A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  When at last they made it around the curve, the incline lay before them more menacing than the trek up. Painted Hands studied the trek down.

  “Stay clear.” Painted Hands had not felt so helpless since the childhood fire.

  The moment the wagon started to slip, he shouted for Sarah Jane. He saw the tragedy coming, but he couldn’t get to her fast enough. Painted Hands quickened his pace, slipped, and braced his fall.

  “Sarah Jane, get out of the way. You can’t stop the wagon.”

  She cried out to the oxen. But the wheels spun faster, and the wagon gained momentum, heading straight down the pass. Sarah Jane screamed.

  Then he saw her, kneeling on the rock-hard ground, her face buried in her hands. In the next instant, the sound of the wagon and frightened animals crashing against the side of the cliff reverberated around them.

  “It’s all right,” he repeated as he hobbled to her side. “You’re safe.”

  Once he reached her, Painted Hands dropped his crutch and eased down beside her, holding her sobbing body next to his.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed, burying her face in his chest. “I tried. I really tried.”

  “You did better than any man, ten men.”

  “Twice I’ve failed.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Twice you’ve escaped death. That’s what’s important.”

  “What will we do now?” she asked between sobs.

  Painted Hands took a deep breath. “We’re going to head down this mountain, put our supplies on a travois, and lead the horse to Oregon.”

  Sarah Jane was cold, colder than she could ever remember, and she sat in front of a fire. Her eyes stung, and her head ached. No matter how hard she rubbed her hands together, they refused to thaw. She kept wiggling her toes for fear they’d be frostbitten. She and Painted Hands drank the last of the coffee and ate a little of the bacon. When her teeth chattered, he wrapped his arms around her and suggested she remember the heat on the prairie. Perhaps the memories would warm her body, but nothing helped. Sarah Jane wanted to cry, although it clearly upset him when she wept.

  They couldn’t hold out much longer. Traveling down the mountain was slow with Painted Hands limping on his crutch. He tried to move faster, but it hurt him so. If their days were numbered, then they needed to talk about their lives before they married. Sharing joys and sorrows sealed their love—even in death.

  “I’d like to hear about the years with the Kiowa,” she said, studying his face. “I see you cared for them very much.”

  His gaze softened. “I did. They became my family when I no longer had one. When the hunting party brought me to the village, I was scared. I grieved for my family, believing their deaths were my fault. My hands were badly burned, and in my mind, I deserved the pain. A Kiowa couple took me in. The woman coated my hands in a type of salve and wrapped them in cloth. At night, when I cried for my family, she held me. Later on, I learned she’d lost a son in a fire, and I became her replacement. All the love she had for him was now mine. When the other children teased me about my hands, she ran them off. She gave me the name of Painted Hands and told me I should be proud. I had fought the fire and won. The scars were a symbol of honor, and I should never be ashamed of them.”

  “A wise woman, Painted Hands.”

  “Her husband treated me like his own son. He taught me how to hunt buffalo and to show courage in battle. He was a member of the Koitsenko, one of the ten most highly respected warriors in the tribe. I remember he wore a red sash around his waist and carried a sacred spear when he went into battle. Those were the days when the Cheyenne and Kiowa were fierce enemies, and those warriors knew how to fight.”

  She gasped. “They could have killed you that day on the prairie.”

  He pressed his lips together and said nothing for several moments, as though his memories had carried him back to before the days of their marriage. “The two tribes made a peace treaty about eight years ago, and we’re both lucky they honored it, especially since I’m white.”

  “How were you trained to show courage?”

  He grinned. “By proving myself as a hunter and achieving war honors.”

  “Do I want to know about the war honors?”

  He chuckled, the first time he’d laughed in a long time. “I stole a few horses from the enemy and charged their warriors in battle.” He paused. “I was happy; content with life. I followed the many gods of the Kiowa and consulted the medicine men for guidance. My white parents had instilled the teachings of the Bible, but everything in that life had died. I no longer felt as if I belonged in the white man’s world, neither did I want to. But still I had the nightmares about the fire.”

  Sarah Jane struggled to understand. “You didn’t long for your own people?”

  “I was a little boy who craved love and family. From the Kiowa, I learned respect and what it meant to be a respected warrior of honor. After ten years, the white man’s ways were foreign.”

  “How did the soldiers find you?”

  “Another man spotted me in a hunting party, and the soldiers rode out in search. None of them bothered to ask me if I wanted to stay.”

  “They took you against your will?”

  He nodded. “The soldiers surrounded the hunting party and at gunpoint singled me out. I put up a good fight, but there were too many of them. I used to wonder why they found me so easily, but now I realize it was part of God’s plan. They brought me to Independence, and the Reverend Crandle and his wife took me in.”

  “Weren’t they afraid of you?”

  “Sarah Jane, I would have slit every white man’s throat within miles if given the chance. The soldiers brought me tied up like an animal to the Crandles, but as soon as they were gone, the reverend spoke kindly to me and cut me loose. He told me that if I wanted to go back to the Kiowa, he’d let me go, but he asked for a chance to show me the white man’s way of living. I don’t know why I agreed, except the Reverend Crandle trusted me not to hurt him. Two years later, I overheard a soldier telling him that most of my Kiowa village had been killed. It took a lot of talking on the reverend’s part to convince me not to seek revenge.

  “He’s a great man of God. He believed in me when I gave up on myself. He taught me how to read and write and to trust God, not man. Unfortunately, it has taken me a long time to find the faith he lived. I’m not sure how he found out about Jacob. All I know is he met with him while I was on the trail with Greenham.”

  She rubbed her hands over the fire. “Once we get to Oregon, you two will be inseparable.”

  His face darkened. “I hope so. I pray so.” A moment later, he glanced up at the sky lit with a thousand twinkling stars. “You had a good life with your folks?”

  “For the most part, yes. Papa was a dreamer with grand plans. He laughed a lot and always had something witty to say. At least I thought his words were worth remembering. He always wanted something better for us, while Mama wanted to stay in the same place and be happy with what we had. At times they quarreled about it, especially when Papa sold the farm and moved us to Independence. Mama missed her friends, and living in a wagon did not sit well with her. The worst time between them happened when Papa decided we were going to Oregon. She cried and begged him to let us live in Independence. They talked things out right before she took to feeling poorly. They loved Jesus and understood the importance of following Him. I’m thinking all marriages have their mountains and valleys.”

  “We’ve had ours. The mountains can be a little cold though.”

  She managed a laugh.

  He squeezed her a little tighter. “You’re too thin. I’m afraid this wind will blow you away.”

  She was tempted to give in to the gloom, but she refused. “When we get to Oregon, I’ll eat everything in sight. Most likely get fat. Then we’ll have babies, and I’ll get fatter.”

  “Babies,” he whispered. “I’d like to be a father.”

  “Good, ’cause I want to be a mother.”

  “We
can’t give up, can we, Sarah Jane?”

  She shook her head and swallowed the lump stopping her from speaking.

  “I love you more than I ever thought possible.” The gentleness in his voice made it even more difficult for her to hold her composure. “For as long as God gives us, I will be devoted to you,” he said.

  No longer able to keep her emotions hidden, she turned to him and buried her face in his chest. “You would have made it to Oregon if not for me. Dying up here is my fault. I’m so sorry.”

  “No one is to blame. We’re part of God’s plan, and I believe we will survive. Every step we take down brings us closer to warmer weather and a supply of food.”

  A wolf howled, then several more. Normally, their presence meant little to her when she sat in front of a fire. But tonight, as she faced the bleak outcome of cold and starvation, the wild animals frightened her. For a moment, she allowed the comforts of home in Nebraska to soothe her. Perhaps she needed to dwell on the promises of heaven instead.

  CHAPTER 20

  Another day’s trek downward, and Painted Hands grieved with the slow progress. Four days over the mountains had turned to seven. Too often he had to stop and rest. The slippery incline and the debris that covered the path made the going difficult. The food was gone; Sarah Jane hadn’t wanted to tell him about the shortage, but he saw the diminishing provisions. Hunting with his broken leg seemed nearly impossible unless an animal walked in front of him, and the idea of sending his wife out into the wilderness sounded just as menacing. They could melt snow for water, but how long could they continue without food?

  Snow clouds loomed overhead. Everywhere he turned, life dealt another blow. Why, Father? I’m trusting You, but our future looks grim.

  In the next hour, the snow started. The two walked as far as they could until the whirling white mass blinded them. They were forced to find shelter, this time under a pine tree. Sarah Jane gathered wood, and he started a fire. His stomach rumbled as it had for days. Tree bark had begun to look good.

  Huddled together, they watched the snow drift and blow, each flake sealing their future. He’d lost all hope, but he dared not tell Sarah Jane. He melted snow over the fire and offered it to her, but she refused. Their destiny was freezing to death or starving, whichever came first.

  “Talk to me,” Sarah Jane said, snuggling closer. “I’m sleepy and can’t get warm.”

  “Drink the warm water.”

  “I can’t. I want to sleep.”

  “Stand up. Move around. Jump up and down.” He tried to chase away the panic from his voice by replacing it with anger, but even he doubted his tone.

  “No, I can’t. I’m too tired.”

  He heard the resignation. “I won’t let you give up. What can I do?”

  “Tell me a story. I want to fall asleep listening to your voice.”

  His mind registered nothing. He couldn’t remember anything. If she’d been a man, he’d have picked a fight. “As your husband, I’m telling you to stay awake.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I can’t go on.” Her weak voice sent a streak of fear through him.

  “But you must. We can wait out this storm and go on.” Painted Hands searched for the words to keep her awake. “I’m asking for a favor, Sarah Jane. Look at me with those beautiful green eyes and call me by my given name.”

  He felt her frail frame shiver, and she positioned herself to face him. “Toby.”

  “Do you like the name?”

  “Oh yes. It’s pleasing to the ears.” Her voice grew fainter.

  “I want to name our first son Toby. What do you think of that?” His mind raced. Whatever it took, he could not let her fall asleep. Please, God, slow down the snow. Let us walk down this mountain.

  “We won’t have any children. We are going to die right here.”

  “No!” He shook her. “We are not.”

  “Please, Painted Hands—”

  “The name is Toby.” He shook her again.

  “It’s no use. Just let me be.”

  He felt tears and anger spur him on. “I thought you were your father’s child. Fight this, I beg of you! Stand up and move.”

  She slumped against him. “I’ll try.” Slowly, she rose to her feet. She lifted her arms to the sky and wiggled them, then fell beside him. “It’s too hard.”

  “All right, we’ll talk. I want to name our children, a dozen of them. The first son is Toby. What will we call our first daughter?”

  She sighed. “Lydia Jane, after my mother.”

  “Good. Another son we could call John William after your pa.”

  She nodded and relaxed against him.

  “And another girl named after you and my mother—Sarah Elizabeth.” When she didn’t reply, he nudged her. “Sarah Jane, talk to me.”

  She didn’t answer; her eyes were closed. He wanted to give up, too, but his thoughts raced in prayer. Only God could deliver them—either into His hands for eternity or through a miracle.

  Painted Hands woke with a start. He had no concept of time; he only knew the light glistening off the snow caused him to blink. Flames from the fire soared as though reaching up to the sky. The heat warmed him to the bone. How had this happened? Buffalo robes covered them. He glanced at Sarah Jane sleeping in his arms. She looked like an angel at peace, and a faint smile etched her delicate features. Her chest rose and lowered. He kissed her forehead, then her lips. Praise God, she still lived. But who had stoked the fire?

  Then he saw them. Three Cayuse Indians, a tall race who moved with grace and agility. They were dressed warmly in shirts, fringed buckskin, and buffalo and deer robes. One brought out dried salmon and breadlike cakes made from camas bulbs. Painted Hands stared up. He hoped the gratitude shone from his eyes, because he didn’t have the strength to pull out his arms to talk to them in sign language.

  Cayuse Indians. Less than a year ago, in November 1847, they had killed Marcus and Narcissa Whitman and twelve others at the Whitman mission. Growing resentment that the whites intended to take over the Cayuse land escalated when a measles epidemic broke out and killed many of the Indians. They feared the whites had brought the disease to destroy the Indians. They blamed those at the Whitman mission and took revenge. Why were they helping him and Sarah Jane now? The reason didn’t matter, only that they were there. This wasn’t the first time God had sent Indians to deliver him.

  Painted Hands attempted to move about. A Cayuse who wore a horned headdress handed him a cup of hot broth. It tasted of deer and root vegetables, like the finest of food. Slowly, his head began to clear as his body thawed. A short while later, he pulled his arms from beneath the buffalo robe and signed his gratitude to the four sitting beside the fire.

  “We are glad to have found you,” said the one who had given him the broth.

  Odd how the Indian spoke perfect English. Perhaps he’d learned from the Whitmans.

  “My wife and I had given up, believing only God in His providence could save us,” Painted Hands said.

  “God has answered your prayers.” He pointed to Painted Hands’s broken leg. “Your leg has been set straight. I believe you will walk upright when it heals.”

  A strange sensation settled on the back of his neck. By all rights, he and Sarah Jane should be dead, either from the cold, starvation, or the Cayuse—Indians who spoke excellent English and waged war against the whites. None of this made sense. Perhaps this was a dream or a passageway into heaven.

  “How did you find us?” Painted Hands asked. He felt no fear, but he should.

  “We found the remains of your wagon and searched you out,” the Cayuse replied.

  “I will be forever grateful.”

  “We will take you to the river. From there you can take a canoe to the white man’s settlement.”

  “Why didn’t you kill us? Have the Cayuse agreed to peace?”

  “Your God led us to you. We respect His power.”

  In awe of what God had done through these Indians, Painted Hands realized n
o works of man, neither good nor evil, could stop God’s purpose. Many would never believe this wondrous story, only those who also had experienced a miracle.

  “I wish I had something to give you in return,” Painted Hands said.

  “A prayer for our people is enough. We fear the whites will kill us all, and yet we must fight for our way of life.”

  “I will pray for you as long as I have breath.” Painted Hands understood the plight of these Indians, just as he’d understood the troubles of the Kiowa, Cheyenne, Pawnee, Sioux, and all the other Indians who faced the overwhelming odds of the whites seeking to occupy the Indians’ lands. He saw both sides, and it grieved him.

  “Your heart is good,” the Cayuse said, his voice strong yet gentle. “Your wife, she must eat, too.”

  “Wake up, Sarah Jane.” He kissed her forehead. “We have been delivered.”

  For the next four days, Painted Hands and Sarah Jane stayed with the three Cayuse Indians. The couple regained their strength, then started down the mountain with the Indians guiding them. Some of the trails were familiar to Painted Hands, but others were only wide enough to accommodate a walking path. The Indians provided horses and food every step of the way.

  “Where is their village?” Sarah Jane asked while they rode horses the Cayuse provided.

  “I asked the one who wears the horn headdress, but he did not answer.”

  “I am amazed you speak their language, too,” she said with a smile. “You are constantly surprising me.”

  Painted Hands was startled. “I don’t speak their tongue. They speak English.”

  Sarah Jane peered at him oddly. “But I never heard English—it was something else.”

  Painted Hands realized another miracle had taken place. Forever, he’d praise God for blessing him far beyond what he deserved.

  “Where are they taking us now?” she asked.

  “To the Columbia River, where we’ll take a raft all the way to the Methodist mission at the Dalles. The rapids are horrible, but God has brought us this far—and He will see us on to the Willamette River and the Willamette Valley.”