A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  He glanced up at the sky; soon the snow would fall again. The old anxieties slapped his face. They’d faced a sad shortage of food before, but with him laid up and the impending weather, the gravity of the situation hit him harder. Helplessness settled on his shoulders.

  He couldn’t gather firewood; he’d already tried that and failed. He couldn’t hunt with a broken leg. He couldn’t lead the oxen through the narrow passageways. He couldn’t ride his horse. He couldn’t clear fallen branches from the trail. In fact, he was totally dependent on Sarah Jane. What irony. The tiny woman he wanted to protect had become his rock. To make matters worse, she was worn out. What if the typhoid attacked her again? For sure, once they reached Oregon, he’d never let her suffer like this.

  Dear God, all I can do is trust in Your provision. Show me what I must do.

  He exhaled a ragged breath. His leg hurt; the incessant pain offered no reprieve, always reminding him of their predicament. As intense as the agony was, it still didn’t compare with her pulling it straight. He’d nearly passed out. He’d even begged God to blacken his mind. Sarah Jane had done a fine job of setting it, and he’d be forever grateful.

  The present. He needed to do his share of the work. Until they were able to move the wagon ahead, they’d need firewood. Painted Hands glanced about. If Sarah Jane was able to find a limb or even a sapling, he’d have a crutch. He realized hobbling around today was next to impossible, but tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow he’d force himself to use a crutch. Being mobile meant he wasn’t useless. Another thought occurred to him. He could drive the wagon, and when they reached those precarious places where the wagon risked a tumble over the side of a cliff, he’d limp alongside.

  Painted Hands closed his eyes while he waited for his precious wife to return. Last night he lay awake hour after hour waiting for the pain to subside. Today the throb continued. If only he could sleep; a few hours’ rest might clear his foggy mind. Maybe then he’d figure out a way to hunt with a crutch or lead the dangerously thin animals down to find grazing. If they died—Painted Hands shook his head and pushed his thoughts in another direction.

  Lord, if I was scared before, it doesn’t compare with now.

  He opened his eyes with a start and realized he’d dozed off. Near the wagon lay a small pile of wood. He managed to smile. She’d left the camp again, but a pot of coffee rested by the fire, just beyond his reach, along with a mug. Dear, sweet Sarah Jane; she always put others first.

  He tugged on his leg to help him grasp the mug. An unbidden moan broke the silence, and he fell back.

  “Here, let me get the coffee for you,” Sarah Jane said, stepping into his view. She carried wood in one arm and dragged a long limb with the other.

  “I thought you were gone.” He bit on his tongue to keep from crying out.

  “I had an idea—something to help you get about.” Her cheeks flushed red in the cold. She dumped the wood on top of the other and dropped the limb near him. In the next breath she poured him coffee and delivered it with a kiss. “How are you?”

  “I’ll live.” He smiled at the nearness of her. Odd how love made him forget the danger threatening to take their lives. “Did you bring me that limb for a crutch?” he asked.

  “Most certainly. I’ve been thinking on some other things, too.” She sat beside him and drew her knees to her chest. No one ever looked as good as Sarah Jane in buckskins.

  “I want to hear every thought.”

  “I saw two mountain sheep this morning. There’s no reason why I can’t bring one down.” She grinned. “Papa said I had a good eye.”

  “Sarah Jane, if you can bring in meat, then do so.”

  She gave him another kiss, this one on his forehead. “And I wonder if I should try to build us a shelter—a cabin of sorts. I’d be slow in cutting down the trees, and I’d need you to tell me what to do.”

  He gathered her hand into his. “We’re asking for trouble to spend the whole winter here. We’d need a solid cabin for that—and a supply of food and wood.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “Find a way to get out of here. You and I will have to switch places for us to get ahead of the weather. I’ll take the wagon and you the horse. That’s the only way we can make it over the mountains.”

  Sarah Jane nodded slowly, as if taking in every word and pondering it. A dusting of snow started to fall around the perimeter of their site. “You’re saying we’ll freeze to death or starve if we try to stay?”

  “Yes, and there’s nothing here for the animals either. I want to travel a bit higher above the tree line. At least there we won’t have to clear a path in front of us.”

  She stared into the fire. “I’ve been wondering if we ought to abandon the wagon. I don’t want to, but with the snow and all—”

  How much should Sarah Jane suffer? “We aren’t at that point yet. We need the wagon to carry provisions and tools. When we make it to the Columbia River, we’ll decide then what’s best to do.”

  “Mama and Papa’s things did mean more than I care to admit, but none of it is more important than life.” Tiny lines were etched around her eyes.

  “I saw women in Independence who insisted upon bringing their fine hats and extra petticoats. Unfortunately, their priorities changed when they faced the hardships of the trail and had to bury a family member. You aren’t like any of them, Sarah Jane. You’ve always known what is important.”

  She smiled and patted the hand holding hers. “And you see more in me than I really am. When you are ready to leave, I’ll ride the mare. I’ll try very hard not to give up again; but if I do, please make me go on.”

  He needed to tell her the truth of why he’d failed her. “I never told you why I turned back to my old ways,” Painted Hands said. “It wasn’t right. I deserve to be shot for it, and telling you the reason doesn’t make things right.”

  “I did my share,” she said. “I ignored you, and when we were in the Powder River Valley, I stayed to myself.”

  “But you wouldn’t have, if not for me. The truth is, I was scared, still am, Sarah Jane. I’ve been on this trail four times, but never by myself. Always someone rode alongside me. Two or three of us made decisions, and we led the wagon train together. Then all of a sudden I realized I was alone. I didn’t have the sense to realize I had God as my personal guide.”

  “I’m sorry. I always thought of you as full of wisdom. I never doubted what you said or what you wanted to do.”

  He chuckled, moved his leg, then winced. “I’m glad to have your confidence.” Having her close did wonders to his spirits. “Have I ever told you any of the tales about other women on the wagon train?”

  “No, and I love your stories.”

  He held her hand and stared into her eyes. “Starting out on the trail, I saw women who were so quiet I had to look to make sure they were there; but as the hardships grew, they changed.”

  “You mean they started not to care about their families?”

  “Worse.” He took a gulp of his coffee. “Some got mean, spiteful. You could hear them hollering at their children and cursing their husbands. One woman set her wagon on fire. She said if her husband wouldn’t take her back across the plains, then she’d make sure they all died.”

  Sarah Jane’s eyes widened.

  “Another woman held a shotgun to her husband’s head until he pulled out of the wagon line. They never joined back up.”

  “And I’m sure there were women, like Mama, who gave up.” Her sad gaze moved him, and he squeezed her hand a bit.

  “For as many folks who make it to Oregon, there are that many graves along the way. You are brave, Sarah Jane. One day our children will tell our story, and you will be praised.” He squeezed her hand. “I always appreciated your pa bringing out his fiddle. He made folks forget what was ailing them.”

  She closed her eyes. “When I’m missing Papa real bad, I think back on him playing a lively tune and Mama laughing. This has been hard, harder than I ever thought it could
be, but despite the death and troubles, I’m a better person.” She tilted her head. “And I feel as if it’s the way God intended for me.”

  Sarah Jane thought she knew the meaning of fear and believed her worst nightmares came from not seeing the future. Yet setting out on a snow-laden trail with an injured husband and snow flying in her face made her question her sanity.

  Now she understood the women in her husband’s stories. If not for one hand grasping the horse’s reins and the other holding on to God, she’d have said and done more unholy things herself.

  Her husband’s plan to venture higher might have been easier if not for the wind seemingly pushing them back. Her legs felt so numb that she no longer believed she had any at all. The crunch of snow beneath the wagon wheels said they made some progress, if even a few feet. With a scarf tied around her face, she urged the horse upward, yet when she looked behind, she could still see their previous campsite.

  Have we only moved this short distance? Will we ever climb down from these mountains? The words God help us poured through her mind, spinning around and around lest she forget their true Providence. She turned to see Painted Hands, his face a ghastly white. In her next breath, she gathered the stubborn determination necessary to lead them over the top of the Blue Mountains and on to the Columbia River and the Willamette Valley in Oregon.

  When shadows of late afternoon forced them to stop, she was ready to cook a slab of bacon. She’d gone looking for the mountain sheep she’d seen yesterday, but their trail led too far from the campsite, and she was afraid of getting lost. From now on, she always had to be ready with the shotgun.

  “I think I’d make a good Indian wife,” she said in an attempt to ease the gloom. Tomorrow the coffee would be gone. Perhaps she’d boil tree bark to warm them.

  “Why is that?” Painted Hands asked through a thin smile.

  “I dress like one. I’m learning how to survive in the wilderness, and I haven’t thought about a pretty bonnet in weeks. Besides, the Cheyenne warrior thought so.”

  Her husband lifted a brow. “I think he had other matters on his mind.”

  She felt her cheeks grow hot, and his laughter bounced off the cliffs surrounding them. “That’s what I get for being prideful.” Suddenly, she noticed her nose bleeding.

  “You’re fine, Sarah Jane,” Painted Hands said. “It happens when folks are up this high.”

  She released a pent-up breath and used her scarf to stop the blood’s flow. The thought of getting sick and not being able to care for Painted Hands worried her.

  “What do we have left for provisions?” he asked.

  If it hadn’t been ingrained in her not to lie, she’d have easily done so. “We have frozen berries and a little bacon and a few nuts we found some days ago. A couple of potatoes are left from when we traded with the Indians. There’s coffee through tomorrow. No flour or sugar. The cows haven’t given any milk for a while.” She shrugged. “I promise to do better and try to bring down some meat for us.”

  “Sarah Jane, soon I’ll be able to get around on the crutch. You don’t need to feel responsible for keeping us alive. That’s my job.”

  She added a small log to the fire. The wood, too, had to be rationed. “I’ve been so tired of biscuits, but right now, one sure would taste good,” she said.

  Sarah Jane toyed with the worries in her mind. Surprises were for children. “What are our chances of getting out of this alive?”

  Painted Hands’s gaze captured hers. “I never believed much in gambling.”

  “Papa said it was a sin. But he also valued the truth.”

  “As I said, I never believed much in gambling.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The temperature dropped lower that night, and in the morning, Painted Hands and Sarah Jane woke to a blanket of snow. She claimed sleeping by the fire was a much warmer proposition than inside the wagon. Painted Hands understood his wife; she didn’t want him alone with a broken leg. As he’d decided before, she carried too much weight on her shoulders.

  And their dire circumstances were about to get worse. This morning laid out the dismal truth. They would either starve or freeze to death unless the weather calmed. How far could Sarah Jane venture out from the campsite to gather firewood before they were forced to use the wagon for fuel?

  “Let’s get going.” He caressed her cheek. “Every step we take brings us closer to home.” As much as he treasured his heavenly home, he so wanted to reach Oregon with his bride.

  She rose from her sleeping position and brushed the snow from the quilt and her hair. “I agree. Shall I fix the last of the coffee?”

  Painted Hands hesitated. “I can wait.”

  She nodded and folded one of the quilts. “I’m not very hungry. We could wait to eat. Maybe even tonight.”

  You ate so little yesterday. I know what you’re doing, Sarah Jane.

  “I wish you’d have something now. You need strength for the day,” he said.

  She stared into his face. Her gaze told fathoms about the anxiety rippling through her. “I’ll fry up some bacon and one of the potatoes.”

  “A wise decision.” He took a glimpse of the cattle.

  “They can’t go on much longer without food,” she said. “I can keep melting the snow for water—”

  “We’ll do the best we can. We need to pray,” he said, not taking his gaze from her tired face. “I believe it’s time we started.”

  She knelt beside him, and they bowed their heads. Painted Hands took her hand in his. “God, we need Your help more than ever. We’re low on food, and the cattle are growing weak. I’m moving slow, but I’m grateful to be alive. Thank You for Sarah Jane and her courage—and for giving her to me as my wife. Help us to honor You all the days of our lives. We’re scared, God, and we’re asking for guidance. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Her cold lips brushed against his. “He hasn’t brought us this far without a plan. We must have faith.”

  As soon as they had eaten and the animals were watered, Sarah Jane hitched up the oxen, and Painted Hands climbed onto the wagon seat. He’d almost grown accustomed to the pain in his leg.

  “We’ll make better time if we continue along the tree line,” Painted Hands said. “Usually it takes about four days to get over these mountains.” But that is without snow and half a man. “The valley below is beautiful.”

  “I look forward to that valley. There we’ll rest, and I can fish for food.”

  Slowly the wagon inched along, the cattle straining against their yoke and the cold wind. Not far was a narrow passageway around the side of the mountain. He’d seen Conestoga wagons too wide to make it around and animals sensing the danger head straight over the side. Praise God for John Benson’s wisdom in purchasing a narrow wagon. Still, uncertainty hung in his throat. He had never thought the gut-wrenching fear he saw in other men would affect him.

  The closer they approached the site where the narrow trail clung to the mountain cliff, the more he realized the need for him to scout ahead. Painted Hands pulled the oxen to a halt.

  “I need to see the trail,” he said. “Sometimes it’s washed out.”

  “I can do it.”

  Painted Hands gritted his teeth and climbed down from the wagon. “I can hobble up there.”

  With the wind crashing against his body, Painted Hands moved upward and around, noting the pathway was clear but slippery. He struggled to maintain his balance, stopping at several intervals to garner his strength. At the steep, angling curve, he breathed a deep sigh of relief that the wagon could round it and start its decline. Now, if the snow let up, they had a chance to make it.

  An hour later, Painted Hands stood at the precipice and realized the oxen had to be led. How could he hold on to a crutch with one hand and the oxen with the other?

  “I can lead them,” Sarah Jane said as though reading his thoughts. She dismounted. “I’ll tie the horse to the back of the wagon with the cows.”

  “I’ll keep the horse with me.” He
despised the inability to do his share. He’d been over this pass four times and knew the pitfalls. “If the wagon starts to lean or slip backward, get out of its way.”

  “I learned my lesson the last time,” she said.

  Alarm registered in his mind. “This is not waist-high water, Sarah Jane. That wagon goes, and you’re heading straight down.”

  She looked at him, startled. “I’ll be careful. What about you?”

  “I’ll hug the side of the cliff.”

  She moved around to the back of the wagon and climbed inside. A few moments later, she pulled out a dress of her mama’s, the Bible with her journal tucked inside, and a box containing the rest of the food. On a second trip, she brought the steel and flint and two boxes of shotgun shells and affixed the other shotgun and rope to his saddle. Inside his saddlebag were more shells. Finally, she carried out the quilts, which she piled beside the box of food. If need be, those could be tied to the horse.

  “Have you gotten everything that’s important out of the wagon?” he asked, scrutinizing the pile. “What about the ax?”

  Sarah Jane shook her head. One more time, she climbed into the wagon and added the axe, shovel, and bucket to the items on the ground. “I’ll come back and get these when we’re safely around.”

  Painted Hands hated to see her work so hard. “I’m serious,” he said, pointing to the small mound of supplies. “I can live without any of those things you have there, but I can’t live without you.”

  She took her position with the oxen and started upward. The wagon creaked, and the oxen pulled on the yokes as they plodded forward against the wind and fought to keep from sliding backward. From where he limped in the rear nearest the cliff, it seemed headed for the sky. If there had been more wagons, they’d have used men and chains to pull each one up.

  Slowly, they ascended to the top. Painted Hands forgot about the pain in his leg. He kept one eye on the wagon and the other on Sarah Jane. Each step became a prayer for the chains to dig into the slippery snow. He felt cold to the bone, but sweat dripped down the side of his face.