Wetness pooled in her green eyes. She turned aside and blinked the tears back.
“Don’t you think I know the nights you cried yourself to sleep?”
“I didn’t believe you cared.” She lifted her face to gaze into his, something she hadn’t done in a long time.
He tugged on his scraggly beard. “I never stopped caring, and I’m not sure I can explain it all now.”
“You have to try, or we’ll never survive.”
Painted Hands bent and brushed a kiss atop her head. “I understand.”
With the ax on one shoulder and his shotgun slung over the other, he left her feeling warmer than he had all day. The tree line was directly above them, which meant he needed to descend the same path to find fallen branches. Once he gathered a sufficient supply, he’d store them under the wagon. There they’d dry out, for they might be holed up in the mountains for a while. Painted Hands pushed aside the needling stories of those found frozen to death and focused his attention on the broken limbs below. Some food lay in the wagon, and his shotgun would ward off wolves looking to sink their teeth into the oxen or his horse. He could take down a deer or mountain sheep for meat. They’d be fine for as long as it took.
He shielded his eyes from the snow, then took careful steps downward. Up ahead was a small grove of aspen trees, and farther on he saw pine and spruce. Suddenly, his foot slipped. Reaching down, he tried to stop from gliding down the snow, but he skimmed it like a child’s sled on a snow-packed hill. Finding nothing to grab but more snow, he continued to fall. He dare not shout for fear of scaring Sarah Jane. The trees he’d sought loomed his way. Before he could plan how to reach for one and break his fall, his left leg caught on a tree trunk and threw him against another.
Painted Hands heard the snap of his leg, like a tree branch caught under the weight of ice and snow. Sucking in his breath, he assumed the pain would hit him hard, but only numbness met him. He looked to the side. His leg lay twisted in a grotesque shape. He breathed in and out, then attempted to move. And then it hit him. A moan escaped his lips with the excruciating pain from his broken leg. Glancing up, he saw the path he’d fallen down was steep, and the way up would be difficult for a whole man.
Swallowing hard, he fought the urge to slip into unconsciousness as easily as he’d descended the mountainside. He stared up at a white sky. Snowflakes dusted his face. He’d be a tasty find for a wolf—along with his wife and animals above him.
I have to find a way to get back up to the wagon.
The means of getting firewood left him defeated. One of his legs felt as if it were on fire, and the other he couldn’t feel at all for the cold. He stared at the hand that still held the ax and thanked God he hadn’t lost the tool. With it, he had a chance. Surely, in this cold, the pain in his leg might ease up.
I’ll crawl up. On the way, I’ll think of some way Sarah Jane and I can survive. Oh Lord, I don’t care about myself, but please save my wife.
Painted Hands forced himself onto his belly. He studied the mountain. Somehow he’d make it.
CHAPTER 17
Sarah Jane built a fire, using the kindling from inside the wagon and the pieces of wood found not far from the campsite. As Painted Hands requested, she did not venture beyond sight of the wagon, for the snow blew at her back and whirled in front of her eyes. She continued to pick up every stick of wood, whether twigs or bigger pieces, and carry them back to the overhanging rock. Beneath the wagon, they’d dry out, for she assumed they’d be there for a couple of days—or longer. Some of the pieces were large, so she dragged them. Painted Hands could split them when he returned.
She’d admired the trees as they climbed the mountain path: the huge pines varying in size and type of cone, the spruce, the bright yellow foliage of the aspen, the tall fir, the scarlet-and-gold-leafed maple, and the gray-green-barked poplar. She wanted to know about each tree and referred to Papa’s traveler’s guide to help her identify them.
The afternoon wore on, and Sarah Jane looked anxiously toward the path Painted Hands had taken for wood. Every time she considered looking for him, the snow fell more heavily masking the dangerous downward path. He’d taken the shotgun. Maybe he’d followed the fresh tracks of a deer, but as the sun descended to the west, apprehension set in.
Her spirits lifted, and she sensed calmness in her heart. His parting words were filled with hope, and unless he’d deceived her, he sounded regretful for his actions. And she needed to tell him how the arduous days had darkened her mood. Painted Hands wanted to talk, a promising sign. Where was he now? Would he have gone on and left her alone to starve or freeze to death? She dug through the wagon and pulled out Papa’s shotgun—just in case a hungry wolf took a liking to the animals. And grizzly bears—Sarah Jane rubbed her hands together; she didn’t even want to think about wild animals. A moment later, she loaded Papa’s shotgun.
The snow stopped. Stepping from beneath the ledge, she scanned the terrain for signs of Painted Hands. Nothing. Her gaze fell on a branch sticking through a mound of white. Every stick of dead wood she could find looked invaluable. During the next several minutes, she pulled and tugged the log to the wagon. Using her foot as leverage, she broke off as many of the smaller branches as possible, moving on to do the same with her other supply. She separated the pine from the other, understanding the soft wood made better kindling. Evening shadows crept across the mountainside. She was hungry but realized the food needed to be rationed, and she’d not eat without Painted Hands.
Hours had passed since her husband first left to gather wood. She stepped as far from the wagon as possible and again searched every portion of the area around her.
“Painted Hands!” Her voice echoed around her. “Painted Hands!”
A branch snapped behind her, and she whirled around to see nothing—and hear nothing but the rapid beat of her heart. She was utterly alone. Panic seized her mind and mocked her fears.
The hours crept by, and the rush of sunset forced Painted Hands to crawl faster. The slightest movement sent knifelike jabs to his leg and tore at his strength. He clenched the ax in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Slamming the ax into the soft snow, he tried to anchor himself and move another inch, another foot. A glance behind him showed a trail of blood. Wolves would pick up the scent and be on his trail soon. As darkness edged around him, he thanked God for the gun.
His thoughts spun with worry about Sarah Jane. She knew nothing about surviving in the mountains. At least if she’d been stranded on the prairie, she’d have had a chance at survival.
If he died this very night, would she remember he loved her? Would God send someone to help her?
“Painted Hands! Painted Hands!”
His pain-dulled senses thought he heard her calling. He lifted his head and craned his neck, hoping he might be near the top. Quiet. Only the sounds of nature whispered around him. Disappointment nudged him.
Keep going, Painted Hands. Night had not settled on him yet, and as long as he had breath, he’d crawl on to the top.
“Painted Hands!”
He heard her voice again, echoing around him like the cries of a lost child. This could not be the makings of his mind.
He took a deep breath. “Sarah Jane.”
Silence nestled in his ears—that and a grim reminder of the pain.
“Painted Hands! Where are you?”
“Sarah Jane, keep talking so I can find you.” The effort to shout nabbed his strength.
“I don’t see you. Are you hurt?”
Painted Hands heard the anxiety in her voice. “I’ve… broken my leg. I’m crawling up the mountain.”
“Help me find you.”
He peered about him, looking for something, anything, to mark where he lay. “I see three fir trees with a spruce on each side. The trees look like they’re forming a tepee. Off to my left is a grove of tall pine.”
“I’m looking hard, but the trees seem to blend together.”
Her voice sounded raspy as thoug
h she were crying or her throat hurt from shouting. “Pray, Sarah Jane.” But his words came out like a child’s whimper.
“I see you!” she called.
He glanced up, and there she was, making her way down the steep grade, her coat flapping open to the buckskin hugging her body. Never had he seen such a beautiful sight. Tears froze on his cheeks.
Sarah Jane worked her way toward him at a good pace. She planted her feet sideways and half-slid down the slope. Praise God she knew how to move through the snow, even if her experience came from the Nebraska prairie.
“I’m coming. Don’t give up on me.”
He clung to her words of encouragement. His precious wife had become so thin. Her fragile body could not withstand much more. How would they get the rest of the way up? His gaze stayed fixed on her as he continued to crawl upward with her name on his lips.
When Sarah Jane finally reached him, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and laid her head against his. He believed an angel had come to deliver him. Indeed, God in His mercy had shown her the way.
“Look at the trouble I’ve gotten us into,” he said in a feeble attempt to sound light. She dared not read his anxiety.
She shook her head and hugged his shoulders. “Well, you didn’t dump food into the river.”
But I may have carved our tombstones. “We’re a fine pair.”
“I agree. We have to hurry,” she said. “Night is gathering. Tell me how we’re going to do this.”
“I was hoping you’d have a plan.” He shifted his weight and moaned.
“Just to hurry.”
“Take the shotgun, and I’ll use the ax to make my way up.” His leg throbbed with every beat of his heart.
She moved to his right side. “Slip your hand around my shoulders.” She grabbed his waist while gripping the shotgun in her right hand. “Do it! Time’s a-wasting.”
A surge of white-hot fire assaulted him.
“We have to make it up this hill,” she said. “We have no choice.”
Was it fear that made her insistent? No matter, his wife had her gumption back.
The two crawled up the incline together. When he groaned, she assured him they were almost there; she could see the light from the fire. “I want to get there and add another log,” she said. “You need to get warm.”
Painted Hands didn’t try to talk. It was all he could do to cease his groanings, but the sound came without his realizing it.
“I love you, Painted Hands. We have a life ahead in Oregon.”
He hurt too badly to say the same things, so he squeezed the hand holding on to him. Sarah Jane had to ache with the weight on her narrow shoulders.
“I see the fire,” she said a few moments later. “I really do. Look ahead. Only a bit farther.”
Indeed, they had made it. As much as he hurt, he attempted a laugh.
“Hold on to your sense of humor,” she said. “You’ll need it when I set your leg.”
She’d have to find splints—or make them—and he’d have to tell her how to straighten it. “Tomorrow we’ll set it, not tonight.”
She nodded, then eased him down beside the fire. Hurrying to the wagon, she came back with a shovel and scooped out the snow that had gathered earlier. In the next instant, she had made a pallet for him. When at last he collapsed on the blankets and she covered him, she picked up the ax and split two logs for the fire. He hated to see her work so hard.
“There’s nothing for pain.” She sighed. “This will be a bad night for you.”
“Not as long as you’re here.”
She smiled—the same smile he remembered from their more pleasant days. “I wish I could get you inside the wagon, but this will be warmer.”
“The fire is good. Thank you for coming after me. I owe you my life.”
She eased over by him. “We’re constantly beholden to each other. Let me see your leg and where the blood’s coming from.”
He turned to see the twisted limb he called his leg. “I think it’s scratched from one of the trees.”
Sarah Jane melted snow in a pan, then gingerly dabbed at the gash exposed through his buckskin. In the dancing flames, he saw the weary lines around her eyes.
“Honey, you need to stop. Tomorrow we’ll work through the damage I’ve done today.”
She scooted back on her knees and gazed into the fire. “I’m going to treat it; then we should eat. It won’t take me long to do either one.”
He would not tell her he hurt too badly to taste anything, but both of them needed their strength. Watching her prepare trout that had been caught a few days ago kept his mind off the incessant pain. How beautiful his wife was. He feared this land would take her from him.
“Let’s pray before we eat,” he said. She took his hand. “Father, You saved me from death today, and I thank You. I also thank You for Sarah Jane. Keep us safe and direct our path. Amen.”
The fish did taste good, but his worries about the future gripped him. He knew the sin of worry, but his thoughts raced ahead despite his spirit’s warnings. They’d need firewood and saplings to make a splint. Food was another concern.
“You should try to sleep.” Sarah Jane moved to his side and lifted his head into her lap. “Now you have a pillow.”
“And what of you?”
“I have what makes me happy at my fingertips.” She picked up a blanket warming near the fire and draped it across her shoulders. “Now I not only look like an Indian, but I’ll sleep like one.”
He feigned a chuckle. “Indians don’t sleep sitting up.”
“This one does.”
Painted Hands slept fitfully that night. The torment in his leg consumed him. The care of his wife overwhelmed him. He prayed; he thought back over his life. God had delivered him too many times for this to be the end, or had he run out of chances? Sarah Jane dozed off from time to time, always waking to see to his needs. They talked little as they simply waited until dawn.
Sarah Jane stood at the crack of sunrise and shrugged the blanket around her shoulders. She split a few logs and added them to the fire. While she made coffee and fried bacon, she listened to Painted Hands explain how to set his leg. The idea of hurting him caused her to tremble, but she pushed the thought aside and concentrated on his directives.
“You’ll need three saplings cut the length of my leg and strips of leather or rope to tie the wood pieces to my leg. Pulling it straight is another matter.”
After breakfast, she went in search of the wood for splints, making sure she didn’t slip on the snow. Her mind raced with the immediate. How will I put his leg into place? How can I tell if it’s straight? What if I don’t set it right and he’s crippled? When can Painted Hands travel? Must life be so incredibly hard?
Snow clouds lingered above, and she picked up her pace. Once she tended to his leg, she’d need to gather more wood. She focused her attention in every direction. If they didn’t move on soon, they’d be trapped until spring. Praying for the snow to let up, she hurried her pace. Painted Hands couldn’t ride in the wagon over the narrow paths. It was too dangerous.
Everything they’d attempted had been full of peril. Was Oregon worth the price?
At the campsite, Painted Hands lay in torment, but he refused to allow Sarah Jane to know the extent of his pain. He swallowed hard and approved of the splints. “The time is now to pull it into place.”
Sarah Jane’s stomach churned. “How will you stand the pain?”
He nodded toward the wagon. “I’m going to hold on to the wheel. I’d do it myself if I could.”
She helped him to the wagon, then carried the sapling pieces and the leather straps and laid them beside him—anything to keep her from completing the task before her. The time had come; she had no more excuses. She cut the buckskin up to his thigh, the gnarled leg a swollen mass of purple and blue. Painted Hands reached over his head and grabbed the wheel behind him.
“Work fast.” Sweat beaded his brow in the frigid temperatures. “You can do i
t, Sarah Jane. I only wish another man was here to hold me down.”
“Help me, Jesus,” she whispered. “Dull his pain and guide my hands.” She knew better than to look at his face and know her hands caused the excruciating pain. Clenching her fists, she released her fingers and found her hold on both sides of his broken leg. In the next instant, she yanked it into a downward position. Painted Hands jerked and cried out, his voice echoing around them like that of a hurt animal. Sarah Jane bit her lip until she tasted blood, but she had to finish. Seeing the leg needed to be straightened further, she steadied her shaking hands and lined up his leg to match the other.
He gasped, and his face paled. Leaning his head back, Painted Hands closed his eyes. A moment later, he wet his lips and took several deep breaths before looking at the injured leg. “Good,” he managed. “Now put the splints in place.”
Sarah Jane worked fast, her pulse beating in her head and her fingers trembling like twigs on a dead branch. How could one man endure such pain? When the last leather strap was tied, she stared into his stricken face.
“You did a fine job,” he said. “Thanks to you, I’ll walk again.”
She moistened her lips. “I’ll be praying for this leg every morning, noon, and night until we remove those splints.”
“I will, too.” He closed his eyes and released his hold on the wagon wheel. “Sarah Jane,” he said, “when you write about this for our children, don’t tell them I nearly cried like a baby.”
“I promise. I’ll write that you were brave and never uttered a sound.” She smiled.
She helped him crawl back to the fire and covered him snugly. Picking up the shotgun and ax, she headed away from the camp. Now she had to find wood.
CHAPTER 18
Painted Hands watched her leave until she disappeared in front of a rounded pine. Sarah Jane looked more like a little girl than a grown woman—a grown woman who carried a large burden. How he loved her. She held more strength in her little finger than most men ever achieved. Why she loved him went far beyond his understanding.
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