The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

  Dear Parris:

  I am sorry to have deceived you, but this is something I must do. You would not agree, I know, so I am taking the responsibility from you for what I plan.

  You and I have prayed much about what to do with the Mize children. I believe God gave me direction in a dream the first night I stayed with them.

  It was a simple dream, but very vivid. I saw myself and the three children huddled together in fear. We were weeping because of a dark shadow creeping toward us. The closer it came, the more frightened we were, and I began to cry out to God for help.

  Just as this huge ugly shadow was about to swallow us, I saw a man standing in the sunshine. When I looked at him, he motioned me to come, saying, “Bring the children.” Immediately I jumped up and we began to run. He kept his arms outstretched. Just as we reached him, the shadow vanished, and I awoke.

  Parris, the man in the dream was the one you described to Billy Page, the man named Winslow! He was exactly as you related—slight of stature, with bright blue eyes. He wore the English derby you mentioned, and when he lifted his hands, I saw that the right middle finger was missing.

  I am taking the children with me to the Indian village. After we have delivered the food, I will ask Fox to take me to Winslow. What he will do, I can’t say. That is up to God.

  I’m sure you think this is wrong, but I have struggled over the interpretation of the dream for several days. I must do this.

  Sincerely,

  Bronwen Morgan

  CHAPTER TEN

  “GOD BROUGHT US HERE!”

  Black Pigeon stared at the crowd gathered around the wagon, then turned his eyes to Bronwen as she stepped to the ground. She approached him slowly, allowing him to take in her appearance—white skin, red hair, green eyes. Finally he said to Fox, “What is this woman?”

  “She Jesus woman,” Fox replied. “She say she come long way to help our people.”

  “It is time white eyes help us,” Black Pigeon said abruptly. He was a clear thinker, and though he nourished a bitterness against anyone with white skin, he could see—unlike some of the more explosive chiefs—that the lands of his people were slowly being disposed of.

  “Ask her what she want.”

  When Fox relayed the question, Bron said, “I have heard that the Arapaho are hungry, so I have brought food. Accept it in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is all yours, except for the one box behind the seat.”

  When Fox translated this, Black Pigeon said, “I thank you for my people.” He turned to a squaw standing behind him and gave her orders. To Fox he said, “Who these?” He gestured toward the Mize children in the wagon.

  “Some children who have no one,” Fox answered.

  “Tell them come to my lodge.”

  At Fox’s urging, Bron spoke to the children. “Come along, now,” she urged.

  “They’ll scalp us all!” Lillian whimpered. From the moment she had discovered they were going to the Indian camp, she had been petrified with fear, and now clung to Bron’s arm.

  “Don’t be silly,” Bron chided, and the three followed her into the tepee. It was dark, and the acrid smell of smoke curling upward stung their nostrils. A hole in the peak of the tepee was directly over the fire burning in the center of the floor. Bron sat down awkwardly, and the children huddled close.

  “Tell the chief I am sorry that I don’t speak the language of his people—but say that I will soon learn.”

  Fox gave Black Pigeon’s answer. “The white eyes do not think it important to speak our language.”

  “I do!” Bron insisted. “As soon as possible the mission will be rebuilt. Then the children can learn to read and write.”

  Fox repeated this, then gave the chief’s answer. “He say it not good for our people to leave old ways. It is better for young men to hunt, not read.”

  Bron was wise enough not to point out that the old days were no more. “Perhaps there will be other ways I can help.”

  Fox spoke to the chief, then to Bron. “Black Pigeon say he remember when other Jesus people come. They say Jesus God is better than our gods.”

  “Jesus is the great God, Chief,” Bron replied. “Perhaps when I have proved myself a friend to the Arapaho, you will let me tell you more about Him?”

  Her politeness surprised both Fox and Black Pigeon. “This one is wiser than some,” Black Pigeon said to Fox in their tongue, a light of approval flickering in his dark eyes. “Say I will listen when that time comes. Now, we will eat.”

  While the meal was being prepared, Bron and the children walked around the camp, escorted by Fox and followed everywhere by members of the tribe. The food was strictly controlled and distributed fairly by Black Pigeon’s squaw. All around the camp cooking fires were glowing and the squaws laughing and talking. “It good to hear my people laugh,” Fox remarked. Some of the squaws came to examine Bronwen at close range, and the tall Indian smiled at one of the questions.

  “What did she ask?” Bron wanted to know.

  “She wonder if you white all over like on face,” he told her. When her face flushed red, he said, “White woman not like Indian. We one color—you sometime red, sometime white. Maybe something else all over.”

  Bronwen surmised he was teasing her, so smiled. Some of the smaller children edged in, and soon they had engaged Paul in a game. As they sat down and waited for the meal, Alice ran around pursuing a puppy, but Lillian stuck as close to Bronwen as possible.

  “How long do we have to stay here?” she whispered.

  “After we eat, we’ll go.”

  The food preparation seemed to take forever, and it was late by the time Fox said, “We eat now.” Bron and the children again went inside Black Pigeon’s tepee, where they were given clay bowls. Black Pigeon reached out for Bron’s bowl, dipped it into the bubbling contents of the black kettle on the fire and handed it back to her. As he served the others, himself last, Bron was faced with the problem of how to eat stew without a spoon. She watched Fox tip the bowl so the stew fell into his mouth. It was very hot, and Bron burned her lips with the first bite. The taste was good but she didn’t recognize it—something like beef stew, but stronger. She helped Alice, but the other children seemed to manage, and they all ate hungrily.

  The Indians devoured the food and refilled their bowls from the pot so often Bron knew they must have been on low rations for some time.

  Bron finished her bowl, and when Fox asked if she wanted more, she shook her head. She was still a little hungry but was reluctant to take any more in light of the tribe’s great need.

  “Your wife is a good cook, Black Pigeon. What sort of stew is it?”

  Fox asked, then when the squaw answered he turned and said, “Puppy stew. Very good.”

  Bron felt her stomach lurch, thinking of the small puppy Alice had played with, but she kept a smile frozen on her face. Lillian, on the other hand, gasped and dropped her bowl. Bronwen quickly picked it up and spoke to Fox. “Pease tell the chief that we have been honored to eat in his lodge, but we must go.”

  “You go now?” Fox asked in surprise.

  “Yes, but you must help me. We must go to the cabin of the man called Winslow. You know it?”

  “I know,” he said and told the chief.

  “Black Pigeon say too late to go. Be dark when you get there.”

  “I know, but we must. Will you take us?”

  Fox shrugged, but felt a debt to the white woman, so got to his feet. “We go quick.”

  Bron shook hands with the chief and his wife, who was much surprised. Then they got into the wagon. As Fox came back on his pony, several of the Indians clustered around, chattering.

  “They say ‘thank you’ to Jesus woman,” Fox said, then called out, “We go quick,” and led the way out of the camp down the trail.

  As they passed through the pines, zigzagging to avoid the large boulders pushing their way through the thin soil, Lillian asked, “It’s almost dark. How far is it to where we’re going?”


  Bron had no idea, but she tried to be as cheerful as possible. “Not too far.” Her own faith faltered as the darkness closed in. Back in Virginia City she had been certain God wanted her to bring the children to Winslow, but now doubts began to gnaw at her. What will I do if he refuses to let us in for the night?

  Fox kept up a quick pace, leading them across a narrow trail that overhung the sheer face of a cliff.

  Lillian cried out in fear, but Bron had no choice but to follow the Indian. When they reached safety, she murmured, “Thank you, God!”

  Fox turned his head. “Not far now.”

  An hour later, he stopped and pointed. “There is cabin.” Yellow lights penetrated the darkness. “I go now, you bet,” Fox said, wheeling his pony and disappearing into the thickets.

  “Well,” Bron said, “let’s go meet Mr. Zacharias Winslow!”

  ****

  “There he is—right in front of that old log.”

  Buck strained his eyes but couldn’t see the rabbit Zack pointed at. The two had left at two o’clock to go hunting. The game bag pulled at Buck’s shoulder, heavy with the six rabbits they had bagged. It was his first hunt, but he had shot two of them himself, and now stood there anxious for another.

  “I can’t see nothin’, Zack,” he whispered.

  “Get your rifle up. I’ll flush him out and as soon as he takes off, shoot.” Zack slowly reached down and picked up a rock, then threw it toward the old log. Before Buck’s startled eyes, what he had taken for a bunch of dried grass exploded into action—and a gray jackrabbit streaked across the broken field.

  Buck fired, but just as he pulled the trigger, the rabbit cut. There was no time for disappointment because two explosions at the boy’s side jolted him, and the rabbit dropped. He whirled just as Zack replaced his pistol in the black holster he wore. Amazed, Buck whispered, “Gosh, Zack! I didn’t know you could shoot like that!”

  “Lucky shot,” Zack said.

  But as Zack walked over to pick up the rabbit, Buck was doubtful. He knew Winslow was a first-rate shot with a rifle—but this wasn’t luck.

  “A man wouldn’t have much chance against you in a gunfight,” he said as he took the rabbit and stuffed it into the bag.

  “Rabbits don’t shoot back,” Zack shrugged. “Lots of fellows in my outfit were good marksmen. Could hit the center of the target right smart. But when the Rebs came charging across the field at us and the minie balls started whistling, some of the best shots at a target couldn’t even shoot. Anyway, this took two shots—and a real marksman needs only one.”

  “But he was moving so fast!” Buck cried.

  “Well, the trick with a rabbit—or a duck in flight—is that you don’t shoot at ’em, Buck. You shoot where they’re going to be.” Zack asked, “How many we got?”

  “Seven.”

  “That’s a lucky number. Guess we better get back and skin these critters.”

  “We going to fry ’em, Zack?”

  “Nope. I got my mouth all set for some rabbit stew.”

  As they walked back, Zack asked, “You know what tomorrow is?”

  “Why, Tuesday, ain’t it?”

  “It’s Wednesday, but it’s Christmas.”

  Buck shrugged. “Reckon it is.”

  “Don’t seem interested. Guess you haven’t been too happy at Christmas, Buck.”

  “Just another day most of the time. Once at the orphanage some people came and gave us candy and a toy apiece.” A smile lit up his face. “I got a toy dog. He was all white and fuzzy, so I named him Whitey. Used to sleep with him—” The boy broke off abruptly, shooting a glance at Winslow, but Zack seemed to be paying little attention. “Anyway, somebody stole him the next week.”

  Zack had picked up bits and pieces of Buck’s history, giving him a good idea of the barren life the boy had led. He made no comment, for he knew Buck was as sensitive as a girl. Instead he said, “You know, we ought to go toward Bannack and try to pick up an elk.” He began to make plans, being careful to treat the boy as an equal, and by the time they got back to the cabin, Buck was excited about the proposed hunting trip.

  When they got to the cabin, Zack showed Buck how to skin, clean and dress the rabbits. “Might as well save the hides. We’ll make some stretch boards tomorrow.” As they worked, Zack instructed him, “Watch for anything that looks like a big lump. A man can get Rocky Mountain fever from a rabbit that’s got a tick under his hide. Bad business!”

  When they were finished, he said, “Let’s boil these things out here in the big pot, Buck. You gather the sticks for the fire and I’ll get some seasoning.”

  “You had good luck,” Choiya said as Zack entered the cabin. She had been watching from the window and seemed angry. She was like that, Zack had discovered—calm one moment, angry and cold the next. In a flash she would turn her back and shut everything out.

  He wondered why she was angry but made no comment.

  “I cooked supper—but I suppose you don’t want it,” she said stiffly.

  Then he understood. “Oh no! You’re wrong about that! Soon as Buck and I get these rabbits in the pot, you’ll see.” He grabbed the salt and some other seasoning from the shelf and went out to Buck.

  “Get a light from the fireplace—but watch out for Choiya,” he warned. “She’s on the warpath.”

  “What’s she mad about now?”

  “Who knows?” Zack shrugged. “She’s cooked us some supper, so be sure you brag on it a lot. We’ll eat it along with this rabbit stew. Bad business having to live with a cantankerous female!”

  “I didn’t know Indian women were so fussy.”

  “They all are, boy!” Zack said, a martyr’s expression on his face. “Touchy as a blamed rattler that’s just shed his skin—the whole bunch of ’em!” His voice carried the anger he felt.

  Supper that night was strained. Choiya had tried to make biscuits, but they were a failure, tough and flat. Both Buck and Zack choked a couple down. “Need to add a little yeast to your dough next—” Zack began, then stopped when he saw the fury his advice brought. He ate some of the venison she had cooked and the stew he and Buck had prepared.

  After they finished the meal, Zack pulled out a copy of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist and sat down to read. He loved to read and thought anyone who couldn’t read was cut off from the world. Whenever he and Buck went to town, they’d bring more books back.

  The air was heavy with suppressed rage, but Zack continued to read as Choiya moved about the cabin, venting her resentment on the pots and pans.

  Buck didn’t know how to take the Indian woman, so he just kept quiet and concentrated on cleaning the rifle and Zack’s pistol. Buck and Choiya had kept their distance from the beginning, speaking only rarely.

  Zack glanced up at them, then shrugged and plunged into the book, soon lost in the misfortunes of the character.

  “What’s your book about?”

  Startled to find Buck watching him, Zack shifted in his chair, looked at Choiya who was rocking Samuel, trying to get him to sleep, and said, “Why, it’s about a boy named Oliver.”

  “Is he rich?”

  “Well, no. He’s got no father, and when his mother dies, he’s put in an orphanage. Later on he goes to London and gets in with the wrong bunch of people. They make a thief out of him.”

  Buck stared at him. “What do you want to read a book like that for? If I could read, I bet I could find a story better’n that!”

  Zack realized that Buck’s life paralleled poor Oliver’s, and he didn’t know how to answer. Finally he said, “Well, Buck, I don’t know why people write books like this. But I’ve read a few like you’re talking about, where everything always come out all right. Nobody gets hurt or dies or has any trouble.” He shook his head. “When I read that kind of book, I keep thinking, ‘But things just aren’t like that!’ ”

  “So what if they aren’t?” Buck challenged. He leaned forward, his face intent. “It’s bad enough to have to go through hard times. I do
n’t see any sense in readin’ about other people havin’ to go through them.”

  “Well, I’ve read a couple of this fellow’s books, and in both of them the hero always came out pretty well in the end.” He smiled. “I’ll let you know as soon as I finish the book.”

  “Someone is coming.” Choiya’s voice sounded a warning, and Zack jumped up and plucked the pistol from the peg. “Stay in the house,” he ordered, then stepped outside.

  He took station beside the cabin and listened. The snow muffled the sounds, but soon he heard a horse blow, and out of the darkness emerged a shape. He waited, holding the cocked gun at his side. Not Indians, he thought. But who else would be way out here this time of night?

  He waited until the shape turned into a team pulling a wagon, which stopped in front of the house. The light from the front window revealed a driver and one other on the seat, but he could not tell anything from the bundled figure. He stepped cautiously out from the side of the cabin and called, “Who are you?”

  The driver turned to face him. “I’m looking for Zacharias Winslow.”

  A woman! Shocked, he lowered the gun and peered at her. “I’m Winslow. Who are you—and what in God’s name are you doing up in these hills in this weather?”

  “May I get down?”

  “Come into the house,” he said gruffly.

  “I’m not alone. I’ve got three children with me.”

  “Just what I need,” Zack blurted out. “Bring ’em in, lady. This is Winslow’s Haven for Strays—we never close!” He knew he was behaving badly, but again he was faced with the unexpected.

  “Lillian, if you can take Alice, I’ll carry Paul,” the driver said as she stepped down.

  The young girl moved to the back, reached down, picked up a bundle, and handed it to the woman on the ground. Then she picked up another, climbed out of the wagon, and they walked into the cabin.

  The visitors huddled together just inside the door, anxiously eyeing Buck, who was still holding the rifle he had grabbed.