by Karen Wills
“I’m sure you chose well for your son’s future, and I’m sorry you’ll have no chance of more,” Father Shaw said. “But there are others involved. Your fancy man had children and a wife he abandoned. His property is rightfully theirs. Your moral duty is to see that the proceeds from the ring are restored to that family. How much was it worth?”
“Well, Father, $1,750, but most is gone for supplies. Anyway, by our agreement, half belongs to my partner.”
“No, my daughter. It all belongs to the man’s wife and children. You’ve no claim on it. Your child has other parents now. You must see that that family’s rights are respected. Assure me that you will reimburse the family for the ring. There can be no absolution otherwise.”
Nora reflected. “It will take time. I’ll pay them when the day comes that I can.”
“For your penance say the rosary and make a good act of contrition, and do not let your Chinese friend lead you into any more schemes.”
Father Shaw blessed her. He slid the little door shut, and Nora walked through the cathedral’s rich stillness into the glare of day.
Jim helped her into the wagon, giving her a concerned glance.
Nora felt relieved that she’d unburdened herself, but troubled over the money. She had to return it some day. She studied the dark figure of her companion, his queue tucked into his slouch hat as he made final entries in his notebook.
He finally smiled. “Did the confession strengthen you?”
Nora stared at him. Jim astonished her with his knowledge of religions. How did he know? “It did, but Father says I must give all the money from the ring to Bat Moriarty’s widow, Dierdre, and their babies. I never saw the facts of it that way. Do you think we sinned, Jim?”
“I think fate placed the dead man’s ring in our reach. In time, I believe you will have the money to pay over to Dierdre Moriarty and her children with interest if you still feel the obligation. This morning, we have a journey to start.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As they moved through Helena, Nora broke a long silence. “Jim, if you want to stop pretending you’re my servant, we can. Perhaps the world up north will be ready to accept two ragtag loose-end partners such as ourselves. Sure and it’s as likely as them believing a tinker’s daughter from Ireland has an elegant manservant such as yourself.”
Jim shook his head. “Not yet. People on the trail might behave like animals. There are many ways to kill a man and hide him in the wilderness. They also might not respect you. I don’t believe it wise to take chances, at least until we settle.”
“All right.” Nora wondered at how he could accept the necessity with such composure, as though it were the normal order of things. Perhaps for him it was. Her tinker family made a show of holding their heads up, pretending insults from the so-called respectable folk didn’t hurt, even though, of course, they did.
Nora’s visit with Father Shaw had cost time. They’d only passed through the outskirts of Helena by late morning, gaining elevation as the day warmed while their horses strained to haul the wagon. Nora took the reins, glad of her work gloves, as Jim got down to push as needed or walk beside the horses. At early evening, they stopped in a flat area by the road.
Almost shy, they made their first camp, finding what they needed to cook, not yet in a routine of the trail. They ate in front of a small fire, alone in the vast dark. Later under her tarp, Nora curled in her bedroll feeling vulnerable without walls around her. She slept fitfully, listening to unfamiliar sounds, even though Jim slept on the other side of the wagon, rifle at hand. During periods of wakefulness, her thoughts turned to questions. What if Tade and I had left the bitter smoke of Butte after we had Helen? What if the three of us had ventured west to find our land? Would they still be with me? Now I’m alone with this Chinese man. Longing for what might have been stung her until dawn.
Next morning meant more of the same, the climb up the pass grueling for humans and horses. As Mullan Road ascended, the panorama to their left spread as a great sea of mountain ranges like frozen waves rising and dipping to the horizon. To the right, more forested giants rose beside them. The limitless sky rendered them small and insignificant, a strangely soothing sensation after the strife of Helena when everything Nora did seemed so important.
Except for the rare cabin, they saw no signs of human habitation. Redtail hawks screamed, plunging from bright blue airiness for prey.
Nora gazed in wonder. She hadn’t realized how massive the Rocky Mountain range would be. As the horses’ work grew harder and the grade steeper, she and Jim alternated climbing down to walk. They stopped often to rest Wink and Cotton. She didn’t mind being on foot, the breeze cool against her sun-warmed face, the tang of early-summer grass pleasing after winter’s vacuum.
Next morning they arrived at Mullan Pass, which seemed the apogee of the world. They rested the lathered horses. Even there, though, Nora mourned her losses—Tade and Helen—the world such a big place—her relinquished son so small and far away. She didn’t speak of it to Jim. What could she say? Silence had become their third companion.
They descended into a rich valley sprinkled with pine and cottonwood groves lining a creek. Jim gathered firewood, and they dined on biscuits, beans, dried apples, and coffee. Neither spoke much, both tired but comfortable, growing used to every evening’s work. It almost seemed Jim was her servant as she said good night, leaving him to check the horses. Before Nora sank into exhausted slumber, she heard him moving about, keeping guard. She awoke once and peered out. Jim slept on the wagon bed, rifle crooked in his arm. They would reach their land without loss of supplies, of that she felt certain. She backed under her tarp and fell asleep cocooned in her bedroll.
Following the second night west of the pass, they traveled to Elliston. An old hostel there would offer a bed, but the sound of drunken laughter warned them off.
“Inebriated men might not accept me even as your servant,” Jim said. They spent the night back in the trees that stood like sentinels, although Nora knew that only Jim stood between her and unspeakable dangers.
With dawn their fears lifted like departing owls as Nora and Jim moved toward Avon, a stage station. There she saw the wisdom of his determination to be her servant. The station agent, a corpulent man wearing a greasy apron over grubby clothes, greeted them. His welcoming smile faded, but a leering, hostile question hovered in his eyes.
Nora straightened, staring him down. “Good evening to you, sir. I am glad to see you at this hour. My servant and I have been on the road since yesterday. I believe he never tires. You know the Chinese, although who can understand them? As for myself, I’m weary. My man will sleep with the wagon if you’ve a room for me and food for each of us.”
Satisfied, her host lifted a grimy hand to help her down. “The chink has to wait out here, ma’am. We don’t allow his kind inside. He can eat his supper in the wagon.”
“Of course.” Nora turned and rolled her eyes at stoic Jim Li who stared at the distant mountains. Nora detested the unfairness of it all. If they had more money, if she really were a lady, the man would bend to her will and let her servant eat inside. She reminded herself of their ultimate goal—their own land, the key to freedom and respect for both. She went inside.
The stage arrived in early evening. Dinner followed with biscuits and gravy, venison and dried apple pie. A round-faced, pregnant Indian woman in moccasins padded back and forth from the kitchen, bringing and picking up dishes. “Your wife?” one of the stage passengers asked the agent. An uncomfortable silence ensued.
“Just a Flathead squaw from the reservation.” The agent cleared his throat with a harsh sound.
Nora thought of how people always looked for someone to scorn, or worse.
That night, Nora shared her bed with nine-year-old Becky, a stranger journeying to meet her aunt and uncle. The child had been recently orphaned, and Nora felt the lumpy mattress ticking shake with silent sobs. For the first time since giving up her son, Nora knew pity for someo
ne other than herself. She lay a hand on Becky’s thin shoulder.
“I lost my own mother back in Ireland when I was eleven. The consumption, the coughing sickness, took her. I hear they have much of it here among the Indians.”
The girl turned to Nora, whispering, “What happened to your papa?”
“Ah, well. The rascal drank too much and fell right in the street and got himself run over by great black horses pulling a great black buggy. I miss him and Mama. I used to pray to Mama at night. I could see her face then as though she never left. Put your head on my shoulder, my treasure, and try that now.”
The girl snuggled against Nora until her eyelids fluttered and sleep claimed her. After a time, her ragged breath steadied. Nora closed her eyes, too. This child was only a few years older than Helen had been. Holding this motherless girl in her arms, Nora felt a membrane like a caul begin to fit over the open wound of her grief. Her cheek resting on Becky’s hair, she slept her first dreamless sleep since Tade Larkin’s death.
In the morning, Nora breakfasted on biscuits and gravy yet again. She hugged Becky farewell and sought Jim. Relieved to be on their way, they traveled toward Missoula. Wild roses, syringas, June blossoms, and other flowers Nora couldn’t identify covered the sun-warmed landscape.
The road they travelled for the five days’ journey jolted their weary bodies, but the mountains rose more majestic and snow-capped than anything in Ireland. Jim kept Wink and Cotton pulling along steep slopes, then plunging, brakes set, down rocky ruts beside the river bottom.
The journey toward Missoula, broken by nights in little settlements or camps by the trail, was one neither ever cared to repeat. The cold hard ground under Nora’s bedroll meant mornings when she rose stiff and unrested. Nora worried that she’d begun to smell offensive, unable to take a proper wash. She had privacy behind the tarp for dressing, but had to relieve herself behind bushes and trees, Jim turning his back while keeping a lookout for danger.
Still, Nora’s spirit quieted, secure in Jim’s presence. His skin darkened in the unending sun, and somehow he seemed a bigger man outside cities. Unfair that he flourished on the trail while the skin on her face and hands dried and roughened, wisps of unkempt hair flying about her sunburned head.
On the night they reached Missoula, Nora checked into a hotel, grateful to bathe and eat in a proper dining room while Jim liveried the horses. In the morning he met Nora with the wagon.
“You look tired, Jim. Where did you find to sleep?”
“I went to Missoula’s Chinatown where I know two brothers from Sian, both domestic servants. They welcomed me. We shared stories of Sian and played with the joss sticks. I told my amused hosts how I travel as your servant. They asked if I have found my father. ‘We have heard of a Presbyterian missionary in Demersville. It might be Douglas McIntosh,’ the older brother told me. The younger said the Reverend has a wife. He did not know about children. Of course, they would be grown, don’t you think?”
After Missoula, the wagon bumped through country full of boulders, thick forests, and torrential streams. Because its wheels slid hard into old ruts, Nora preferred to walk. Still grieving, she found some comfort in the splendor around her and Jim’s alert watchfulness over her and their possessions. At evening Jim gathered water and firewood, and as often as not, washed their few dishes. She thanked him, but didn’t offer to do more. Left alone, she took needed time to think of all that had happened, of her lost husband and children.
After five sunny days and cold nights, they left the variegated shadows of high pines for the flowering expanse of the Jocko Valley. The Flathead Indian Agency presented sudden, squared angles of civilization.
“Perhaps we should construct ourselves an agency. It looks so grand,” Nora said, awed by the settlement with its own mill, smithy, main house, outbuildings, orchards, and huge garden.
The agent and his wife had a reputation for providing warm hospitality to all passing through, regardless of status or color. As Jim and Nora pulled up to the two-story white house, several well-dressed children spilled out to greet them. A tall blonde woman wearing spotless summer white and a welcoming smile followed the boys and girls.
“Welcome, weary travelers.” Her smile embraced them both. “I’m Fiona Bond, and we’d like you to join us for dinner and stay the night.”
Nora glanced at Jim.
“This time, we will be safe,” he said. He climbed down from the wagon and bowed. “It would be our honor. I am Jim Li. This is Mrs. Larkin.”
Nora followed Fiona Bond into the gracious interior. The sight of horsehair furniture, elegant tasseled lampshades, and bookshelves flanking the massive hearth drew her admiring sigh. Mrs. Bond showed the two to rooms where they could wash away the travel dust and shake out fresh clothes.
They joined her and the children at dinner. Nora sat at the center of one side of the table, winged by four red-haired Bond daughters. Opposite her, Jim sat among four red-haired little boys. Mrs. Bond explained that her husband, Major Bond, would join them later. His place setting waited at the head of the table.
A neatly dressed Indian woman served them. Mrs. Bond treated Jim as courteously as she did Nora. In fact, she seemed fascinated by his history, delicately extracting facts. Finally, she touched on his search for his father. “Douglas McIntosh. There is a Reverend McIntosh in Demersville. I don’t know if he ministers more these days to Indians or to settlers and townspeople.”
Jim nodded. “It is as much a surprise for me to know he may not be far away as my appearance will be to him. You see, he left China without knowing I was about to enter it.”
Mrs. Bond eyed her attentive children. “All right, little pitchers. Time to excuse yourselves and take your big ears upstairs.” Unbidden, the Indian woman entered to shepherd them out, lifting the toddler from his highchair.
Jim leaned toward Mrs. Bond. “What is known about this person? Can you tell me whether he is a wise man?”
“I did meet Reverend McIntosh once. His recent missionary work was in Alaska among the Eskimos. Then he was in Dakota, and now here. His wife is a plain, blunt-spoken woman, but good-hearted. They have two daughters.”
“Think of it,” Nora said. “You’ve got sisters.” A moment of concern erupted into a stab of unease. “Does this mean I’ll be misplaced, and you’ll discontinue our journey?”
Jim’s slender fingers stroked the stem of a crystal goblet that glittered in the lamplight. He smiled. “I doubt these preacher’s daughters have your talent for opening doors.”
Mrs. Bond looked quizzical. Nora felt taken aback. She looked at Jim again, sitting there engaging their intelligent hostess in fascinating talk. He’d pulled his queu back, and in the candlelight his high cheekbones revealed an aristocratic look she hadn’t noted in campfire light. Perhaps Jim had been born for elegant surroundings. It unnerved her. He always treated her with respect, but at a slight distance. She’d assumed it was their unequal status in this society, but had it really been due to her own past? Would he continue to be solicitous once they reached the wilderness? And she was a woman. Had he really never noticed? Was she only a means to an end? Yet they were so easy with each other on the trail.
The front door opened and Major Bond entered. He welcomed Nora and Jim as one completely used to guests of every race, nationality, and class. He evidenced a special interest on learning they were bound for the North Fork of the Flathead River. “Rich country,” he remarked.
A knock interrupted. A tall, slim-faced man entered carrying a fiddle, followed by two who appeared younger. They lit into grins of delight at the sight of Nora. Major Bond introduced the man with the fiddle as Dave Polson, a rancher from near Flathead Lake. The others were agency clerks. The men pushed back the dining table and, for the first time since Butte, Nora accepted an invitation to dance.
The sweet fiddle music carried her as she waltzed in the arms of the earnest, clean-shaven young agency clerks. Nora glanced at Jim in the corner. He sat with his head tipped ba
ck, eyes half closed, absorbed in the music. His lonely separateness struck her just before her dance partner claimed her attention. When the music stopped she approached Jim. “Can you dance?”
Jim smiled. “In my aunt’s house we were taught European culture as well as our own. Shall I show you?” He stood and bowed as the music started. They danced in circles around the parlor. The warmth, the music, the good food, and the nearness of this unpredictable man made her giddy. When the song ended, the bouyant sensation stayed. However, later that night she tossed in her feather bed, trying to sort out confused feelings. In the end she gave up on sleep and kept vigil for dawn’s red streaks.
Nora and Jim breakfasted on oatmeal and cream while shades of pink still lingered in the eastern sky. Fiona gave them letters and gifts of preserves for the Sisters at St. Ignatius Mission.
The wagon creaked through the greening Mission Valley, high mountains to its right snowcapped against the bluest of skies. They spent two nights on the trail, eating bread and preserves provided by the Bonds, along with bacon and beans. Nora adopted the habit of standing beyond the firelight for a few moments each night. White stars gathered, appearing to her like revealed souls of her departed family and lost son.
On the third day Nora observed, “For certain, Jim, it’s all as lovely as the pictures you painted. Well, will you look at that?” She pointed ahead to the settlement of St. Ignatius. Her initial inclination was to shiver. A fenced cemetery greeted them. But behind that, the mission buildings clustered before the graceful sweeping curtain of the Mission Mountains.
Jim only clucked to the horses, leaving the disturbing cemetery behind on the curving road. Jim guided Wink and Cotton to the far side of a little church, beside the log cabin serving as residence for the Sisters of Providence.
The Reverend Mother Alenthe, small, neat and welcoming, stepped out of the cabin holding both hands out to Nora. “Well, we have guests. Welcome. Young man, the Fathers will see to you. My child, you follow me.” She showed Nora to a cot in the two-room shelter for nuns, its white walls relieved by colors of a painting of the Virgin.