A Whisper of Peace

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Start Reading

  © 2011 by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Cover design by Brand Navigation

  Cover photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studio, Inc.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3379-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  For Don,

  who walks with me through

  sunshine and shadow.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  “Thy righteousness is like the great mountains . . .

  How excellent is thy lovingkindness, O God!

  therefore the children of men put their trust

  under the shadow of thy wings.”

  Psalm 36:6a, 8 (KJV)

  Chapter One

  NEAR FORT YUKON, ALASKA

  MAY 1898

  Not once in all of her twenty-one years had Lizzie Dawson seen a moose behind her cabin. The dogs’ noise always kept wild game at bay. Even squirrels—brazen, chattering creatures—avoided her small plot of ground. She couldn’t imagine a timid moose possessing the courage to come near the team of dogs. Yet there one stood, unconcernedly nibbling at the pin cherry shrub a mere twenty feet from her open back door, its proud antlers glowing pink in the morning light.

  Lizzie hid behind the doorjamb and absorbed the peaceful scene so unexpectedly displayed before her. The soft crunch-crunch of the moose’s teeth on the pin cherry’s tender tips joined the wind’s whisper in the aspens—a delicate melody. Silvery bands of light crept between branches, gilding the moose’s tawny hump. It was a young moose. No evidence of fights marred its hide. She’d seen the damage the animals caused one another with their sharp, slashing hooves and antlers.

  An unblemished hide . . . Lizzie’s heart skipped a beat. Surely this moose had come to her as an offering! Let the dogs stay sleeping. The wish winged from her heart as she tiptoed to the corner where her bow and arrows waited. A rifle was easier, but the bow and arrow was silent—she wouldn’t frighten the animal away by cocking a noisy lever.

  She returned to the doorway and stood in the shielding slice of shadow. Her elbow high, she slowly drew back the gut bowstring. The string released a faint whine as it stretched, and she cringed. But the big animal didn’t even flare a nostril in concern. She held the hand-carved bow securely, her left arm extended as straight as her father’s rifle barrel. The arrow’s feather fletching brushed her jaw, but she ignored the slight tickle and kept her gaze on her target.

  Magpies began to call from the treetops. The dogs would awaken soon—she needed to shoot before she squandered the gift. But she wouldn’t release the arrow yet. As her mother had taught her, she offered a brief prayer. Thank you, brother moose, for giving your life that I might live. She clenched her jaw and released the string.

  The high-pitched twang brought the moose’s head up. The arrow whirred across the short clearing and its tip penetrated the animal’s neck. The moose dropped, a few pale green leaves still caught in its lip.

  Birds lifted in frantic flight from the trees, squawking in protest as joyful barks exploded from the dog pen between the sheltering aspens. Lizzie stepped into the yard and whistled—one sharp, shrill blast. The dogs ceased the clamorous barking, but they continued to whine and leap against the chicken-wire enclosure in excitement. Lizzie set the bow aside and crossed the mossy yard, her moccasin-covered feet nearly silent on the cushiony bed of deep green. Sorrow pierced her as she gazed down at the magnificent animal. Death always saddened her. But she pushed the emotion aside. She would celebrate this kill. This gift.

  Quickly, the routine so familiar she could perform the actions without conscious thought, she removed her knife from the sheath she always wore on her belt and bled the moose to prevent the meat from spoiling. Thank you, thank you, her thoughts sang. How fortunate that the animal had come in the early hours—before the dogs awakened and frightened it away. How fortunate that it had ventured near during the first days of nearly endless sun, when she could work late into the night and still be able to see to skin it, prepare the meat for the smokehouse, and boil the bones for future use. Everything about the kill felt miraculous.

  She turned toward the cabin to retrieve her skinning knife, but her gaze drifted to the pen where the dogs lined the fence, their tongues lolling, mouths smiling, tails wagging. Lizzie chuckled softly. The carcass could wait a few minutes while she greeted her companions. As she neared the enclosure, they leapt, bouncing off the wire fence and springing over one another’s backs in eagerness.

  Lizzie reached for her favorites first. George and Martha served as the lead dogs for her sled. The two worked in accord with each other. And with her. The pair had been her father’s, which made her love them all the more. Surely there were no two finer dogs in all of the Yukon. She wove her fingers in their thick ruffs, and they wriggled around, their identical black-and-white snouts nuzzling her palms. She scratched them beneath their chins, laughing when they tipped their heads for more.

  The other dogs swarmed her, nudging George and Martha out of the way. Lizzie tried to pet each one by turn, but slowly they drifted away, sniffing the air and panting. They whined again, but from deep in their throats, and Lizzie knew the breeze had carried the moose’s scent to their keen noses. She hoped her dogs were the only animals that had picked up the scent of the kill. She had no desire to fight a grizzly for her moose. But she’d do it if she had to—she needed the meat as well as the hide. If she had to fight, the dogs would help. Their faithf
ulness to her knew no end.

  “I must go to work now,” she told the dogs. “Be good, and you will have fresh meat for your dinner today.”

  The dogs, as if able to understand, leapt in circles, their white teeth biting at the air in happiness. Still laughing softly, Lizzie hurried to the cabin to retrieve her skinning knife. Just before slicing the blade through the moose’s thick shoulder, she paused and allowed herself a moment to admire the smooth, flawless hide—the biggest miracle of all. Gratitude filled her. If everything went well, the gift of this moose’s hide might make reconciliation with her grandparents possible.

  And once peace existed between Vitsiy and Vitse and herself, she’d finally have the freedom to leave this place and join Voss Dawson. Thank you, moose.

  Clay Selby strapped the wooden accordion case onto his back, shrugging to adjust the bulky weight on his spine. He turned to his stepsister, Vivian. The weeks of travel had taken their toll. She looked ready to wilt. He’d tried to convince her to stay behind with their parents—if she found the Kiowa reservation on the Oklahoma plains formidable, living in a village in the Alaskan wilderness would certainly be difficult for her to endure. But she’d insisted she could be of use in opening the mission school.

  Now she sagged against the railing that lined the paddleboat’s deck, bedraggled and with dark circles under her eyes. She caught him looking at her. With a jolt, she stood upright and curved her lips into a weary smile. “Almost there.” Despite her brave posture, her voice wavered.

  Clay hoped she’d make it. He’d have more than enough to do, getting the school started. If he had to mollycoddle Vivian, too . . . “Give her a chance, son,” his father had said. “She’s an intelligent girl, and you will need a partner for this ministry. You can’t do it all yourself.” Clay offered Vivian a smile and echoed, “Almost there.”

  Other passengers pushed past them, nearly sending Clay onto his nose. He planted the soles of his boots and held his footing, curling a protective arm around Vivian’s waist. He waited until everyone else reached the paddleboat’s gangplank before grabbing the handle of their large carpetbag. “Let’s go.”

  Vivian lifted the smaller valise, and together they fell behind the line of rowdy men whose eager voices proclaimed their intentions to get rich in the goldfields. Clay also hoped for riches, but of a completely different kind.

  Holding Vivian’s elbow, he stepped off the paddleboat. His gaze searched up and down the riverbank. He’d been told he’d have no trouble hiring a canoe to take them upriver past Fort Yukon. But with so many people milling in impatient confusion, he wasn’t able to determine which men were hiring canoes and which were offering them for use.

  He contemplated elbowing his way through the crowd to the riverbank, where he would be able to secure a canoe. The sooner he and Vivian reached their destination, the sooner he could begin God’s work. But after having witnessed several skirmishes between rough travelers on the paddleboat—one of which resulted in a knife fight—he decided a little patience might be warranted. No sense in scaring Vivian out of her wits—or in putting her in harm’s way. The Gwich’in village wasn’t going anywhere.

  As if reading his mind, Vivian said, “Let’s sit and give things a chance to calm.”

  He followed her to the end of the dock. She sank onto the rough wood, placed the valise near her feet, and began smoothing the wrinkled skirt of her traveling dress. Clay thought it a fruitless pastime, but he wouldn’t say so. He plopped beside her, the accordion case making him clumsy. She shot him a little smile of amusement and he shrugged, then turned his attention to his surroundings.

  Clouds had rolled in with the afternoon, painting the ramshackle town a dismal gray. A cool, damp breeze whisked across the water and chilled him. Back home, mid-May brought occasional rain showers, but the sun shone brightly, warming the land and those who occupied it. Looking up at the nickel-plated sky, Clay experienced a jolt of homesickness for Oklahoma’s endless canopy of clear blue. Yet at the same time, excitement filled him.

  Finally, after years of dreaming, he had the chance to begin his own ministry. Vivian would handle the housekeeping and teaching the native children to read and write, and he would preach. Thanks to his father’s diligent training, he felt confident he’d be able to win the souls of the villagers. As a wave of impatience filled him, he twitched on his perch, willing the crowd to clear so he could locate a canoe and complete his monthlong journey. He craned his neck, searching the shoreline for an available vessel.

  “Hey, mister . . . lady.”

  Clay turned at the voice. A scruffy boy, perhaps ten years old, stood so close his dirty bare toes bumped against Clay’s boots.

  “You need totin’?”

  Clay looked the boy up and down. He couldn’t imagine this scrawny child possessing the strength to paddle a canoe loaded with both passengers and belongings upriver. But maybe, if the boy gave him the use of a vessel, Clay could paddle it himself. He posed a question of his own. “You have a canoe available?”

  The boy pointed. “My pa does. He’ll tote you, if you need it. Dollar apiece.”

  Clay had been warned prices were high in Alaska, thanks to successful gold hunters, but he wasn’t a miner. He was just a missionary, and he couldn’t spare two dollars for a canoe ride. “I can pay two bits apiece.”

  A frown furrowed the boy’s forehead. He inched backward, shaking his head. “Won’t do it for less’n six bits apiece. I’m sure o’ that.”

  Clay sighed. He heaved to his feet, angling his shoulders to center the squeeze box on his back. “All right, then. Six bits each.”

  The boy held out his hand. Clay removed the coin purse he wore on a cord beneath his shirt and withdrew a round silver dollar and two twenty-five-cent pieces. With a grin, the boy curled his fist around the coins. He spun and darted through the crowd.

  Vivian bounced up. “We’d better hurry, Clay.”

  With the bulky box on his back, a heavy carpetbag in one hand and Vivian’s elbow in the other—he didn’t dare let loose of her or she might get swallowed by the crowd—Clay wasn’t able to move as quickly as the wiry, unfettered youngster. He lost sight of the boy when a group of miners surged around them, blocking their pathway. Just when he’d decided he’d been bilked out of a dollar and fifty cents, he heard a shout.

  “Mister! Mister, over here!”

  Clay pulled Vivian close to his side and wriggled his way past the men. He spotted the boy about ten yards upriver. A short, heavily whiskered man with his fists on his hips stood beside the boy. Clay took in the man’s untucked flannel shirt, baggy dungarees jammed into laceless boots, and low-tugged, misshapen hat. He didn’t seem the savory sort. Clay hesitated. Pa had always told him to trust his instincts. Even though it meant forfeiting the money he’d given the boy, he wondered if he should turn around and look for another canoe owner.

  Before he could move, the man clumped toward him, his bootheels dragging through the mud. The youngster scuttled along behind his pa. “Boy says you an’ your woman need totin’. Where to?”

  A foul odor emanated from the man, making it difficult for Clay to draw a breath. He pretended to cough into his fist, then kept his hand in place to protect his nose. “I need to reach Gwichyaa Saa. Are you familiar with the village?”

  “Yup, done some tradin’ with the siwashes.”

  Vivian sucked in a disapproving breath, but Clay took care not to bristle at the man’s use of the derogatory term—no sense in alienating the man. He’d let his work with the native Alaskans prove his lack of scorn.

  “You here for tradin’?” The man’s curious gaze swept from their feet to their faces. “You don’t look like no traders.”

  Vivian tucked a stray strand of red-gold hair behind her ear, lifting her chin in a regal manner. Clay smoothed his hand over his jacket’s front. Over their weeks of travel, his father’s hand-me-down wool suit and Vivian’s dark green muslin dress had become rumpled and dusty, but their attire didn’t compar
e to the clothes worn by the canoe owner. Clay wondered if the man’s clothes—or the man himself—had seen soap and water since last spring. “We aren’t traders.”

  The man shrugged. “So . . . ya want totin’ or not?”

  Clay glanced along the shoreline. No other empty canoes waited. If they didn’t take this one, they might not be able to leave until tomorrow. Which meant they’d need to pay for a night’s lodging. He turned back to the man. “If you’re willing.”

  “Can get there an’ back in about four hours, so it’ll only cost ya a dollar—the lady’s free.” The man’s grimy hand shot out, palm up.

  “I already paid your boy a dollar and four bits for the both of us.”

  Fury filled the man’s face. He whirled around, his fist raised.

  The boy cowered. “I’m sorry, Pa! Just tryin’ to get a good deal for ya!”

  The man shook the boy by the neck of his scruffy shirt. “Gimme the money.” Whimpering, the boy obeyed. The man cuffed the boy’s ear, and the youngster slinked away. Shaking his head, the man pressed the two smaller coins into Clay’s hand. “Never let it be said Chauncy Burke cheated a white woman.” He took the valise from Vivian and scuffed toward the canoe. “Let’s get movin’.”

  Clay’s boots stuck in the soggy ground as he crossed to the craft, which appeared to be constructed of wooden ribs framed with animal hide. Burke tossed Vivian’s valise into the canoe and then grabbed Clay’s carpetbag and did the same. Clay held his breath as the bags smacked into the canoe’s bottom. But they didn’t break through, so Clay took comfort that the canoe could support them.

  Chauncy Burke reached to pluck the box from Clay’s back, but Clay pulled away. “I’ll get it.” The man frowned, and Clay added, “It’s fragile.”

  Burke offered a brusque nod. He turned to the boy, who hunkered on the bank. “Get on home.” He flipped the remaining coin through the air, and the boy caught it. “Buy a hambone to flavor the beans—I expect a good meal when I get back.”