision by the Family

O NE EVENING, AS Linc and his father Lee gathered after their supper meal, Grandfather Herman Cassidy made the auspicious decision to market their cattle and horses in St. Louis Missouri.

Come, family, grandfather said. I have words for everyone. Linc, too. He paused as all gathered at the table. He had a document, labeled July 1869 in his hand. The war had been over for five years. Many ranches in the north and west still struggle since reconstruction. I read that rustlers and rebel vigilante groups do not easily concede their loss. They are a threat to cattle and horse operations here in the north. But we must market our cattle somehow. We cannot wait longer. We must get our cattle and horses to market soon.

Linc and his father Lee listened.

The elder Cassidy continued. In exchange I will purchase cotton, coffee and equipment needed for our ranch, buy some more land when I get back. I will need at least a week to prepare for the journey. St. Louis recently opened its stockyards. Ranchers from across the land are already there to market beef, hogs, and sell horses. I hear the city is bursting at its seams with new markets and that profits can be made.

Grandpa explained, After our harvest, I’d like to drive the cattle to St. Louis. We have about 2,500 head. I spoke to a cattle broker and he said that if we shipped our cattle by railroad, we’d net less than twelve dollars a head for them, as transportation is so expensive. Since the war, market has changed. Beef is running about three cents a pound. Depending how fat we can get and keep our cattle, we could receive as much as twenty-three dollars a head if we drive them overland to St. Louis. There’s a market for cattle now. Our breed is new to the market. And these Aberdeen Angus are making quite an impression at sales and market. Makes sense to drive our angus to St. Louis.

Grandpa reached for a round case. I met a young feller in St. Paul, Minnesota who is a bookkeeper with a steamboat company. His name is James Hill. He has dreams of building routes for steamboats and someday, railroads west on the Mississippi for passengers and freight. He’s surveyed much of the area west of the Mississippi. These are copies of some of his maps.

Grandpa unfolded the maps and pointed to certain routes. Two years ago Mr. Hill started his own riverboat line. That’s an important detail because our problem is not how to get down to St. Louis but how to return. Hill suggests that when we come back, we journey from St. Louis up the Missouri River by riverboat or paddle-wheeler to Pierre.

How current are these maps? Lee asked.

Not too old, Grandpa responded. Maybe a little crude, but there does look to be a water route to get back from St. Louis to Pierre with a short overland travel after that. James Hill claims it’s possible by riverboat. Grandpa smoothed out the maps on a table with his hands. What do you think?

Linc’s father Lee Cassidy studied the papers with Grandpa. Well, how long do you think it would take to drive the cattle to St. Louis?

I expect two-and-a-half to three months, good weather.

Lee and Lincoln frowned. That’s a long time, Lee said. What do you figure the return time would be if we used the water transport?

I’ve been told we need only three weeks coming back by riverboat, Grandpa stood up. Almost leisure. He smiled. However, we must move the cattle overland to get to St. Louis first. That means driving the animals from Pierre south through Nebraska Territory and stopping just north of St. Louis. Grandpa explained.

Lee looked at his father. You figure on leading this by yourself? You ain’t a young man anymore. The doctor says your heart ain’t any too good since your spell last summer. The drive is long and can be dangerous… comin’ back on the riverboat, you ain’t never done that.

Before he could finish, Grandpa interrupted. Yeah, this ol’ body will get me there and back. Maybe… anyhow we will be taking the river back. Some riverboats take on cargo and horses, as well as people. All the rest of our horses will be auctioned and the cattle sent to market in St. Louis. So coming back will be easier no matter what.

How many wranglers do you think you’d need? Lee rubbed his chin.

About ten or twelve good wranglers would do it, not counting me and the wagon drivers. You said yourself, Lee, that we aren’t getting a cent for the cattle as they graze out our back door. They become a liability. You know that since the war, the market price of cattle has increased. Folks out east depend on the beef us ranchers can raise.

Linc watched his Pa and Grandpa. Both men had ways of coming to an agreement during discussions. Whoever had the last word usually won.

Do you think the cattle could make it as far as St. Louis? Linc’s Pa tapped his hand on a small table. It’s a distance.

Grandpa bit his lip in thought. Well, if we follow the rivers heading south, the cattle and horses should find good grazing lands and fresh water all the way from here to Missouri. Some would say Kansas City is a better choice of a market. But it’s much too far to the west. And I hear some of those Texas stock came to Kansas yards this season with cattle fever. Spreads like wildfire. The market is looking for healthy beef from the north.

Lee examined the charts. The angus we have this year are healthy, better than the Texas market. We don’t have the cattle fever.

Sure! Grandpa added. I figure our healthy beef would bring a good market price. If we keep the cattle going at fifteen miles a day with rests for grazing and water, we should make St. Louis in less than two months time.

Did you think about cattle rustlers during this trail? Lee’s figure traced a route on the maps.

Yes, I did. But, we’ll have weapons. We have no choice but to go through the territory of Nebraska. Grandpa pointed to a place on the map. There are several rivers to rest at. Our best advantage is the Missouri River, which is so near. We could make good time if marauders and rustlers don’t bother us. I ain’t worried about Indian attacks.

You might have a point, Pa, Lee said. I hear the Sioux chiefs ain’t ready to cause trouble since the last war got over and treaties were signed.

Grandpa added, Some of Lily’s kin said they’d like to travel with us. That would be a protection during the trail. Those braves can be our scouts. I think I’ll send our foreman to trade at the reservations. We’ll need bear grease. Mosquitoes will be a blood-sucking scourge without it. I’ll need extra blankets and some good deer-skin jackets and pants. The women of the tribe still make the best. We need some wide hats for the sun. I’ve asked a blacksmith to shoe and examine our riding horses, see they are in good shape. A vet will need to come out to check the cattle, sign a health certificate. St. Louis has good cattle slaughter houses and there are sales barns for horses. People there have more money.

Lee tapped the map. There ain’t nothin’ south or west of these territories except wide open Indian Country. Beyond that, it’s no man’s land all the way to the Republic of Texas. Linc followed the conversations with curiosity. He intended on going, too.

Then we agree, Grandpa stood and folded the maps. Going from the north to south to St. Louis, Missouri is acceptable and the least hazardous?

He held out his large hand. Linc saw his Pa nod his head and take Grandpa’s hand in his. Well, but look, I can’t go with you. How are you gonna manage? You better choose some good wranglers and drovers. I’m sure that’s in your plan.

I have a number of wranglers and crew in mind. You know, this is something I’ve been lookin’ forward to doing. Grandpa settled back in his chair and asked the women to bring him another cup of coffee. Besides, he added, there’s a friend I want to see in Kansas Territory. Name’s Squire Jacob Rice. He has a plantation there. I wrote him long ago and didn’t get any kind of response. If I’m in the area, I want to call on him.

Lily passed him a fresh cup of hot coffee. Grandpa continued, I’m worried. We used to get some fine horses from the Rice plantation and lately I don’t hear a word from him. News is that the war came near his place. I haven’t heard from him since. I won’t take chances. We owe Squire Rice a visit for his friendship and business over the years. We’ll take an extra wagon of food for him and his kin. News is the folks are near to starving in that area.

Everyone nodded. The decision to drive the cattle to St. Louis was made. There was much work to do.

During the next week, Linc tagged along as his Grandpa hired men and supplies for the drive. Gear and tack for the horses was needed and a wagon to hold it all. Horsemen chucked their traveling supplies in its wagon and cowhands added their supplies, enough to last the time on the prairie. There were few towns between Pierre and St. Louis.

Lee and Linc joined the elder Cassidy as the wagons were being loaded.

Who did you hire for lead wranglers? Lee asked.

My first choice is Cecil Hatley and my number two cowhand is Cody Sanders, Grandpa said. They’re both excellent horse wranglers. Can’t do without them. Cecil has been with our ranch for many years. His skills as a horseman and as the ranch’s chief agent for buying and selling livestock is essential.

That’s sure enough true, Lee added. I see you chose Cody Sanders, too. He’s reliable except during rodeo season. But once the rodeo is over, Cody always comes back to work at the Double-D. He understands horses better than any. And no one can read the prairie as well as Cody, except maybe the Indian Scouts.

Grandpa nodded, Well, even though I’m boss, I depend on the best wranglers. I hired the ’smith to help Cecil with the care of the horses. I depend on these men. Of course, no one can be without a good cook and Ole has that job.

Linc watched as a separate chuck wagon was crammed with food, cooking tools, and medical supplies for Ole, the Cook. The kitchen wagon contained dried fruits, tins of coffee, dried meats, flour and sugar, molasses and tobacco, plenty of beans and corn bread makings.

Just before the drive, a military wagon arrived from Fort Pierre’s garrison loaded with thirteen unmarked crates. It was escorted by a federal cavalry. Grandpa was there to sign for the consignment. Linc watched but said nothing.

Linc, Grandpa said, this wagon with the large crates is from the army. When we get to St. Louis, I’ll deliver them to the Army people there. I’ll let you know more about them as we go. Nothing more was said for some while. Linc was sure, if he were supposed to know about the crates, grandpa would not keep it secret from him.

The outfit got bigger and busier. Wranglers organized and sorted two-thousand head of cattle and eight-hundred horses. On the way, Grandpa expected to round up about four-hundred strays and unbranded calves called mavericks.

The mavericks were an accident of fortune. Since the war, there were fewer ranchers to manage the cattle so many were set loose on the range. They bred freely and wandered the prairie, available to any rancher who could claim and brand them during a round-up. Linc was aware that his Grandpa had made drives like this many times before and he hoped this would not be the last.

Each cowman had at least four horses to use during the journey on long drives. Many of the horses belonged to the Double-D, but most cowboys liked to have trusted ponies of their own and preferred their own tack. The men were particular about their saddles. It was important to keep all the equipment in good shape during the drive.

One night, before their departure Grandpa Herman claimed a chair near the fireplace. He sat forward chucking at a piece of whittling stick with his knife.

We are about ready. The crew and me will leave on our cattle drive next week. Lincoln will go on the drive with me. It was not a request but a statement. The experience will be good for the lad, he said over the objections of the women in the house. I know he’s old enough to ride and see what ranching is about. He’s ready.

Linc leapt from his seated position. His eyes were wide in excitement. Oh, Ma and Pa can I go? Grandpa will be with me.

He’s a good rider, the old man added, and he’ll have a better idea of the way things are in the country after this. It will make a good ranch-man out of him. Pack his duds and have him ready by next week. I’ll watch out for him during our travel.

Almost in unison there were howls of descent. I don’t think he’s wise enough about the prairie. Linc’s Ma was in her sewing chair. She stopped rocking and looked at the men, which was a sign she disapproved.

I am not too young! Why I can help Grandpa. He’ll need someone young to hunt small game and to carry things. Linc turned to his Pa. Tell Ma that she’s gotta let me go sometime. I ain’t no boy anymore. Hell…

Son! Pa looked stern. Watch your language. You say sorry to your Ma. You don’t ever speak so to a woman, let alone your Ma.! What you got to say?

Linc knew he was wrong, Sorry Ma. I didn’t mean it. I got all worked up. But you can see I’m ready to go, to be a rancher, can’t ya?

Lily glanced at her son. Her eyes were full of pride. Lee wandered to his wife’s side, It’s time. This next spring I want Linc to work the calves with me, learn the ranch business. I can’t go on the drive as I have ranch duties that won’t wait. Grandpa and other wranglers will be with him. All will be well.

There was a worried response. But Linc knew in this case, his Pa had the last say.

Yes, you can go Linc. Pa smiled. But, before you go, I want to see the horses you’re gonna take. Make sure you have at least three or four good mounts for your trip. Linc’s Pa placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. I think you should view this as part of your schoolin’. Listen to what ever your Grandpa and wranglers say. They got more experience on the range than you.

Grandpa nodded and placed the stick aside and reached for his rifle. Come here Linc. Sit beside me. Remember how I taught you to shoot?

Yes, sir.

You think you have a good shootin’ eye? His hand smoothed the stock.

Better than some. Linc watched his Grandpa handle the weapons. I can hit a whiskey bottle cap off the fence and I don’t miss ’em much.

I’ll take your word for that, son. You’ll be tested out on the plains. Behind them, the women fussed. Grandpa ignored them.

The next week after much preparation, the chuck and gear wagons were loaded. Pack horses and mules were chosen with care. Linc examined the corral. He decided on several reliable horses he had ridden many times. His favorite was Lightning, a sure-footed, fearless horse with speed and endurance. Two more made the string he’d use.

Linc examined the tack room and chose two broken-in saddles. He slicked up the leather with saddle soap and made sure none of it was dry but in riding shape.

Linc prepared well in advance. He rubbed buffalo grease and flax oil on his vest. This made it supple and waterproof. Last, he checked his money box. The money was satisfactory. It jingled with a new purpose in the box. He felt almost wealthy.

That night Linc had dreams of heavy wagons and the gallop of horses and grunts of cattle. Somewhere he would find the open sky and its trails would lead to adventures of a life-time.

Chapter Four

A Kiss of Farewell

L INC WOKE EARLY. He punched his goose down pillow with his fist and blinked his eyes. It was the morning of his first cattle drive. All his traveling things were in his haversack at the foot of his bed. He yawned and kicked on his pants and pulled his traveling shirt over his head. He would need a warm jacket and slicker for nights on the prairie, for even in summer, it could get cold and rainy. As he grabbed his bags and squirrel gun. He shouted out the open window, Hey, Grandpa I’m ready!

He crawled down the ladder from his loft bedroom to the kitchen where his Ma spooned bacon, eggs, and a ladle of beans on tin breakfast plates. She took a portion for herself and sat across from Linc on her chair.

The men-folk have been working since dawn. But, there’s no hurry. They won’t leave without you. Breakfast first. Sit down my son, and eat. She poured a cup of coffee and added cream. You’re a near-man now, so have your coffee. When you are out there, remember to eat whatever Ole puts out. If water becomes scarce, look for a pineapple cactus. Cut one open for its juice, but watch its thorns. Be aware of any signs of danger… and well, think before you make any fast moves. There’s things out there you don’t know ’bout.

Aw, Ma I’ll be well, he moaned. I ain’t no baby anymore.

She handed him a box. It makes my heart tremble to think where time has gone. She signed. Here’s some deer skin gloves for your hands. I was makin’ them for your naming day but you can have ’em early. Look in this other box. Your Pa bought you a good new hat, a Stetson. It’s as important on the prairie as your horse. So take care of it. And you can’t go without some of my medicines for cuts and other ailments. Don’t want you to get into a situation and not have proper healing potions around. You mind your Grandpa now, and remember all your Pa and me taught you.

Linc grinned with delight. This is the best gift any man can have. Tell Pa thank you for me. He tried the new hat on with approval. Then he slipped on one of the gloves. I’m honored, Ma to get these. He examined the gifts, squared the new hat in place and took off the gloves. These are as good as Grandpa’s. I thank you. He dug into his breakfast but kept an eye on the door. With a slurp of his coffee, he glanced at his mother.

Can I go now?

Here’s a lunch pail. I packed for you and Grandpa so you’d have a good start on your day. I’ll miss you, my son. She turned and hugged him. He wriggled in her arms. I’m gonna say words of a prayer while you and your Grandpa be gone. You remember how to say yours, too?

Aw, Ma. I won’t forget. He blushed as he hugged her back. Linc tapped the brim of his new hat. I’ll be back before you know it! He grinned at her, slung his haversack over his back and when that was tied down, he cradled his old hunting rifle.

As he tore out of the house, he skipped two steps on the porch and dashed across the yard.

Morning! he shouted and waved to Ole,