On a train headed west from New York were two young soldiers of the infamous Third Army--Joe Cunningham, of Ponca, Nebraska,and Steve Jones of Fresno, California. They had been through the war together, from the Normandy Beachhead to the Battle of the Bulge, and now they were going home.

They were hardened veterans, both only twenty-three years old. There was only one difference between them--one was white and the other was black.

"Why did I let you talk me into going by Ponca, when I'm headed home to Fresno?" punned Steve as the train came to a halt at Ponca station.

"It's my Granny C's 103rd birthday and the whole county is celebrating. Besides, I want you to meet my family. I wrote and told them how you saved my life and they all want to meet you."

"Did you tell them I was colored?"

"Well, no, but that doesn't matter; besides you're not all colored. I saw a picture of your mother one time on your foot locker. What is she?"

Steve hesitated, then replied, "Spanish."

"I thought so," Joe answered.

"Have your folks up here ever seen a colored person?" Steve asked.

"I'll have you know, Steve, ole buddy, that colored people helped settle these Nebraska plains way back when," Joe proudly said.

"Where they at--I don't see em?"

"There's none here in Ponca--just Indians and whites."

"I thought so. They'll have a bowel movement when they see me here," Steve said with a chuckle.

Joe laughed, "Let's go, Steve. We'll take a cab to the house--it's only three miles up the road."

Steve strained his eyes over the western horizon; it seemed as barren as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. "Where?" he chided.

Joe just smiled at his remark.

"So this is the Ponca you been telling me all about, eh?" Steve Asked.

"Yeh, it used to be a trading post a long time back."

"Hey, is that our cab?" Steve interrupted.

"Yeh, think so, let's hop in," Joe said as he waved at the driver.

"Where to soldier boys?" the cab driver asked as Joe and Steve carried their baggage to the curb where the cab was parked.

"Cunningham Manor," Joe said with a proud smile.

"Get you there in fifteen minutes," the driver yelled, as he got out, walked to the trunk, opened it and put their baggage in. "Big party out that way," he continued as he closed the trunk and entered the driver's seat.

"Yep, it's my Granny C's birthday," Joe said as he and Steve entered the back seat.

"Is that Cunningham Manor?" Steve asked, straining his eyes as the cab sped west on a two lane paved road.

"Yep, that's it!"

"It's in the middle of nowhere; like you said."

"The house straight ahead is kinda new; my dad built it back in thirty-nine. The original house was over there. See those old, wooden broken-down buildings up on the hill over there?"

"Ah, yeh," Steve said, straining his eyes to see them.

"Looks like the birthday party has started already and I do believe half the county is here to celebrate Granny C's birthday," Joe gleefully remarked.

"Yeh, sure is a lot of people around," Steve agreed.

"Well, here we are," the cab driver drawled as he pulled up to the driveway of the sprawling two-story ranch house.

"Here you go sir," Joe said handing the cab driver a five-dollar bill. "Keep the change."

"Thank you, soldier boy," he replied as he opened the cab door, jumped out of the driver's seat and walked toward the trunk to get the baggage.

Joe and Steve got out of the cab and stood looking at Cunningham Manor, when suddenly a young girl came running toward them.

"Joe! Joe! You made it!"

Joe smiled and stretched out his arms. "Sissy," he yelled as they both met and embraced.

"Mother and Dad are coming down soon. Boy, will they be glad you got here," she giggled with excitement.

"Sissy, this is Steve, my war buddy," Joe proudly said, turning to face Steve. He continued, "Steve, this is Sissy, my sister, of course."

"Hi, Steve, Joe told us a lot about you."

"Hi, Sissy. Glad to meet you and don't believe half the things your brother said," Steve quipped with a smile as he patted Joe on the shoulder.

"Here comes Mom and Dad now," Joe yelled to Steve, running toward them as they walked down the steps of the house. Steve and Sissy walked briskly behind him. Joe embraced his parents, then turned and walked toward Steve and Sissy, holding his mother and father with an arm around each of them.

"Steve, I want you to meet my mom and dad!" Joe proudly exclaimed.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," Steve replied, adding, "besides Sissy, you're all Joe ever talked about...you and Cunningham Manor."

"So, you're Steve," Joe's father slowly stated with a stunned expression on his face. "Joe told us how you saved his life by tackling him down before he stepped on a land mine."

"We were just lucky, sir," Steve replied with a tone of embarrassment.

"I think I told you, Dad, Steve's outfit was the one that brought us ammunition and food during the Battle of the Bulge...they called 'em the Red Ball Express," Joe remarked.

"What's your plans now that you're out of the army, Steve?" Mr. Cunningham asked.

"Well, sir, the army taught me the trucking business, so I thought I'd go into the business back home in Fresno."

"How long can you stay, son ?"

"Not long, sir. My train leaves in about three hours."

"Well, get your self something to eat and drink. Joe, why don't you introduce Steve to all the people."

"I'll do it, daddy!" Sissy interrupted.

"OK, Sissy," Mr. Cunningham hesitatingly agreed. "You two go on. Joe and I will talk for awhile."

"Be along later, Steve," Joe said.

"OK," Steve replied.

Steve and Sissy walked over to the tables that were loaded with food and drink and a four-tier birthday cake smack dab in the center.

"Why didn't you tell us he was colored?" Joe's father angrily asked, with a frown on his face.

"Aw, Dad, what's the difference? We went through two years of the war together and never had a better friend," Joe retorted, with a bit of anger in his voice.

"I know, Son, but up here nobody's seen coloreds that much and they might start talking that you brought a nigger to Granny C's birthday party."

"Oh, John," chided Mrs. Cunningham, "he's only going to be here a short while and he's such a nice polite young man. Besides, I like him."

"OK," Mr. Cunningham said, giving in to his wife's logic, "just be careful when you introduce him to Granny C ... she's old and if she sees him it might upset her."

"See you in a little while," Joe grunted as he rushed away to catch up with Steve and Sissy.

"Be sure and say hello to Mrs. Jamison; you know you were always her favorite," Mrs. Cunningham yelled as Joe rushed away.

"OK, Mom."

"OK, you two, quit eating up all the food," Joe smilingly remarked to Steve and Sissy, as he neared the tables. "Come on, Steve. I want you to meet the people I grew up with and also Granny C; that's her in the wheel chair. That's my cousin Elaine standing next to her. You know, I'm not even sure Granny C remembers me!"

"Oh, sure she does!" Sissy shot back.

Steve glanced in Granny C's direction; their eyes met for a second. A tender smile came to her face, then she slowly turned her head and began staring out onto the western plains.

"Why do you call her Granny C?" Steve asked Joe.

"Well, her name is Cynthia, or Cindy, but ever since I can remember she always had us call her Granny C. She just loves to be wheeled out to that spot on the mound overlooking the old buildings, where she just sits there for hours on end, staring at that old shack over there ... where she was born. Her mother is buried over on that hill about a hundred yards from the shack," Joe paused, then continued, "she must have a lot of memories. Don't know how good they were but she always has a smile on her face--like now. Look at her, smiling and staring out over the hill."

28_____________________________________

TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

"Kay, Cindy wrote me last week. She's sad and I'm sad for her," Isaiah whispered as he knelt before Kay's grave. The cabin they had shared was sagging from the years and the weather. Isaiah placed some flowers on the grave and straightened the rotted cross, carved years before.

"Why, why couldn't we have had a life together? God, why did you do this to us; I loved her so much," he cried, looking up to the sky. "I can't help my step-daughter, my Cindy," he pleaded, "She needs me and I can't go to her. GOD!" he screamed into the wilderness, then slumped his head down toward the grave. Seconds later he raised his head, arose, mounted his steed, and rode back to Standing Rock.

The winter of 1866 passed quickly for Isaiah and Mata. He kept his word and made plenty of money for the major. He didn't like the idea that his cabin was an office and a home, so during the spring he built a cabin of his own just on the outskirts. Mata loved it...the door locked from the inside. He and Mata were happy. They enjoyed visiting the agency tribes, helping where they could and playing with the children.

"Got a letter for you, Isaiah," Carl yelled as Isaiah passed the agency office, "Looks like it's army business, eh?"

Isaiah grunted, took the letter and continued on. He stopped and opened the letter, dated military style, 10 April 1867.

Mr. Isaiah Dorman;

The United States Army desires your assistance as a courier between Fort Rice and Fort Wadsworth, Dakota territory, beginning 22 April 1867. Please reply as soon as possible.

Isaiah arrived at Fort Rice on the twenty-first, went to see Major Galpin, then to the fort to see Lieutenant Parsons.

"How long do you think you'll be needing me Lieutenant?" Isaiah asked, continuing, "if it's longer than a month or so, I'll pick up my wife and bring her here."

"A few runs to Fort Wadsworth and maybe a couple to James River ... Not more that a couple of months. We lost two couriers in less than a week," the lieutenant replied.

"Indians?" Isaiah queried.

"Yeh, either that or they deserted; they were good soldiers. I'm sure it was Indians ... See if you can find out what happened to them while you're out, OK?"

"Sure will try," Isaiah said as he grabbed the mail pouch. He bade the lieutenant goodbye, mounted his horse and headed for Fort Wadsworth.

The trips to Fort Wadsworth were uneventful; he spotted several bands of Sioux hunting parties. They just ignored him and went on about the hunt, they probably knew him or knew of him. Isaiah smiled, "Damn glad I'm black," he muttered, "Never thought this beautiful color would save its own skin." Still he found no sign of missing troopers.

"This will be your last trip, Isaiah; we just got assigned two more couriers from Fort Lincoln. They will report on the twenty seventh of May," the lieutenant said to Isaiah as Isaiah dropped his mail pouch on the desk.

"OK, Lieutenant...oh, by the way, I'm going to stop by Standing Rock on my way back from the James River. Gotta make sure everything's OK there."

"All right, Isaiah, sure," the lieutenant replied. Isaiah returned to Fort Rice on the first of June.

"Was everything OK at Standing Rock?" Lieutenant Parsons queried.

"Everything's just fine, Lieutenant. I'll be heading back in the morning."

"Oh, I almost forgot...Lieutenant Adair, the quartermaster, wanted to see you when you got back; I think maybe he's got a job for you."

"Sure, I'll stop by and see him on my way out."

"Thanks, Isaiah, you're a damn reliable man," the lieutenant praised, as he handed Isaiah his pay envelope.

"Call on me again, when you need me," Isaiah proudly said as he walked out.

"You bet we will."

As Isaiah entered Lieutenant Adair's office, Adair quipped,
"You must be Isaiah? You're a wanted fellow. Hear tell you know this country like the back of your hand...and the Indians don't bother you, either. What's your secret?"

Isaiah smiled, "I carry plenty of candy for the children, speak their language and don't let them know I'm scared."

"Are you?"

"Lots of times!"

"Listen Isaiah, I need you to carry mail for me. You might have to go as far south as Fort Laramie and west to Casper. The pay is a hundred a month and I'll need you for at least a month. Will you do it?"

"If it's just for a month it's fine; my wife is still at Standing Rock."

"Great, can you start today?"

"You betcha!"

The month passed quickly for Isaiah, one trip alone to Casper took almost two weeks. That's my last run, he thought as he headed back to Fort Rice, then planned to go back to Standing Rock and continue the woodshed operation. It was the end of June, the hot Dakota sun's rays beat down hard on the dusty plains. The flies were ferocious that time of year. These things could eat you alive, Isaiah thought to himself.

Approaching the Cheyenne River, Isaiah reined his horse to a halt, dismounted, and walked his horse to the bank of the river; they both drank heartily. Isaiah filled his canteen and walked toward a bush to rest, while his steed continued to drink. As he got closer to the bush, a horrible stench jolted his nostrils. He'd smelled the odor before...the stench of death, rotting human flesh. He wanted to retreat, the stench almost causing him to vomit, but curiosity made him see what was behind the bush. He covered his nostrils with his kerchief and walked closer.

His eyes widened when he saw the rotting bodies of two troopers. Dozens of arrows had pierced their terribly mutilated bodies. A war club had been bashed through the head of one and was still embedded in the skull. A lance impaled the other soldier to the ground, right through an eye. The decaying flesh showed only the eye socket where the lance had pierced. At the base of a nearby rock Isaiah saw two weather-beaten mail pouches--ransacked, and with several letters laying about.

He picked up the pouches and the letters when suddenly he saw the most horrifying sight he had ever seen in his life. There, laying on the rock, were the decaying eyes of one of the mutilated soldiers. Next to the eyes were bits of human nostril, severed from the face. Human teeth covered the flat rock--teeth that had been chopped out of the gums. Several finger joints were mixed in with the bizarre array. Off to the side lay rotted remnants of a brain, obviously taken from inside the skull of one of the troopers and placed atop the rock.

Isaiah ran to the river and heaved his guts out. He returned shortly, still a bit nauseated, removed the wallets from the dead men's trousers, mounted his horse and headed for Fort Rice.

He returned the mail pouches and the personal effects of the men, gave a full report to the lieutenant and headed back to Standing Rock. The lieutenant was right; they were good soldiers. He knows now that they didn't desert. Isaiah headed south to Standing Rock.

"Dada, guess what!" Mata said in a girlish giggle.
Isaiah glanced up, taking his pipe from his mouth, "What honey?"
"Guess," she pleaded.
Isaiah smiled, "OK, you saw a pretty dress you want."
"No! Guess again."
"Umm, let me think," Isaiah played, knowing she wanted the guessing game to continue. "Wella's coming to see us."
"Try again, my baby," she said, full of anxiety that he might guess right
"The mule is going to foal."
"Not the mule!" she gleefully replied. Isaiah leaped out of the rocking chair.
"Honey, you don't mean...you mean?" he stammered and stuttered "ah's", then he grabbed her and kissed her all over her head.
"Are you sure?" he repeated in inaudible Sioux.
"I'm pretty sure, Dada. I wanted to tell you a month ago but I really wasn't sure. Now I am!"
"After all these years," he muttered.
"What honey?"
"Oh, nothing, my baby. I'm nigh on fifty and I know you're in your late thirties and..." he paused, then continued, "We finally made it! We're finally going to have a child of our own."
"Yes Dada, and I'm so happy. I'm so very happy."
"When will she come to us?"
"I think maybe as the snow melts--you call it something--May or June, I think."
"Wait till I tell Cindy. I know she will be so happy for us!"
"What Dada?"
"Nothing, baby ... we'll have to give her a name.
"How do you know it will be a 'her'?" she questioned.
"Huh?"
"I said, how do you know it will be a 'her'?"
"Well, I just know," he confidently answered.
"You want a girl, don't you, Dada...a girl like the one you used to have."

Isaiah was stunned for a second, he'd never told her about Kay or Cindy.
"You knew about my little Cindy?"
"Yes, Dada ... from the letters you get and the joy you show when you get them ... the sadness, too. Many times I would get jealous and wonder what she looks like .. , is she black like you? Is she pretty?"

"One question at a time," Isaiah scolded. "No, she wasn't black, and yes she was pretty. I met her many years ago." He consoled her, in a sad, but longing voice. "She's grown up now, married and has children of her own. She lived in the land of Inkpaduta, east of the great river," he said, pointing to the east. His eyes were red, with sadness and joy, alike.

He held Mata in his arms while she cried with happiness.
"Dada, you have always loved little children haven't you?" she asked. Continuing she poured her heart out..."I remember when you used to bring candy sticks to the village children and make them so very happy. What did you call those candy sticks you used to bring them?"
"Lollipops, they call them."
"That's it! That's what we'll call her...Lolly."
"Lolly," he repeated as he tenderly kissed her eyes.

The October breeze whistled through the cold Dakota night but there was joy in the cabin of Isaiah and Mata--a joy no man could take away. Isaiah worked hard during that winter. He saved every penny he could get in order to buy the things the baby needed. It was one of the happiest times of their lives. They were in the midst of marital bliss, the complete fulfillness of life for a man, and a woman.

Mata was full of joy, she was carrying their child, the child they waited for...ever so long. It was a reality; she could feel the tiny baby moving about in her body. The thrill, the joy, the satisfaction that she felt could only be described by a woman pregnant with a living soul straining to burst forth and share the joy of its parents. The unborn child beckoned to Mata by its soft gentle movements in her womb...Love me, mother. Love me, father. I love you.

It was a harsh winter in February of 1868. The snow was deep, the wind crisp and sun was almost never seen. Isaiah was busy at the woodshed; Mata was busy sewing, cleaning the house, and feeding the horses and mules. She was heavy with child but that didn't stop her. She was a hardy Indian woman of good pioneer stock; that was all she knew her people ever were. The baby was due soon, she knew. She left the cabin on one fine, crisp day in March; took the laundry off the line; neatly folded it; and placed it in the dresser drawer. After that, she went out to feed hay to the horses and mules. She smiled and sang as she picked up some hay to feed Isaiah's favorite mule. She walked behind the horse and the mule, with the bundle of hay covering her head.

Suddenly, the mule bolted as she approached. Its powerful legs flew like lightening bolts into the air. The kick sent Mata reeling to the ground; the blow devastated her stomach where the baby lay growing. In excruciating pain, Mata lay on the ground wrenching. Suddenly, she felt the wet, warm flow of blood streaming down her leg. She screamed in pain, "Was-E-Chun--God, no!", and fainted.

When she regained consciousness, she was laying in a pool of blood. She had hemorrhaged; their child had been aborted. She struggled to her feet and staggered to the cabin, where she collapsed on the bed.

"It's me honey," Isaiah yelled as he approached the cabin in the late evening. He opened the door to see Mata sprawled across the bed, the lower part of her dress drenched in blood.
"Oh my God!" he yelled, as he rushed to her side. He lifted her head in his arms screaming, "What happened? Wake up, my baby." She slowly opened her eyes and in a half-hearted smile whispered, "I'm sorry, Dada. I'm so sorry. The mule, it kicked me; we've lost our Lolly, I'm afraid."

Isaiah quickly undressed Mata, got some water, washed her and laid her in the bed beneath some blankets. She took a deep breath, then fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Isaiah sat in a chair next to the bed where his Mata lay. He sat there in a stupor, for what seemed like hours. He stood, walked to the dresser where he kept the navy colts that Kay had given him many years ago. Moments later a devastating roar was heard. He shot and killed the mule that he had loved so much.

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