Her gust of emotion surprised the pair, but they held her for a moment, loving her, yet fearful for the future. When she stepped back, Spenlow said, “I’ll make the arrangements, Bronwen, but it’ll be like losing one of our own.”
Five days later, the Spenlows stood at the foot of Washington Street, waving farewell to the young missionary as the Liberty Belle began the journey to Lewiston. They watched until the ship was out of sight. “God be with her,” David said.
“He will be, dear,” Elsie nodded. She tried to smile and added, “God wouldn’t be so cruel as to take both of them!”
Reverend Spenlow was not at all certain as to the theological truth of her thesis, but for once he followed his heart: “No. He wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
****
The trip up river to Lewiston was exciting to Bronwen. She had a stateroom but spent most of her time on deck watching the dark forest flow by as the ship twisted and turned, following the Columbia River. Five hours out of Portland the boat nudged ashore, and she joined the other passengers in a carriage, getting aboard a smaller boat—the Abraham Lincoln. She stayed on the deck most of the afternoon, despite the cold breeze, going to the small restaurant for tea twice. At dusk the ship docked, and the purser told her, “It’s The Dalles landing.”
She got off the boat, and stood beside her luggage, not knowing which way to turn as passengers rushed by. The Dalles’ principle street paralleled a river whose lava rock margins lay jagged and black.
“Are you lookin’ for the hotel, Miss?”
She turned quickly to find a young man of about twenty-five watching her with keen brown eyes. He was just under six feet, slim, and well dressed. As he removed his hat, a large diamond flashed, and he had better manners than most of the men she’d met.
“Why, I suppose I am.”
“If you’re going up river, the boat won’t leave until morning.” He smiled easily. “You’ll need a carriage for your luggage.” He hailed one, assisted her in, and helped the driver lift her trunk into the rear. “Umatilla House,” he directed.
As the carriage rumbled along, he said, “My name is Billy Page.”
“And I’m Bronwen Morgan,” she answered. “It’s thanking you I am for your kindness.”
He cocked his head and gave her a curious look. “Not from this country, I take it?”
“No. I come from Wales.”
He studied her, trying to figure her out, but she wasn’t the sort of woman he was accustomed to. “Wales? I guess that’s England, isn’t it?”
“The Welsh would fight you over that, now!” She laughed deep in her chest. “But that’s close enough.”
“I saw you get on at Portland,” he continued. “You’re going to Lewiston?”
“Oh, much farther than that,” she nodded.
He was surprised, but asked no questions. When they arrived at the Umatilla House, he carried her small bags in, and the driver brought the trunk. When Page paid the man, she said, “I must pay half.”
He had more tact than most, for though she expected him to argue, he named half the fare and accepted it without comment. It was done easily and Bronwen knew he was a man with sensitivity.
“Will you join me for breakfast?” he asked. “We can make the trip to the boat together.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“The boat leaves at seven o’clock, so I’ll meet you in the restaurant at six.” He smiled and tipped his hat.
She arrived a little before six, but Page was already waiting to seat her. He entertained her with light talk, but said nothing about himself, nor did he ask about her directly. After breakfast they had just enough time to make the train, which ran fifteen miles around the unnavigable rapids to the landing at Celilo. There they boarded the upper riverboat Oro Fino. The boat sailed between the black walls of the Cascade Range, which gave way to the dun-colored grasslands; far ahead the silver surface of the river moved between the emptiness of a sagebrush plain.
Page saw Bronwen again at the noon meal, and at her invitation, joined her. Afterward they walked to the forward end of the cabin deck and watched the riverboat churn through shallow rapids. “You say you’re going on from Lewiston?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m going to Montana,” Bronwen answered.
“You are? I’m going there myself—to Helena,” he said.
“Is that close to Virginia City?”
“North of it.” He studied the river for a moment. “It’s a rough trip after we leave the boat. No stage makes that run.”
“How will you get there?”
“Buy a horse. It’s about the only way, I guess.” Page leaned his back against the rail, grinned, and said, “I guess I’ll have to come out and ask you, Miss Morgan—why in the world are you going to a godforsaken place like Virginia City?” His boyish charm broke through and he bantered, “Tell me to stay out of your business.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” she said, laughing. “I’m a missionary. I’m going to our mission station for the Arapaho near Virginia City.”
Doubt furrowed his brow. He hardly knew how to take her, for she was different from any woman he’d met. “Well now,” he said, “I’ve got to admire your courage. It’s a rough place in general, and the Arapaho are a treacherous band.”
She smiled and said with forthrightness, “They need God, Mr. Page—all of us do.”
He dropped his eyes and studied the deck as though doing research. “I suppose that’s so.” He found an excuse to leave, and she didn’t see him again until the boat docked at Lewiston.
It was a lusty town, she sensed as she made her way along the rambling main street lined mostly with saloons. She found a room at the Gold Dollar Hotel—unfortunately over the bar, so there was little rest from the continuous tinny piano and the shrieking laughter of women. The next day she went downstairs and asked the clerk, “How can I get to Virginia City?”
The clerk looked at her strangely. “Why, I don’t think that’ll be too easy, ma’am,” he said. “No railroad, of course—and no stage either. It’s overland all the way.”
“Could I hire someone to take me there in a wagon?”
The clerk rubbed his head nervously. “Let me see if I can find somebody. I’ll get my relief to watch the desk.”
“That’s kind you are!” she smiled.
He was dazzled by her smile, and left at once.
I guess breakfast is next, she mused and entered the restaurant. Billy Page was already eating, and when he saw her, he stood up and smiled, “Join me, Miss Bronwen. I’m tired of my own company.”
She accepted, saying, “My friends call me Bron.”
“Never knew a girl named Bron. Call me Billy.” He ordered her breakfast, and spoke of the country between Lewiston and Virginia City, then posed his questions in a way that evoked a response from her. She talked about her happy homelife in Wales, the deep green countryside, and lifestyle of her people. As she relaxed, her face softened, and she realized how much she missed it.
When she looked up, the clerk was heading for her table. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but I thought you’d need to know.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Jeb Taylor’s got a team and wagon he’d sell you, but the problem is gettin’ a man to drive you there. Don’t think you could handle that job.”
“Will you ask around for a man who’d be willing to take me?—I don’t have much money.”
The clerk was skeptical, but said, “Well, I’ll see what I can find—but men are scarce right now. Gone to the gold diggings.”
He turned and left the restaurant, and Billy said, “Bron, don’t even think about making that trip alone.”
“I may have to.”
Page was not a man who cared greatly about the problems of others, but he felt a strange compulsion to help this young woman. Without debating the matter, he offered, “I’ll drive the wagon for you, Bron.”
“Would you, Billy?” She was surprised by his offer and gave him a warm smile. “It’s k
ind of you it would be!”
Page asked, curious, “How do you know you can trust me? How do you know I won’t knock you in the head and steal all your money?”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not that kind of man!”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Yes, I know you’re kind to a girl who needs help.”
“Bron, the world will stop and roll over for a beautiful woman. You could get plenty of men to drive you to Virginia City—but they’d all want a price from you.”
She sobered and leaned forward to study his face. It was, she saw, not a weak face, but one that took life as it came. His manners with her told her that he was accustomed to being with women, and she went right to the heart of the question.
“Will you want a price from me, Billy?”
He flushed at her direct question, and gave a short laugh. “I’ve been called a womanizer, Bron—with some reason, I guess.” He sobered as he looked at her questioning face. “But you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“And so I’m not,” she said, laughing gleefully. “Isn’t it good of the Lord to put us on the same boat together, and then let us make the rest of the trip together?”
Page marveled at her simple trust. “I’d better go dicker for the team and wagon,” he said, avoiding any further theological references. “We’ll need to buy some grub and some cooking gear—and some blankets. And we better get a couple of tarps.”
“Let me go with you,” she urged, and they hurried out to collect their supplies. They spent the morning purchasing the team and wagon and the things they’d need on the trip. She took a keen interest in all of it, and as they walked about, Bron holding on to Billy’s arm, he was aware of the envious looks of other men. She was oblivious to her beauty, he thought, and totally unaware of the instant effect she had on men who had not seen a woman like her for months.
By noon they had everything put together in the wagon, and she suggested, “Why not leave now, Billy? No sense paying another hotel bill. I’ve told the clerk you offered to drive me.”
“Why not?”
They pulled out of Lewiston an hour later and camped that night in an abandoned house. It was a picnic for her, and he watched with a smile as she prepared the food as if nothing had ever given her more pleasure. After the meal, he moved to go outside to sleep in the wagon, but she shook her head, saying, “It’s cold outside. There’s plenty of room here.”
He rolled up in his blankets across the room from her, and watched as she silently read from her Bible. After twenty minutes, she put the Bible aside, went to her own blankets, knelt there for about five minutes, then lay down, saying sleepily, “Good night, Billy!”
“Good night, Bron,” he said, and wondered again at her audacity in trusting herself with a man she hardly knew.
The next day they reached the junction of the Palouse and turned northeast along a route heavily marked by travel. Two days later they were at Spokane and swung east, curling around the Coeur d’Alene Lake.
After this they left the open rolling land, with plenty of shelter in toll-ferry houses or lone horse camps, and hit the rough timbered heights of the Bitterroots. They forded creeks and slipped through deep mud. Five days out from Lewiston, they arrived at the summit of the Bitterroots and reached the St. Regis River. It rained that night, and they made their beds inside the wagon, wrapped in the tarps they had bought.
They followed the St. Regis, passed Hellgate, and soon saw peaks showing white high above them. At Deer Lodge they swung south, and ten days from Lewiston the country fell into long rolls. “That’s Virginia City over there,” Billy said.
At daybreak they were on the trail, and camped that night on the Beaverhead. As they sat around the campfire, she asked, “Billy, what are you looking for?”
He grinned, his teeth white against his tanned cheeks. “I guess I just want to be rich and famous,” he joked. Sobering, he said, “I don’t know, Bron. Never think about such things. I want to have enough money to do what I like. A good meal, some nice clothes—a fine horse.” He sipped the strong coffee, and gave her a direct glance. “I guess you think I’m a pretty worthless character.”
“No. You’re not worthless.” Bron hugged her knees to her breast, and her eyes were green as glass by the light of the fire. “Jesus died for you—so that makes you worth more than anything in the world.”
He studied her in silence, for she spoke often of Jesus—something no other person he knew had done. The fire crackled and popped and he shook his head. “You’re something, Bron! What about you? What do you want?”
“I want to bring the gospel to the Indians.”
“But is that all? Don’t you want a husband and a family?”
She sat very still, lifted her face to the sky, and spoke haltingly. “I—I don’t know, Billy. I had a man. We were to have been married when I got to Portland. But he died.”
He had not known this, and considered her with a new interest. “You loved him?”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly, and then said, “Yes, I did love him. I don’t think I’ll find another man to take his place.”
“Makes it hard on the rest of us,” Billy said.
She shook her head. “Good night, Billy.” She rolled into her blankets and soon heard his regular breathing, but she did not sleep. She thought of Owen—his smile, his ready laugh, and his deep faith. “Oh, Owen, my own!” she whispered. “How can I go on without you?” She tried to pray, but for some reason it was difficult, and finally she fell into a fitful sleep.
The next day Billy drove the wagon down the drab and lifeless main street of Virginia City. “Let’s go see Parris Pfouts,” Billy said. “He’s always trying to get a church started—so he’ll know about the Indian Mission.”
He pulled up in front of a store, leaped down and tied up the team, then helped her down. They entered the store, and Billy said, “Parris, come here. Got someone for you to meet.”
“Ah, Billy—you’ve come back.” The man shook hands and then looked inquiringly at the young woman. “Did you bring a bride back from Portland, Billy?”
“No such luck! This is Miss Bronwen Morgan. Miss Morgan, meet Parris Pfouts.”
“It’s happy I am to know you, Mr. Pfouts,” Bronwen smiled at the merchant.
“She’s come to work in the Indian Mission,” Billy informed Pfouts. “Got all kinds of supplies and is raring to go.”
The smile fell from Pfouts’ face, and he said, “I’m happy to meet you, Miss Morgan. I’ve been waiting a long time for the missions board to send some workers, but—”
He hesitated, and Bronwen asked, “Is there a problem?”
Pfouts bit his lip and nodded. “I’m afraid so. Two months ago there was a fire at the mission.”
“I see,” Bron said. She studied his face. “How much damage did it do?”
Pfouts coughed and shook his head regretfully. “Everything is gone—the buildings, the supplies—everything.”
“How’d it happen?” Billy asked.
“Nobody really knows, but it could have been a band of wandering Cheyenne. They’ve been feuding with the Arapaho, and it’s the sort of thing they might do.” He shook his shoulders and a smile came to him. “But there’s plenty to be done, Miss Morgan. It’s been hard trying to get a church going here, but you’ll be a great help.”
“It’s glad I’ll be to do what I can for the church here, Brother Pfouts,” Bron said. “But God called me to go to the Indians—and to the Indians I will go, God be praised!”
Billy laughed at the expression on Pfouts’ face. “She’ll do it too, Parris! Those poor Arapaho don’t have a chance against this lady preacher—buildings or no buildings!”
“God is more than a building, Billy,” Bron smiled.
Pfouts thought, Watch out, Montana. You’ve never seen the likes!
CHAPTER NINE
BRON’S DREAM
Billy Page beat the heavy snows by only two days. Had he not acted on
his whim, the passes would have been closed. He had racked in a big win in a poker game in Helena, and decided on the spur of the moment to visit Virginia City to see how the lady preacher was doing. Despite the warnings of the stablehand about the impending blizzard, Billy saddled up and set off. He often acted on impulse, for he was a restless man, never satisfied to stay long in one place.
He circled around Elkhorn, rode through Homestake Pass, then followed the trail that paralleled the Ruby River. The Tobacco Roots shouldered their way upward in an ominous fashion, outlined against the somber gray sky that gave birth to the blizzards which sometimes raced across the country killing every living thing. Once or twice he thought how foolish it was to travel in such weather, well aware that many men had died when caught in the open by a blizzard. But that knowledge had little effect on Billy, for he was a man who had little fear of danger—in fact, he cared little for most things. If death overtook him, it was his time to go, and life was too short for a man to waste it hiding in a hole, dreading things that might never happen.
When he rode his horse into the stable, he knew he had pushed his luck almost too far. Boone Helm, the burly owner of the stable, called out, “Where in blazes you ride in from, Billy?”
“Helena,” he said, his lips so numb he could hardly frame the word. Page had difficulty getting out of the saddle. His legs refused to obey his command, and when he finally struggled to the ground, they bent like rubber.
“You’re crazy,” Helm said, taking the reins of Billy’s horse. “If you’d got caught out there, you’d be dead meat.”
“Didn’t get caught,” he answered with a faint smile. He turned to go, then asked, “That girl still here, Boone? The one I drove in from Lewiston?”
Helm nodded glumly. “You should have left her there.”
“Why? What’s wrong with her?”
Helm stripped the saddle off the horse, cursed, and gave Page an angry look. “Thinks she’s too good for a man,” he snarled. “Going around preaching in saloons and handing out Bibles!”
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