Victoria as well as with her older sister,rnmarried Maggie after she informed himrnshe was pregnant. When in due time herndiscovered the lie, he looked up Victoria,rnwhom Maggie had scared into keepingrnher mouth shut about her own pregnancy.rnBy now, Victoria had produced Ed’srnchild; two years later, she poisoned herselfrnwith strychnine and died, aged 19.rnToday, the Staskiewiczs and Skudlasesrnlie all together, almost side by side, underrnthin, weedy soil in back of the locked-uprnchurch with its Mass schedule dropping,rnletter by yellowed letter, from the announcementrnboard standing to the left ofrnthe concrete steps.rnHalf a mile south from Sacred Heart,rnwe came to the dugout site, where practicalrnjokers dropped Old Jules 65 feet to thernbottom of the well he was digging. Theyrnleft the injured man by the side of the roadrnfor the soldiers to find on their way over tornFt. Robinson, and Jules was treated by thernpost’s Army surgeon, Dr. Walter Reed,rnwho wanted to amputate but was dissuadedrnby the patient’s threat to kill him if hernremoved the injured foot. Though Julesrnkept his foot, it never healed, and he remainedrna cripple for the rest of his life. “Irncan make a living better crippled than lotsrnof men with two good feet,” he said.rnWe took the road east from the vanishedrndugout and crossed the NiobrararnRiver, shallow and shrunken but freelyrnflowing still in its meandering channel, tornthe River Place whose stone marker sitsrnbehind a wire fence just above the highwaterrnmark. “When Mari and I were herernin ’92, we wondered why Jules left all thisrnfor the Sandhills,” Ed remarked. “Afterrnwe saw the Hill Place, though, we realizedrnthat—in this case, anyway—he wasn’trncrazy.” (Ed’s marriage to a Mari of hisrnown produced uncertainty for eitlier of usrnonly when the name came at the beginningrnof a sentence, and then only for thernspace of a couple of seconds or so.)rnThe foundation was still outlined inrnthe grass, not over 20 feet by 20, afterrnsomeone moved the house away, leavingrna thin debris field—bits of bottles and china,rnthe brass ends of shotgrm shells—likerna foundered ship’s. Following the fenceline,rnwe came to a couple of forlorn applerntrees dying branch by branch, 25 yardsrnapart. More than a century old, they werernall that remained of Old Jules’ orchard,rnjust enough strength left to bear a fewrnwormy apples hanging haphazardly likernforgotten ornaments on an abandonedrnChristmas free. Ed and I picked an applern^h, polished tliem on our shirt sleeves.rnand ate carefully around tlie wormholes.rnThe flesh was firm and pleasantiy chill, arntart communion host bringing us into thernpresence of a long-dead past. Betweenrnthe orchard and the river, ash and hackberryrnfrees grew and, below them, the currantrnbushes from which Old Jules madernhis wine. Lastly, we climbed Indian Hillrnand from its small summit looked outrnover the valley where the corpse of thernSioux Chief Conquering Bear had lainrnout on its funeral scaffold in 1854.rnThough I stood on my toes to look overrnthe horizon, I couldn’t see as far asrnLaramie Peak, either.rnThe Sand Hills begin on climboutrnfrom the eastern rim of the Niobrararncanyon. They are not made of the gravellyrnmixfrire Wyoming calls sand but ofrnreal sand —beach sand from an ancientrnsea formed by moisture and ftie wind intorngray dunes that in time caught thernblowing prairie-grass seed and soddedrnthemselves. Here and there, blowoutsrnoccur in tire sod, sandy craters on whichrnhuman beings lay automobile tires tornkeep them from expanding until entirernhills are lifted and spun away on thernwinds. Between the hills and ridges, foldedrnover and softly rounded, are manyrnlakes, ponds, and sinkholes, surroundedrnby dark reed beds and spotted by flocks ofrnwaterfowl. In Jules’ time, the Sand Hillsrnwere home to wolves, coyotes, deer, elk,rnantelope, and rattlesnakes, as well asrnbirds; today, only the wolves are gonernfrom them, along with the Indians whornhave been replaced by white ranchersrn(some descendants of Jules’ settlers, a fewrnof them Sandozes) scattered over thernmostly depopulated country. The SandrnHills, like a heaving, green sea arrested inrnmohon, are a surreal place: impressionistic,rnhaunting, and mystical, a vague andrnseparate world uplifted from the surroundingrnplains above which tiiey seemrnto float, without an earthly contact.rnIn moving from the River to the HillrnPlace, Old Jules transferred his familyrnsome 30 or 40 miles eastward by wagon.rnThe enfrance to his last home, owned byrnMari’s niece Celia Ostrander since herrnsister Flora Sandoz’s death in 1995, is signaledrnby an historic marker beside thernpaved highway. Ed turned his Dodgerntruck into the dirt track leading awayrnfrom the road at a right angle, then madernanother right-angle turn to the left acrossrna cattleguard. “Oh,” he exclaimed as therntruck topped a rise, “it looks differentrnthan it did in ’92.”rnWe were looking into a long valleyrnsfretching between a straight ridge on fliernsouth side and broken hills making a barrierrnto the north. The valley was green, withrnmarsh grasses in the bottom of the swalernwhere, in spring, the shallow lake fomiedrnthat Jules had put a rowboat on. At the eastemrnend of the valley, against the hills, Kvornhouses stood beneath mature shade frees,rnfacing an apple orchard lying against fliernridge. Beyond the valley, an expanse ofrnblue water crinkled the afternoon sunlight.rnAt the western end, opposite where thernDodge stood idling, a fenced plot showedrnagainst the steep rising behind it. “Overrnthere’s where she’s buried,” Ed said. Hernadded, “They cut down the orchard betweenrnthere and the dry lake—just scoresrnand scores of fiiiit frees.”rnA sign pointing to tlie gravesite invitedrnvisitors to make themselves at home inrnthe orchard, planted by Flora to Harrelsonrnapple trees. Though the frees did notrnlook well tended, the apples tasted fine.rnThe single-story, cream-colored housernthat Jules built had been prettified sincernhis time with windowboxes filled withrnflowers and other female improvements.rnWe turned the fruck around in the yard,rndrove back down the valley, and parkedrnin the two-frack below the grave.rnMari Sandoz lies parallel to the hillsidernbeneath a handsome stone of purple graniternsurrounded by tlie wild prairie grasses.rnThe guestbook, placed in a mailbox set onrna post, was signed by people from aroundrnthe United States and flie world, flie betterrnpart of them women. Celia, who tends flierngrave, signs in every time she pays a visit tornflie site. We added our names and took arnfew picfrires. “She’s been here 3 5 years already,”rnEd remarked, gently. Jules, whorndied in Alliance in November 1928, isrnburied in the cemetery over there, wiflirnMary beside him.rnOld Jules was refrised by 13 publishersrnbefore being accepted by Hastings Housernin New York in 1935. According to HelenrnWinter Stauffer, Mari’s biographer, thernmanuscript unsetfled many editorial readers,rnin part because of flie auflior’s vengeftilrnattitude toward her faflier in earlier drafts ofrnthe book. Now she lies where he ought tornlie, the rise of the hill behind flie grave plotrngreenly vivid in the light of the eveningrnsun, pink tufts of Litfle Bluestem grass tossingrnon the wind, a living tombstone behindrnthe granite one. Nothing here now but silencernand peace—a final reconciliation,rnachieved by art and by eternity, betweenrnthe violent imdefeated pioneer and hisrnfirstborn child, flie daunfless artist he sornsttangely sired. crnIICLESrnrnrn