Story III:
Too Late
It was only about a mile into town from the Benjamin farm, but Noel felt as if he had been running for days by the time he reached the middle of the small settlement. Weeks even.
Walter and William, having just finished loading supplies into their wagon, were securing their load and Walter’s focus has turned to thoughts of how he will soon be sitting with his wife and children for supper.
“Pa! Pa!” A panting Noel cried as he ran down the middle of the road, dodging horses and wagons. His frightened tone carried through the small community. It alerted all within earshot that something was terribly wrong.
“What is it son?” Walter asked with worried anticipation. “What’s wrong?”
“Jimmie! It’s Jimmie!” Noel cried frantically through his tears. “Some Indians shot him.”
“What?” Walter went cold inside. “Where is he?” Walter demanded.
“Me and Freddie left him back at the house when we went for Ma. She told me to come fetch you and the doctor. She and Freddie ran for the house,” panted Noel.
At that moment it seemed to Noel there were no more words left inside of him. Walter called to someone to send the doctor and then father and sons extricated themselves from the cluster of townsfolk. There were the beginnings of a panicky, chattering noise - one that evoked a kind of excited horror, which would build as the story spread. The man and boys turned deaf ears on the questions, exclamations and condolences and made for home as swiftly as they could. They did not speak.
When Walter and Noel arrived back at the house Mother Mary sat in a chair at Jimmie’s head. She smoothed her little boy’s hair. Her face and eyelashes were moist but, for the moment, she had ceased to cry. Freddie curled up at her feet, small fists clutching the hem of her dress, looking for all the world like an orphaned puppy dog.
Walter went over to his little boy and echoed his wife’s gesture, smoothing Jimmie’s fine hair from his forehead.
“Jimmie?” Walter asked with hopeful anticipation, and then, “Oh, Jimmie!”
Doctor John Stout arrived then but there is nothing he can do. It is too late.
Overcome with grief Walter placed his hand on Mary’s shoulder and stood. A thick sadness coated the air in the tiny prairie home. A melancholy permeated throughout the Great Plains.
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Walter takes a deep breath and began to pace. His grief-ridden pacing eventually gave way to a more determined step. His stride filling with anger. And with a need for answers.
“Noel? Walter called out, “Tell me again what happened. Tell me everything.”
Noel’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. “We went out to bring the cows in. When we got near the edge of the corn I heard a shot. I looked in the direction of the shot and I saw a wagon with four Indians in it. We ran into the cornfield and they fired again. That’s when Jimmie was shot. The Indians turned and ran away back towards the agency. They all had black clothes on. I waited until I couldn’t see ‘em anymore and then I picked Jimmie up and carried him home.” Noel’s voice cracked as he finished, “then we washed the blood off his forehead and ran for Ma.”
In the distance Walter could now hear the sound of many hooves and wheels and gruff male voices rumbling closer to the Benjamin homestead. The heated excitement of the citizens of Pender had manifested in action. People respected Walter Benjamin and his family, and the sheriff had summoned a posse after hearing of the little boy’s death. About sixty armed men had gathered and followed the sheriff to the Benjamin farm. No knock was necessary for Walter was waiting out front, ready to receive his community. At around seven o’clock in the evening the angry, blood-thirsty posse headed back out, this time in the direction of the agency. Walter did not join the posse, but went back inside to his family. There were other important matters for him to attend to. Jimmie needed to be tucked in for the night, and there were still chores to be done.
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