“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No.” Glancing back into the river and the toppled wagon, she wiggled free and started back into the river.
“Stop, Sarah Jane. I’ll get the wagon,” he said. “Stay here.”
She shook her head and kept wading in. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “This is my fault.” She should have been able to drive the oxen across.
“Get back.”
She ignored him until he hurried past her on his horse, and she slipped. Helplessly, Sarah Jane watched Painted Hands calm the oxen, then tie a rope to the wagon and somehow right it and urge the oxen to the other side.
“The food.” Her voice came out as a feeble cry. With water dripping from every inch of her, she climbed into the rear of the wagon. The lump in her throat grew larger. They’d starve because of her.
Painted Hands was right behind her. Their clothes were soaked, and their breathing came in quick gasps. The mattress was ruined. Water covered everything. Her fingers clawed over the food. Water-soaked bacon could still be used. Most of the flour lay in a pasty clump, and a large portion of the sugar was dissolved, certain to make everything around it sticky and useless.
“We’ll make it,” Painted Hands said. “I can hunt, and we can ration what’s left. Remember we had more than enough when we started out.”
The tears flowed unchecked over her cheeks. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
He drew her close. “There’s nothing to forgive. What’s important is that we’re alive, and we’ll take care of things and move on.” He touched her wet hair. “First thing I’m doing is building a fire so you can dry out. Praise God, you weren’t hurt.”
She nodded in a feeble attempt to be brave. Suddenly, exhaustion took hold of her, but she refused to give in. “I’ll find some wood.”
“You’ll love Bear Valley,” he said, helping her down from the wagon. His fingers grasped the bones beneath her waist. More than once he’d voiced his concern about her frail frame. “It’s as close to paradise as you’ll see in these parts. I’ve tasted some of the best fish and birds you’ll ever find. There are wild goat, elk, and deer and so many berries you won’t know what to do with them all. I imagine I’ll fatten you up for sure.”
“How will we make it? What can I do to help?”
“We have a little salt we can use to cure meat, and in the mountains, the cold will help preserve it all.”
Painted Hands lowered his aching back down next to the fire. Tomorrow he’d sit beneath a cottonwood tree and listen to the birds sing—after he tended to the many chores facing him. He thought back to the image of Sarah Jane too frightened to jump from the wagon. It could have crushed her. He’d seen it happen on past trips—watched women and children plunge to their death in water far deeper and colder than this. He remembered the wailing of grown men who had lost their families and children. Some were too stunned to cry. With a sigh, he pushed the thoughts away. Sarah Jane was safe. He needn’t dig up old memories.
Back at Fort Laramie, some of the old-timers claimed they were in for an early winter, but sometimes weather predictions were stated to frighten travelers. Those who wanted to turn back needed an excuse and used signs of bad weather or the threat of hostile Indians to head east. He and Sarah Jane were a few weeks late moving up the mountain trail, and with the food shortage, he had cause for concern. He decided it was best not to voice his worries to her; she already blamed herself for losing their provisions.
The days and weeks ahead were treacherous. In the past, the Shoshone Indians had helped wagon trains in distress, and the warriors anticipated trading their horses for blankets and knives from the whites. Painted Hands had nothing to barter, but he’d like to hear about the weather farther up in the mountains.
They’d follow the Bear River to the Portneuf River that led to Fort Hall. The fort seldom had anything to offer, usually being short of provisions. From that site, he and Sarah Jane would move along the Snake River for about three hundred miles. This trek was rocky and wild. If his dear wife had been afraid today, she’d be petrified of the steep and narrow trail ahead.
Lord, help me guide us safely through these mountains. I don’t have a good feeling about what lies ahead, not a good feeling at all.
CHAPTER 16
Sarah Jane had never known such treacherous terrain as that along the Snake River. The oxen tore their feet climbing over sharp rocks, and many times she led the horse while Painted Hands walked alongside the wagon in case it threatened to plummet down a mountainside. When the trail wove them into the Snake Valley, he steered the wagon clear of deep sand. The blinding dust storms bothered her the most. During those times, she couldn’t even see the oxen in front of her. A kerchief and her scarf did little good to halt the cutting grit whipping around their bodies.
The mosquitoes must have been sent from Satan, for they settled on the oxen and horse like a fog of torment. Night after night, the horse cried out for relief. Once the sun went down, she and Painted Hands covered themselves completely to avoid the swarming insects. She wondered how many of them they drank in the coffee or ate with their food. Painted Hands led the wagon up the mountain as high as possible to avoid the mosquitoes, but that left them far from the water supply. Leading the animals down a steep path for a mile to secure water, then up again, was another arduous task.
Painted Hands and Sarah Jane talked little. Exhaustion took its toll, and when they could take advantage of rest, they were too tired even to mumble a few words. She noted her husband had slipped back into his black moods. He ignored her unless danger prevailed—no smiles or kind words. Some nights she cried herself to sleep, but if Painted Hands heard her weep, he said nothing. She realized he worried about the winter snows and the shortage of food, and when she repeatedly saw his gaze move to the higher mountains, she understood his trepidation. The plunge she’d taken into the Bear River proved how quickly life could be jeopardized.
The journey had to get easier. How could the hardships be much worse?
Twice the Shoshone visited them. They brought salmon and trout, and Sarah Jane cooked it for them all. The friendly Indians appeared grateful—her dealings with them were not at all like those with the Cheyenne. She still shuddered when she recalled that ordeal. Painted Hands communicated with them in their own language—something she resolved to learn when time allowed. From what she gathered, the Indians wanted to trade for blankets and knives, but the travelers could spare little. Their new friends no doubt realized the limited amount of food in the wagon. A few times, Painted Hands accompanied them to the fishing streams. While he was gone, Sarah Jane hurried through her chores so she could sleep.
The days blended together in a haze of exhaustion. Her existence with Painted Hands worsened. He resorted to not wanting her to speak, his foul temperament leaving her cold and miserable. She wondered what had become of his relationship with the Lord, but she often felt as surly. She hoped God understood these difficult days. Then the rains came—relentless sheets of water that chilled her to the bone. Some days she thought she’d never be warm or dry again. Her hair froze, but as Painted Hands had claimed, the buckskin suited the purpose more than her dresses. The rocky trails were slick, and she slipped in mud to her knees. At least during the downpours she could cry freely and he never saw.
If only Painted Hands would put his arms around her, hold her as he used to. Some days she wondered if they were growing to hate each other. She wondered if he remembered his previous words of love and affection, for he’d turned more inward than in the days after Mama’s and Papa’s deaths.
With depression settling around her and no end in sight, Sarah Jane gave up trying to please him. She no longer cared about Oregon or dreams or her husband. Most days she’d have sold her soul for a day of rest and a warm bed. Her whole body ached.
One afternoon, Sarah Jane believed she saw a mirage in the Powder River Valley. The path downward looked every bit as precarious as where they’d come from, but the green vall
ey below took her breath away.
“Am I seeing things?” she asked. “Is there really a beautiful valley below?”
Painted Hands grunted affirmation. “Won’t last long.” He pointed to the snowcapped mountains ahead. “That’s what’s ahead.”
Couldn’t he be happy for a small blessing? “Can we rest for a few days?”
“We’re already behind.”
His granitelike demeanor angered her. “But the animals are worn out. Surely they need to eat for us to continue.”
He said nothing in response, but she didn’t expect him to.
“Their hooves need time to mend.”
His silence angered her. She wanted to scream at him, but she didn’t have the strength. His renewed dedication to God and his commitment to her seemed to have vanished miles behind.
“Well, I’m not forcing these oxen beyond the valley until they are rested.”
Painted Hands despised the man he’d become. Always the whispers of God urged him to be kind, to be considerate of Sarah Jane. Now, as he helped the oxen down into the Powder River Valley and thought back over his harsh words to Sarah Jane, he realized the truth of why he’d turned back to his black days.
He was afraid.
Simply and without a doubt, he was scared to the point he couldn’t think clearly.
For ten years he lived with the Kiowa and learned their ways. He acquired the skills of hunting, surviving in the wilderness, and engaging in warfare, but he’d always been with his Indian brothers. With the Reverend Crandle and his wife, Painted Hands learned how to read, write, and ponder the scriptures. From his Indian life and his time among the whites, he discovered wisdom and truth. Four times before, he’d journeyed this path to Oregon with the best route, the purest water, food, and survival all sunk into his character.
But he hadn’t made the trip to Oregon alone. Greenham led the wagons while Painted Hands scouted for those four trips across the prairies and mountains. Never had he been the sole man responsible for getting the wagons through safely. The fear raged inside him. Every inch of the trek depended on him. He woke in the mornings with a heavy heart at the thought of another day. He loved Sarah Jane so much, but he couldn’t look at her or offer a kind word. Her life rested in the palm of his hand, and he refused to take his responsibility lightly.
Not so many weeks ago, Painted Hands believed he was a man, and that man gave his heart to Christ. For the first time in his life, he had felt true peace. With God’s gift of love, he treasured Sarah Jane. That part of him seemed like another person.
His prayers for courage and strength went unanswered. He despised his weakness. Sarah Jane had begun to loathe him, and he understood why. In her position, he’d have given up, too.
During the past trips with the wagon trains, he didn’t have God directing him. When he realized the importance of a relationship with the Lord of the universe, he embraced Him. Life looked hopeful, especially a future with Sarah Jane. Now, fear once more seemed to strangle him.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced back at his wife. Even with dirt woven through her hair and ground into her clothes, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Help me, Lord. I hate my heart of stone.
“We can rest a few days,” he said. “These last weeks have been hard on us. I need to wrap chains around the rear wheels to help us over the steep mountain passes, and you’re right that the animals need rest.”
“Thank you.” Her words sounded lifeless, and he ached to make things right between them.
If not for leading the oxen, he’d have walked back to talk to her. But this time, like so many times in the past, other priorities took over. If God would take away his fears, then he could be a husband again.
Once the oxen were unhitched and allowed to feed and water, Painted Hands took to repairing wheels and examining every inch of the wagon. The trek across the Blue Mountains usually took four days, and the threat of snowstorms made him want to leave the next morning.
Sarah Jane fished trout from the river and fried it up for supper that night. She hadn’t smiled in days, and he knew he was the problem. Sitting beside her on an old log with the fire crackling filled him with a deep longing for the closeness they’d once shared.
“If we had the provisions, this valley would be a beautiful place to stay,” he said, feeling the agony of so many wearisome days in his bones.
Her gaze flew to him. No doubt these were the most civil words he’d spoken in too long. He captured her green pools; where once they sparkled like a mountain stream, now dull, dark circles cratered beneath them. “Sarah Jane, I warned you the going would be rough.”
“That you did.” She looked around her.
“Saying I’m sorry isn’t enough, is it?” he asked.
She continued to study the land about them. “Does it matter?” He heard her release a sigh. “I’m so tired that if I could die this very minute, I would.”
“You can’t give up.” He didn’t mean just the dreams about Oregon but also their marriage, except those words stayed on his tongue.
“I believe I have. There’s nothing left inside of me but a faint desire to get through another day. The hope is gone. For the first time, I understand how Mama felt.”
“And your faith?”
“I’m not sure what faith is anymore.” She stood up from the log and massaged her back with her fingertips. “I want to go to bed.”
“Sleep until there is no sleep left in you,” he said.
“If that were true, you’d need to dig another grave.” She left without saying good night. Full of agony, he watched her climb into the rear of the wagon.
“You’ll feel better when you’re rested,” he said.
She failed to reply. Could he blame her when he’d done the very thing to her? He’d turned her against him, destroyed her spirit if not her will to live. The curse lived on.
The next two days, Sarah Jane stayed to herself. She washed clothes, bathed, and roamed the valley. She brought back gooseberries and wildflowers but offered no sign of peace. She looked extremely pale. Painted Hands had seen that look in women before, and he knew the end result. He saw her staring at the mountains and made his way to her side.
“Tomorrow is our last day here,” he said. “I see you’ve taken a liking to the valley. We could spend the morning enjoying what we can of it.”
“Go ahead without me.” She kept her gaze fastened on the mountains. “I have chores to do.”
“The time wouldn’t be the same without you.” There—he’d said it, the only words of affection he could muster.
“Nonsense, Painted Hands. You much prefer the company of nature to my prattle.”
Desperate to find her spunk, he searched his mind for the words to spark some kind of emotion. “We need to get our lives back the way they were.”
She tilted her head. “And why is that? Once we start up the mountains, things will go back to the same.”
A fall breeze combed through her hair, teasing the reddish-yellow curls that matched the colorful foliage. What he wouldn’t give for the music of her laughter.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done to you,” he said, but she failed to acknowledge him. “Sarah Jane, I wish I knew why I’ve hurt you over and over again, especially when you are the one person in this world I love. I’d do anything to win you back.”
Her blank stare told him all he wanted to know. His morose ways had destroyed their love. And he deserved it.
The trail over the Blue Mountains began with no prayer or formal introduction. Silently, he asked God to guide them safely on to Oregon. The wagon simply climbed higher. Painted Hands remembered when the trees were so thick that he and Greenham, along with other men from the wagon train, had to use axes to hack a path through.
Toward late morning on the second day of the climb, the temperatures fell, and the sky grayed.
“We’re in for snow,” he said.
She nodded and shrugged. “What do we do?”
“
Keep going for as long as we can. If it turns into a blizzard, then we’ll have to find shelter.”
In an hour’s time, the snow started, first in featherlike softness and a rhythmic beauty that in other circumstances would have been beautiful. The intensity increased, and soon it blew fast and furious, reminding him of the tales of lost wagons that had fallen prey to wild blizzards.
“I see a cliff where we can find shelter,” he said, pointing. “We’ll have to wait this one out.”
The snow-roofed rock offered only a bit of reprieve until the heavy fall ceased to blind them.
“I’m going after firewood,” he said. “I won’t be gone long. Will you be all right?”
For a moment, he saw a flash of something akin to longing. They stood side by side, near enough for him to pull her into his arms. “I’ll unhitch the oxen and search for wood near the wagon,” she said. “I’ll have a fire going and food cooked when you return. There’re a few kindling pieces in the wagon.”
“Stay close, for there isn’t much wood nearby. Don’t wander off. Keep your sights on the wagon.”
Sarah Jane shivered, and he drew her scarf close about her neck. “Later on, when we have a warm fire, I’d like to talk, really talk.”
She moistened her chapped lips. If not sun-parched, they were cracked and bleeding from the cold. He wished their love had not taken the same beating.
“Don’t fill me with hope again. I can’t bear it anymore,” she said.
“It’s not your doing.” Painted Hands touched her cheek with a gloved finger. He thought of telling her about the fear raging through his spirit. He’d missed her, and he wanted what they’d left behind.
A Bride's Agreement Page 86