“Where will you go next, my friend?” Gray Wolf asked. “You are the wind, blowing over the Earth and never resting.”
“It is called Alaska. A territory far away. I want to see it.” Win suddenly had an idea. “You should come with me. It will be safe if we travel together. Wouldn’t you like to see what’s beyond the mountains?”
“You are truthful and noble. You and I will always be friends; I know this. But while your spirit has wings and flies over great distances, my spirit stays on the ground, like a wolf.” The aging Arapaho gave Win a wry smile. “Just as your heart tells you to go, my heart tells me to stay and protect my den. It is wise to listen to our hearts.”
Win had reached into his shirt then and pulled out the wolf’s tooth that he always wore around his neck. He showed it to Charlie. “See this? Gray Wolf gave this to me when I left on my first expedition. I have kept it with me all these years. It helps me be a good hunter, strong and swift, like the wolf it came from.”
Charlie looked at it carefully. “Is it magic?”
“It does have magic. When I wear it, Gray Wolf, your ma and pa, you, and James are with me, like a wolf pack, and I am not alone.”
Charlie studied the tooth carefully while Gray Wolf studied Win. “You are more like a wolf than you know. A wolf has hunting skill and speed, but he also has strong family devotion. Your heart remains divided, my friend. It flies away searching, but always returns home.” He pulled a carving from his pouch. “I made this for you.” He handed it to Win. Two complete circles, carved from a single piece of wood, intertwined with no breaks in either piece. On one was carved the footprint of a wolf, on the other, the wing of an eagle.
“Oh!” Charlie whispered. “Would you look at that! How’d you do that?”
“I will show you.” Gray Wolf smiled at the boy.
“I am honored to wear it,” Win said. It was a magnificent piece. He untied the thin leather strip that held the wolf’s tooth and threaded both wooden circles onto it. Then he retied the end and pulled it back over his head. “Thank you, my friend. It will protect me until I find my way home.”
In his Alaskan lodge, Win gathered paper and pencil. His task this winter was to record the stories of the Athabascan. He would start with the chief, a fine fellow who reminded him of Gray Wolf.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: MEG
Dawson Ranch, October 1886
Meg sat at her desk in the library and stared out into the bright sun through the open window. A sudden breeze picked up the piece of paper in front of her and tossed it into the middle of the room. She hadn’t written anything, so she simply took another from the drawer and let the first lie on the floor. This time she moved a paperweight over to trap the page on the desk. Blackie had made the paperweight for Jeb two years earlier. Business was slow and he had started experimenting with designs. This was one of his first. It had a flat, heavy piece of iron on the bottom with an elegant swirl attached to it as a handle. The swirl looked like the blowing wind. Meg stared at it, wondering if Blackie designed it with that in mind—a depiction of the very thing that made the paperweight necessary. She considered this for a long time. It kept her from thinking about the letter she had to write.
She had to tell Win that Jeb was gone. It was the right thing to do. She didn’t want to, however, for a number of reasons. The biggest reason was that it hurt too much. Writing it down somehow made it more real, a truth she didn’t want to face. She also knew her letter would bring Win home, and she didn’t want him to come. Having him visit was always a little bittersweet; she loved seeing him because Jeb enjoyed his company so much. The friendship they shared had the same comfortable familiarity that she saw in James and Charlie, and knew it was precious to them both. But he always left, which always hurt. She couldn’t bear any more hurt.
Her mind drifted back to one of his visits years ago. It was early spring, a few years before Gus died, so James must have been about nine, she guessed. The boys had been fishing at the stream and were walking back with a stringer of trout. Win showed up unannounced, riding in ahead of a thunderstorm, looking like a mountain man. He hadn’t shaved in a year, or bathed in nearly as long. With a full beard and hair to his shoulders, he was barely recognizable. He wore an enormous bear hide as a coat and a buckskin shirt underneath. His head was covered with a fur hat. He rode up behind the boys as they carried the stringer and their fishing poles home.
“Hey boys, what’s for supper?” Win called out as his horse splashed across the stream.
They both turned and saw what looked like a grizzly on horseback. Win said he could tell the moment they recognized him under the beard and furs. Grins spread across their faces.
“Uncle Win!” Charlie shouted. “Wow, you’re a sight to behold!”
James held up the stringer and said, “You look like a bear. You don’t mind if we cook these first, do you, Mr. Grizzly?”
Win threw his head back and laughed. Jeb and Gus came around from the side of the house, curious at the commotion. Meg appeared at the back kitchen door.
“What on earth?” Meg cried when she saw him. “You need a bar of soap and a razor, stranger.” She smiled broadly. “But it’s good to see you, Win.”
“I do apologize for my appearance, Mrs. Dawson. Transportation is so efficient these days. I had no opportunity to clean up first, or to warn you I was coming.” He told them he had arrived in Bozeman just in time to hear the eastbound train whistle announce its departure. Without thinking, he jumped on board and just a day later found himself at the Big Bend railroad depot. The town had little more than a livery, so all he could do was secure a mount.
The wind suddenly shifted and the smell of rain filled the air.
“The storm followed you. Let’s get inside.” Jeb slapped Win on the back.
James and Charlie dropped the fish at the back door so they could take Win’s horse to the barn, but Gus simply pointed at the fish and took the reins himself. With no more protest than a sigh, the boys picked the stringer up and headed off to clean them.
“I’ll get some bathwater heated.” Meg turned to go inside. Before she was out of earshot, she heard a piece of their conversation.
“You OK?” Jeb asked. They stood in the yard as the wind picked up. A few drops of rain fell. Win had replied, “I am now.”
The rain beat steadily on the roof of the brand new laundry room Jeb built just off the kitchen. It was large enough to hold a full-sized bathtub, plus a place to hang laundry. Meg filled the washtub as soon as Win’s bath was ready. She put up a sheet for privacy. Jeb handed Win’s clothes to Meg as Win lowered himself into the steaming tub with a gasp.
“She gets the water plenty hot,” Jeb warned Win too late.
“No fooling,” Win replied sarcastically.
“Well, it just cools down so fast,” Meg said, defending herself. “Win, you see that brush? I expect you to use it.”
“Meggie, I’m not eight.” Win sounded pestered. “When did you get so clean? You’re usually the one with grit in your hair.”
She let out an indignant cry. “Winston Avery, I can’t believe you said that!”
“Now, now, you two,” Jeb said, laughing. “Stop your bickering.”
“She started it!” Win sounded like the eight-year-old he claimed he wasn’t. Meg heard the amusement in his voice.
“Oh, now you’re asking for it.” She picked up a pail and pitched cold water over the privacy sheet and into Win’s bath. He let out a yelp, causing James and Charlie to double over in laughter.
Her smile faded along with the memory as she picked up her pen. Her chest ached. She didn’t think her heart could take any more hurt. Biscuit, then Gus. Every lost pregnancy had chipped away at her heart, and now Jeb. She put her hand on her chest, surprised to feel it beating. Finally, she began to write.
October 11, 1886
Dearest Win,
I know of no other way to write this devastating news but to state it simply and quickly. Please know that with
this letter comes my regret that we can’t be together as we grieve. I am with you in spirit, however, and my heart aches for us both.
Jeb was killed. I am barely able to put the words down on paper as the writing of it makes it too real. I am proud to write that he died fighting for what he believed in, but those words ring hollow when I think of the senselessness of it. He did not deserve this fate. Running Elk was killed, too, as was our dear Angus. I take no satisfaction in saying that those responsible were brought to justice, since Jeb is still gone and nothing can change that.
We will persevere, however. Jeb would have wanted us to, so the Dawson ranch will continue on as it has been. Wash and the boys, Anne, and I are able to get done what needs doing. I will not deny that our hearts are broken, but all of us will find the strength from somewhere to carry on.
Win, my dear friend, I hope there is someone where you are that will understand the depth of your sorrow and will console your grieving heart. Please know I am with you in mine.
Love, Meg
It was done. She sealed the letter and put it aside for Anne to mail.
Exhausted, Meg went to bed, but slept for only an hour. Then she woke and, as usual, tossed and turned until finally she got up, pulled the blanket from the bed, and went out on to the porch. There she sat until the sun came up, just like she had done every night since Jeb died.
The night when her beloved Jeb, Running Elk, and Angus died, chanting and beating drums had lasted until daybreak. Meg and the boys, with Etta there for support, sat on the porch listening to the rhythmic, earthy beat as the Arapaho built a bridge to ease their passing, linking creatures to their Creator. Now at night it was quiet. It was so dark; no moon to light the yard. It was better with no moon. She couldn’t see the charred remains of their barn that way.
Life continued, but everything felt wrong. The days just kept coming, whether Meg wanted them to or not. She often sat on the porch swing all night with a thick wool blanket around her, unable to sleep. There she’d sit until Wash emerged from the bunkhouse to care for the stock and Anne arrived with either Etta or Georgia.
Anne came every day. She said she would do so until Mrs. Dawson could manage by herself on Sundays again. Etta and Georgia took turns visiting Meg; each brought different forms of comfort. Meg wanted to slip away and not feel anything.
They both came with Anne the day Burton Cauley was brought to justice. The trial was short, and he was sentenced to hang. When Meg heard the sentence had been carried out, she made no comment, just went to her room. Etta sat with the boys at the kitchen table with Wash. Georgia followed Meg into her room, sat with her arms around her, and let her cry.
Georgia came with Anne the day after Meg wrote to Win. They pulled into the yard as Wash finished milking Sadie. He handed the pail to Anne, who turned the reins over to him and went into the house to start breakfast. Georgia sat down next to Meg.
“Couldn’t sleep again?”
Meg shook her head. “I’m waiting for something.”
“I’m glad you wrote to Win. He deserves to know.”
“I know. I just couldn’t put it into words before.”
“That’s understandable.”
Meg squinted at the mountains. “Thank you for being here, Georgia. You’re a good friend.”
“In good times and bad,” Georgia assured her, squeezing her hand. She heard the boys talking to Anne in the kitchen. Georgia didn’t ask Meg if she wanted breakfast. Georgia didn’t ask silly questions. She sat with Meg, holding her hand.
Meg wasn’t sure exactly what was supposed to happen, or how, but she was unable to move forward until it did. Every night she sat on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t work. Her mind floated in mist, seeing and hearing nothing.
Finally, what she’d been waiting for arrived. She felt Jeb sit down next to her and put his arm around her.
Meggie, rest easy. You need to sleep. All these nights sitting out here are going to make you sick.
“I need to know that you’re all right, Jeb.”
Don’t worry about me. You’ve got the boys to look after, and Wash and Anne. They all need you to be strong. They’re counting on you. I’m counting on you.
“I miss you so much. How can I go on without you?”
You just do, Meggie. You just get up and go on. What gives you strength is my love. It is with you always. It will never die.
When the sun rose that morning, James and Charlie came out and found their mother sound asleep on the porch, wrapped in her blanket. When she woke and saw them, she smiled for the first time in weeks. Everything was going to be all right now, she said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: WIN
Alaska, late Autumn, 1886
Win was recording an Athabascan fable as told by the village elder when Meg’s letter was delivered. The courier, attached to Henry Allen’s Alaskan expedition, drove his sled a half day out of his way for Win, one of the few other white men in the area. The expedition team knew of Winston Avery and that he lived in the Athabascan village. They had invited him along on their mission to explore and chart the Copper River, but he declined, saying he wanted to document the language of these people before the village children were sent to an English school.
As soon as Win saw Meg’s handwriting, dread washed over him. He hesitated before opening the letter, but not breaking the seal would not prevent whatever had happened. He opened it and confirmed with his eyes what his pounding heart and churning stomach already seemed to know.
As effortlessly as a weathervane turns when the wind shifts, as smoothly as a scale tips toward the side holding more weight, Win started to pack his things. A young tribesman who assisted Win asked what had happened. Where was he going?
Win replied in the Athabascan language, “I must go home. My family needs me. I need to go home.” He had never felt so trapped by the wilderness and in a rush to leave it.
“The last ship has sailed. No ships until spring; you know that,” the Athabascan said.
“Maybe the winds have kept the harbor free of ice.” Win shuffled his papers together.
The chief, who had the spirit of the wolf, presented him with a gift for Gray Wolf, his kindred brother who lived in the mountains in the southern lands. Win had shared many stories during his stay, and the chief gave him a necklace to give to Gray Wolf so that when they entered the next world, he would recognize him. Then he took Win’s hands in his and said that they would meet again, and wished him a safe journey.
When Win left the chief’s lodge, he found three young tribesmen waiting for him with two sleds and teams of dogs to escort him to the port. They had adventure in their eyes, eager for a reason to travel and explore worlds they’d never seen. Two of them had never been to Sitka; this was their chance. Win remembered feeling like that, long ago, when he was young. Now all he wanted was to get home. If he were the eagle Gray Wolf thought he was, he’d fly. A mere human, he accepted their offer. The dog sleds were fast, but he was too late. The harbor was frozen.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: MEG
Dawson ranch, Autumn and Winter,1886–87
The fire and the deaths of Jeb, Running Elk, and Angus were the beginning of the end for the little town of Paradise. The folks who didn’t want to live side by side with Indians had been doing business in Lyonsville for some time. Some of the old mountain men with Indian wives still came into Paradise once or twice a year to resupply, and ranchers who had hired Indians or people of mixed blood also brought their business to Paradise. Unfortunately, those few ranchers and mountain men couldn’t keep an entire town going. Mrs. Finnegan did not rebuild. She closed her shop and moved away, brokenhearted over Angus. The hotel sat empty, except for Anne. Blackie stayed, but only because he didn’t like change and because he knew how to fend for himself. Etta chose to stay in her little house. When James and Charlie started back at school, they rode the extra distance with her to a new schoolhouse that had been built closer to Lyonsville. The town of Ly
onsville kept her on, since she was the only schoolteacher willing to come to the area, but they made it clear they were looking for a new one.
Deep in thought, Meg sat at her desk in the library and pondered the future of her ranch. Without Gus or Jeb, it was her responsibility now. Anne appeared at the doorway.
“Mrs. Dawson, I thought you should know that Wash is planning to leave.”
“No. He can’t leave. We need him. Where is he?” Meg rushed out and found him at the woodshed splitting wood. Men always chop at wood when they have something on their minds, she thought, and noted the significant pile. “Wash, you’ve split enough wood to last through next July.”
Wash paused for a moment to catch his breath. “All this will be burned by spring. It will be a very cold winter. The squirrels are gathering early; woodpeckers share that tree.” He pointed to a tall tree at the edge of the clearing. “Have you not seen the rings around the moon? The season ahead will be a very cold one. You will be glad to have wood to burn.”
“Then perhaps you should move into the big house. That bunkhouse must be awfully big and empty without Running Elk. We’d save on fuel, too, with one less stove to heat.”
“You are good friend, May-g.” Wash drew out her name when he talked to her as a friend, not as his employer. It usually made Meg smile, remembering their chance meeting so long ago on the grassy plains of Nebraska. But not this time, because she knew what was coming next.
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