“You won’t die?” Sky asked cautiously.
“I may get sick,” Chris answered. “Don’t know about that. But God has assured me that I’ll live.”
Sky’s eyes traveled from his father’s face to the wounds on his arm. “Your God is strong, my father!” he whispered.
“Come here, son. Sit down by me.” Sky sat down, and Chris put his arm around the boy’s sturdy shoulders. Neither of them spoke for a long time. After several hours, they heard the sound of the wagons approaching.
“Don’t tell them about the snake,” he warned Sky. He had vomited twice, and once he had a spasm of trembling in his body; but through it all he had simply praised God for sparing his life. “This time was for you and me, Sky,” he said.
“I won’t tell,” Sky promised. “I—I am glad you will be all right. And I’m glad you are my father!”
Chris reached out and took the boy in his arms, and he felt Sky’s arms slip around his neck. “I missed out on your babyhood,” Chris said huskily. “You’re growing up, son—soon you’ll be a man. So I’ll tell you this now, and if I never say it again, you remember it: I love you very much!”
The boy’s face was pressed against his chest, but Chris could just make out the muffled response.
“I love you, my father!”
Everyone soon knew about the cuts in his arm, but Chris passed it off lightly. “Just cut myself with my knife.”
Dr. Spencer took one look at the twin lacerations on the arm and looked up in alarm. “Snakebite? Was it bad, Chris?”
“God healed the snakebite, Doc,” Chris replied. “Just put something on the cut—and forget what you saw.” He noted the puzzled look on Spencer’s face, and added, “It was something just for me and my son, John. Just for us!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TWO PROPOSALS
“Nathan!” Julie ran down the road, waving an envelope in her hand, her face beaming with excitement. “A letter from Christmas!”
“Is he all right?” Nathan dismounted his horse in a swift movement and took the envelope. “You haven’t opened it?”
“I wanted us to read it together. It’s cold outside—let’s sit at the table where we can both see it.”
Fall had held fast to Virginia that year, but now the hint of snow was in the November sky, and the wind had sharp teeth that bit at the face. Nathan followed her inside and they sat down at the table, both of them anxious as he broke the seal and pulled out two letters. “One from Chris and one from Missy!” Julie exclaimed, peering at the handwriting. “Thank God they’re both all right!”
“Which one should we read first?”
“You choose.”
Nathan picked up the thinner of the two, smiling nervously as he did. “Just like always—a woman talks more than a man.” She noticed that his hands were not as steady as usual and her own heart was beating fast. They had heard nothing since the exodus of Chris and the Greenes, and both of them were well aware of the high mortality rate of westward movers. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, laid it flat on the table, and Julie put her arm around him, moving closer and peering at the writing.
13 September, 1811
Knox Mission
My dear Parents,
I know you will rejoice to hear that we made the journey safely. It was a difficult trip, but our God is good! There were many hardships, but the Lord protected us, and by His grace none of us were lost. Blessed be His name!
We arrived at the Yellowstone on the last day of August, but after prayer, we concluded that a better place for the mission would be on the banks of the upper Missouri. I submitted to Brother Small, the head of the work, that the fort Knox and I had built there on our first trapping expedition would be more central to various tribes, and he agreed to my suggestion. We moved on to the old fort, and I asked that it be named Knox Mission, in Knox’s memory, and that was acceptable also.
The large central building was gone, but the walls were still in place. We put new gates on and worked like madmen to get winter quarters up. As I write this, the shakes are going on what will one day be our church and school. This winter it will be our living quarters as well, for bad weather is on its way. We have partitioned it off into two sections—one for living quarters, the other to serve as school, church, and a hospital for Dr. Spencer. Come spring, we will build cabins for the families, and I think we should build another structure for trade. As I have told you, the Indians are robbed blind by traders, and I want to start a place where they can get a fair price for their furs.
I am well, though a bit thinner than when I started out. Missy, Caroline, and Asa did well on the journey, and seem to be very happy.
You will be pleased to hear that Sky has come out of his shell! We are inseparable now, and I thank God every day that I have my son back once more—in the truest sense!
I regret to say that Dove is very ill again. The trip overland was too hard for her, and she has been confined to her bed since we arrived. Dr. Spencer offers little hope, but I know that God is our healer, so I ask both of you to continue to pray for her—as I know you do.
Frenchie Doucett came by yesterday with a load of furs. He will take this letter to St. Louis, and see that it gets to you as quickly as possible.
Missy has added her own letter, which I enclose. She has been a constant nurse and companion to Dove; I do not think Dove could have lived if it had not been for Missy’s care.
Your loving son,
Christmas Winslow
Nathan stared at the letter for a long moment, taking it all in. Finally he said, “Thank God they made it!” He opened the other letter and handed it to Julie. “Writing’s too small—you read it out loud.” Julie took the small sheaf of papers and began to read:
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Winslow,
“I know that Chris has not told you much about our trip. He is not one to speak a lot of himself, but I want you to know that without him, we all would have died on the trail. He was the only one of us who knew how terrible it would be, but when the decision was made, he chose to go along. Let me tell you how he saved the wagon train....”
Julie read steadily, and Nathan leaned forward, absorbed, as the terrible ordeal came to life. Missy was a gifted writer, and the stark hardships of the last days of the harrowing journey seemed to leap before his eyes: hunger... thirst... dying cattle... the courage of some and the fears of most were all recounted. By the letter’s end it was clear to his parents that Chris had been the single driving force that got the wagon train started in the mornings. Finally Missy ended her letter:
“... As much as Chris did to save us from death on the trail, I must tell you that his faith bolstered our sagging spirits even more. We have had services for the Indians since we reached the Yellowstone, and he is a wonderful preacher. I cannot understand the language, of course, but the Indians never take their eyes off him! He is well known among all the tribes, and they cannot believe that a mighty warrior would preach of a gentle God of love. Many have trusted in Jesus under his ministry.
“He is willing to interpret for the others, and I suspect (you must never repeat this!) that many of the sermons he interprets into the Indian language are ‘improved on’ greatly from the original!
“I close with a plea that you pray for White Dove. We have become sisters since she accepted Christ. I had learned to love her even before this happened, but now it is doubly hard to see her going down with this dreadful sickness! Pray much!”
Julie smoothed the sheets out carefully. She knew Nathan, too, had been touched deeply. Without looking at him directly, she leaned her head over to rest on his shoulder. “I’m so proud of him!”
Nathan put his arm around her and drew her close. “So much has happened since I held that little morsel of humanity in my arms for the first time!” She nodded, and he mused, “Been a long road since Valley Forge, Julie. Lots of times I’ve doubted—but you never did. You always said that God would make a preacher out of our boy.”
> She pulled away, brushing a few tears from her eyes. “We must pray for Dove,” Julie said slowly, “and we must also pray for Missy. She’s done a brave thing, Nathan.”
He sighed heavily. “Never heard of a woman doing what Missy’s done, the way she loves Dove. Giving up her man to another woman—then loving her like a sister.”
“Let’s pray—I don’t know what to ask, but the Bible says that ‘the king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord.’ If He can move the heart of a king, He can bring good out of this, too!”
Snow was falling as Missy made her way down the path from the mission to the river. The skies had been steel gray all day, and now the flakes fell gently to earth as if a giant had dumped a mammoth basket of tiny white feathers from somewhere high in the heavens. The chilling blasts of wind kicked up, taking Missy’s breath away and sending the flakes swirling like miniature tornadoes of white dust, embalming the dead land in a thin coat of white. By the time she reached the river, the snow was coming down hard. Flakes as big as the tip of her forefinger fell heavily on her face, biting her skin with hot-cold sensations, and she was glad to see Chris standing beside a big tree, staring out at the river.
“Christmas!” she called out, emerging from the line of trees. He turned at once toward the sound of her voice. Snow lay thickly on his reddish hair, for he had removed the round trapper’s cap that he usually wore. He came here almost every day to pray, and she knew that the body of his brother lay buried somewhere nearby, though there was no marker.
“What’s wrong?” He picked up his rifle and came to meet her, his eyes searching her face.
“Running Wolf is here. He’s brought one of his young men with him who’s sick. I think his name is Little Crow.”
“I know him. What’s wrong with him?”
“Dr. Spencer can’t make it out. He wants you to come and interpret.”
“All right.” He fell into step beside her, and they made their way away from the river, their feet making no sound on the soft snow. He listened as she told him what little she knew of the Indian’s problem, at the same time his eyes never ceased scanning the area as they walked through the forest.
When she finished, he was silent for a moment and seemed to be thinking about something else. At last he said, “We’ll be snowed in for a time—hope we don’t get cabin fever. I shared a cabin with Bill Sublette one winter. Always liked Bill, but in such close quarters, by the time spring came I was ready to scalp him!”
“Why was that?”
“He cracked his knuckles all the time,” Chris grinned. “Guess by the time spring comes, I’ll know all your bad habits, Missy.”
“I already know most of yours,” she shot back.
“My bad habits?” he asked in mock surprise. “Didn’t know I had any.”
“Come spring I’ll have brought them all to your attention.” She thought about it, then said, “It’s going to be hard—all of us living together. Like a big family, I guess, but even that’s not always easy.”
“We’ll be all right.”
They said nothing more for a quarter of a mile; it was a silent world they moved in. A doe suddenly sprang up from where she’d been lying, startling Missy. Chris had been carrying his rifle cocked and loaded. Now he swung the weapon up with a hunter’s instinct, following the beautiful bounding flight of the animal, and pulled the trigger. “No!” Missy cried, pushing his arm with all her might. The weapon exploded, sending the ball whistling harmlessly through the dead leaves of an oak. Chris whirled and looked at her angrily.
“Why’d you do a fool thing like that?” he demanded indignantly. “We could have used the meat!”
Wide-eyed, Missy watched the deer disappear into the underbrush, and then put both hands over her face. He saw with a shock that her shoulders were heaving, and the sound of her muffled sobs broke the quiet of the forest.
“Why, Missy—it’s nothing to cry about!” he protested. She didn’t move and though he was concerned, he didn’t know what to do about it. Uncertainly, he laid the rifle against a small tree, walked softly to where she stood, and tipped her chin up with his finger. Her lips looked very red against her cold skin, and tears glittered on her long lashes before they fell and ran down her smooth cheeks. “Missy, you don’t have to cry,” Chris soothed quickly. “It’s not important—one deer.”
She reached up and dashed the tears from her cheeks, taking a deep breath. “It’s not that, Chris. When I eat deer steaks, I know where they come from.” Then she shook her head. “It’s not the deer—it’s Dove.”
“Dove?” Chris asked, confused. “Is she worse?”
“She’s worse every day!” Missy cried out, and there was a streak of anger and frustration in her voice. “You know it’s so—we all do! Every day she gets a little weaker. I was with her before I came to get you, Chris, and it broke my heart! She’s so frail!”
Not knowing what to say, wisely Chris said nothing. “Let’s go back,” she sighed. They made their way back to the grounds and passed through the gates to find the two Indians along with Running Wolf’s squaw, Still Water, inside with the doctor.
Running Wolf nodded, the puckered scar on his face giving him a twisted smile. “Bear Killer is here.”
“What’s wrong with Little Crow?” Chris inquired. He glanced at the young Indian, who was holding his stomach as he sat in the handmade chair.
“He got some bad whiskey from a trader.” Running Wolf reverted to speaking in Sioux. “At first he said he got some bad meat—but my woman got the truth out of him.” He turned to Little Crow, “You are a big fool.”
Little Crow nodded miserably. “No more whiskey for me!” he vowed.
Chris, realizing that the sick Indian was only Running Wolf’s excuse to make a visit, explained the problem to the doctor, who shook his head. “Can’t do much for a hangover. Some of that whiskey is enough to make a man go blind!”
Chris spoke to his Indian friends in Sioux. “I brought down an old buffalo day before yesterday. You two can stick around and try to chew a little.”
The snow continued to fall, and the women busied themselves with cooking dinner as the men fed the animals and cut more wood. “Let’s have a meeting tonight,” Chris suggested to Small. “Won’t hurt to get a little of the Word of God into the chief.”
“I can’t preach to them,” Small grumbled. “They’ve all got faces like stone! Can’t tell what they’re thinking. You take the service.”
The snow piled up and the temperature dropped outside, but inside it was warm and cheerful. Chris carried Dove to the eating area, placing her in a chair and wrapping her with blankets. “You and Still Water can gossip before we eat.” He told her affectionately, then hesitated before he asked, “Do you feel any better?”
“I’m all right—and it’s good to be here with you and the others.”
Instinctively, he knew she was feeling very bad, but he touched her hand, saying, “I’ll see you get some good broth.”
The room was barely large enough for them all, but there was a festive air as the meal preparations were completed and they sat down—elbow-to-elbow—to eat. Running Wolf and his woman sat side by side across from Missy and Brother Small. When the minister asked the blessing, the Indian listened carefully, his eyes never wavering from Small’s face.
After the meal, the women cleared the dishes away, and the men made a small space at one end of the room. Barney Sinclair produced his fiddle and began to play, and soon the rich tenor of Robert Tennyson filled the room as he led them in many hymns. After Brother Small led in prayer, Chris got up and announced with a twinkle in his eye, “Brother Sinclair will read the Scripture.”
Barney, who had been sitting with his Bible on his lap, turned pale as paper at Chris’s words. He shot an agonized look toward Caroline, shaking his head, but she was forming the words with her lips: “Read, Barney!”
He got to his feet, and Chris said, “Our text will be the first sixteen verses of John three.” He suppress
ed a grin and winked at Barney, for he had heard Sinclair reading this passage over and over until he had it memorized.
Barney read it and sat down, glancing covertly at Caroline, who was beaming at him with pride. Then Chris preached a simple gospel message from the text just read. He avoided looking directly at Running Wolf as he spoke of how Jesus had to take the old man out and put a new man in. “Ye must be born again,” he repeated over and over, praying that some of the truth would break through his friend’s stolid countenance.
Afterward there was a time of talk, for it was early and there was no other place to go now that the weather had closed in. Soon the young ones were sent to bed, protesting, and those who remained divided into small groups.
Dove was tired, so Chris took her back to their tiny room, and she was asleep almost before he left the room. He went to sit beside Running Wolf, who gazed at Chris through inscrutable eyes. “There is trouble, my friend,” he murmured. “I have heard that Black Elk has vowed to kill you and take back White Dove and the boy. He says you are a thief and he will have your scalp.”
“I will not kill him,” Chris responded firmly. “It is not the will of my God that I kill anyone.”
“You will kill him—or he will kill you.”
Chris could think of no way to explain his position as a Christian. To Running Wolf, it was all very simple.
“I will ask my God to bring peace with the Pawnees,” Chris said at last. “That would be good for your people, Running Wolf.”
“That will be the day I believe in your God, Bear Killer,” Running Wolf replied slowly. “The Pawnees and The People have always been enemies.”
Missy had been sitting on a stool between Ellen Schultz and Lorene Spencer. Their conversation wound down, and the married women got up and went to their tiny cubicles. After they had gone, Missy was surprised to find Aaron Small beside her. “May I join you?” he asked.
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