A Bride's Agreement

by Elaine Bonner

  He traded their heavy Conestoga wagon for a lightweight, narrower one and purchased four oxen for the journey and fifty head of cattle. They’d have fresh milk along the way, and he imagined they’d find a way to churn butter, too. Papa claimed bountiful friends awaited them in the parade of wagons and even more once they arrived in the new territory. He planned to have a small farm on the free land, then open a mercantile. A twinge of excitement fluttered through Sarah Jane, but first Mama had to get well.

  The day wore on. Mama began to moan in her sleep, and once she called out for Papa. The delirious cries mingled with the creaks of the wagon wheels, prompting Sarah Jane’s prayers. Anxiety rose with the prairie heat. The familiar sounds of bawling cows and the shouts of men echoed against her fears. She hadn’t seen Papa for quite a while, and she needed him—his wide smile and reassurance. If only someone would ride by, she could ask them to fetch him.

  Painted Hands came into view, the man Papa didn’t trust. He rode alongside her as if escorting the wagon. Nervousness snaked up her spine. If Papa saw the scout, he might think she was encouraging him. Sarah Jane studied Painted Hands through the corner of her eye, a formidable man dressed in buckskin. He wore his walnut brown hair parted down the middle and tied on both sides with pieces of rawhide woven with brightly colored beads. If he’d have looked more like a white man or ridden a horse other than a spotted one, perhaps she wouldn’t have trembled so.

  “Miss Benson,” he said, his words slow and distinct.

  She turned toward him and willed her nerves to steady. Just as Papa had described him, he showed no trace of emotion. “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you tell me where I might find Mrs. Benson?”

  “She’s resting right now.” Sarah Jane moistened her lips. “Have you seen my papa? I need to talk to him.”

  “Your father is why I’m here.”

  Sarah Jane weakened while her heart drummed in her chest. “Is something wrong, sir?”

  He rode a little closer, and for the first time, she saw his eyes, blue like a cloudless sky, and they looked calm, not at all wild or evil. “Your father seems to have taken ill. He fell off his horse. Mr. Greenham and a few other men are with him now, but he needs to rest in the wagon.”

  She squeezed the reins until the leather dug into her palms. Without another word, she pulled out of the line of wagons and followed Painted Hands. Please, Lord. Let Papa be all right. With Mama sick and Papa not faring well, this is more than I can bear.

  Up ahead, Papa’s horse, a fine mare, stood with no rider. Some men had dis-mounted their horses and hunkered over a man lying on the ground. It must be Papa. The oxen moved at such a slow pace when she needed to tend to her father. Sarah Jane willed herself to stop thinking the worst. Perhaps he’d gotten too much sun.

  Painted Hands swung back alongside her. “Easy, Miss Benson. I’m sure your father will be fine.”

  “Do you know what’s wrong?” she asked.

  “He’s feverish. Mr. Robinson said he complained of a bad headache before he fell off his horse.”

  Her thoughts tumbled into more prayers. Too many folks had not survived illnesses along the way. “Sir, what do you think it is?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. The sun could have gotten the best of him.”

  Although she had considered the same thing, something told her Painted Hands knew more than he claimed. Despite the heat, a chill raced up her arms as though warning her of what she’d find. At the site, Mr. Greenham helped her down from the wagon.

  “Where’s your ma?” he asked.

  Sarah Jane avoided his gaze. “She’s resting in the wagon.” Suddenly, the dirt and dust from the trail settled on her lips, or perhaps the strange sensation sweeping over her was the awareness of impending adversity.

  Her gaze flew to where Papa lay so still on the hard ground that she feared he’d died.

  “Miss Benson,” Mr. Greenham said. “Your pa’s real sick. I’ll help him get into the wagon, and then the committee needs to meet.”

  She glanced up. “What do you mean?”

  “Look closer. See for yourself.”

  Kneeling beside Papa and blinking back tears, she searched his pale face. His closed eyes and faint breathing alarmed her. She held her breath. He was unconscious.

  “Has he been feeling poorly?” Mr. Greenham asked.

  “No sir.” Her mind raced. “Well, Papa’s been tired and hasn’t felt like eating—been fretting over Mama.”

  “This doesn’t look good. Might be contagious.” He nodded at the wagon. “I’d best take a look at your ma.” He strode to the rear of the wagon while Sarah Jane stayed beside her father. She lifted his hot hand into hers—waiting, praying, willing Papa to open his eyes and speak to her.

  The thud of boots alerted her to Mr. Greenham’s return. “Your mother’s unconscious, too. She’s breathing powerful hard.”

  A lump rose in Sarah Jane’s throat. “I need to go to her.”

  “Miss Benson, you’ve got your pa to look after, too. Do you feel all right?”

  His calloused words angered her. “I’m fine, and I can take care of Mama and Papa.”

  Mr. Greenham rubbed his graying beard. “Miss, let’s get your pa inside before any of these other folks stop to help.” A couple of additional men rode their way. “We have this handled,” he called. “Thanks for offering.”

  Painted Hands dismounted. “I’ll help you. Miss Benson doesn’t need to get any more worn out.”

  “You’re most likely right.” Mr. Greenham pushed back his hat. With Painted Hands, they carried Papa to the wagon and laid him beside Mama.

  “Thank you,” Sarah Jane said. “I’m sure they’ll be fine in a few days.” She walked around them to the wagon front. “I have some medicine.”

  “Miss Benson, you need to stay right here. I don’t need healthy folks coming down with fever. After the committee decides what’s best, I’ll be riding back.”

  Again he’d mentioned the committee—the group of ten men who’d been elected before the wagons crossed the Kansas River. They served as judges and jury on the journey to Oregon. Realization settled on her heart. “Are you thinking of leaving us out here?”

  Again the wagon master tugged at his beard. “I’m responsible for getting these people to Oregon safely. No one will get there if everyone’s wiped out in an epidemic.”

  “But you don’t know if what Mama and Papa have is really bad.”

  He peered at her a moment. “How old are you, Miss Benson?”

  “Seventeen, sir.”

  “I recollect a good many women your age are married with families. I’ll be expecting you to act respectful of the committee’s decision. I’ll gather the men together for a meeting at noon.”

  Sarah Jane stared at the wagon master. With no more words between them, she knew the verdict would be against her. These fine people who sang and danced to Papa’s fiddle would leave her behind without thinking twice about her plight.

  “Will you be all right?” Painted Hands asked.

  Startled, she swung her attention to the Indian scout. “I believe so. I have water to cool them off. I can make a broth—and medicine—” Embarrassed at rambling, she took a deep breath. “We’ll be fine.”

  She followed Painted Hands’s gaze to the other wagons rolling by. Women and children asked what was wrong, but she only waved back. The Benson wagon trailed near the end, and she’d soon be alone.

  “I’m not afraid,” she said and lifted her chin.

  He nodded and mounted his horse. Together, Mr. Greenham and Painted Hands rode ahead, no doubt to summon the ten men who’d decide the Benson family’s fate.

  Lord, I lied to Painted Hands. I’m scared, real scared.

  CHAPTER 2

  Painted Hands kept his distance from the ten men who would settle the fate of the Bensons. Most of them were as skittish as new colts when he stood in their midst. His buckskins, moccasins, beaded hair, and knowledge of living in the wilderness seemed t
o intrigue and frighten them at the same time. He’d heard the barbaric stories of how he’d murdered innocent folks, and he’d chosen to let them believe the lies. The Kiowa ways had become a part of Painted Hands.

  He understood the grave matter before them. These men had been entrusted with the burden of justice and well-being for the people of the wagon train. To allow the Bensons to continue endangered everyone, including their own families. To leave them behind meant certain death. He doubted if Mr. and Mrs. Benson would survive the fever. To Painted Hands, their shallow breathing marked a clear indication that death would soon claim their spirits. He’d seen the fever before, a sickness that knew neither age nor gender when it came to claiming lives. Typhoid fever. Painted Hands well recognized the symptoms.

  “What do you think ails the Bensons?” one man asked Greenham.

  “Like I said before—fever, no appetite, and just plain tired,” he replied. His graying hair and weathered skin amounted to more than a small token of wisdom, and those under his charge valued his words.

  “Do you think it’s smallpox?” The same man spoke of the dreaded plague softly, as though saying it made it true.

  “No, absolutely not,” Greenham said. “They don’t have spots. I have a good idea though. I’ve seen enough cases of them.”

  “Then tell us,” the same man said. “We have a right to know.”

  “What if it’s an epidemic that could wipe us out?” another man asked. “Do we want our families sick and dying?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think, and Painted Hands agrees with me,” Greenham said. “We ain’t doctors. We could be wrong, but it looks like typhoid.”

  A hush fell over the men.

  “I’m a Christian man,” another man said. “I’d hate to leave them folks out here to die when we could have done something to help.”

  “We’re here to vote on that matter.” Greenham stared into the faces of the committeemen. “We need to get this taken care of now. How many of you vote for the Bensons to leave the train?”

  Some of the men talked among themselves. A heated discussion rose between a man who wanted the family to stay and another who felt it best for the Bensons to lag behind. Typhoid was a cruel master.

  “Quarreling won’t solve a thing.” Greenham raised his voice. The men quieted, and seven of them raised their hands. A grim look deepened across his brow. “All right—I’ll let their daughter know.”

  Painted Hands couldn’t keep the sad face of Sarah Jane Benson from his mind. She was young and naive, destined to die on the lonely trail. Earlier, her haunting green eyes had pierced his soul when she attempted to sound brave. He admired that trait, especially when weeping and regret would not solve the problem. She stood apart from the other young women with her hair the color of sun and red clay. Loose curls framed her face, and when she walked, the prairie wind teased her hair like wildflowers tossed to and fro. And the freckles, the same color of her hair, disguised her womanhood with the look of a child. Unfortunately, her innocence was about to be taken by the committee’s verdict.

  “Are we going to leave anyone with them?” Mr. Robinson, a hearty man, asked. “Looks to me like we’re nailing down all of their coffins. If not for my family, I’d offer.”

  “I like that idea. And who would be volunteering?” Greenham asked.

  “We’d be fools,” Sanders said. He was a thin wisp of a man with a soul to match. “Whoever stays will get that fever and die; then one of us has to look after the families left behind.”

  “Aren’t you our preacher?” Greenham asked.

  Sanders stepped back. He’d just condemned himself.

  “Robinson has a point,” Greenham said. “Do any of you feel led to stay with the Bensons? You can join up later.”

  No one volunteered. The thought of Sarah Jane nursing and burying her parents sat hard on Painted Hands’s mind.

  “We’ve got loved ones who need us,” another man said. “I agree with Preacher Sanders.”

  Greenham shook his head. “So that’s your vote? The Benson wagon is cut, and none of you fine men plans to stay with them.” When no one commented, he continued. “I’ll be riding out to the Bensons.”

  “If God heals them folks, then they’re welcome back,” Sanders said.

  Now he talks of God? I don’t hear of grace or mercy. Painted Hands refused to still the anger rising in him. He knew why the men made their choice, but he didn’t have to agree with it. “I’ll stay with the Bensons.” Painted Hands stepped forward. “Greenham taught me about scouting, and I can catch up with the wagons when the sickness is over.”

  Silence fell around the small group. He had no intentions of asking for their permission—didn’t matter anyway. He’d made a decision just as they had.

  Sanders cleared his throat. “I don’t approve—a young woman with a single man. Looks bad.”

  A knot twisted in Painted Hands’s stomach. “Greenham just asked for volunteers.”

  “But he didn’t mean single men.” Sanders shook a bony finger at him. “The Bible says for folks not to be led into temptation.”

  “It also says do not kill.” Painted Hands sensed the old familiar hatred churning through his stomach. He moved closer to the skinny form of Sanders. “Your vote to leave these folks most likely sends them to their death, but if a single man offers to help, that’s a sin? Sounds like you’re a hypocrite to me.”

  “What do you know about the Bible?” Sanders clenched his fists.

  Painted Hands sneered at the pitiful creature before him. “Looks like a sight more than you do.”

  “That’s enough!” Greenham raised his hand. “If Painted Hands wants to help these folks, that’s his business. He knows this trail, been through it four times before. I can lead and scout this train all the way to Oregon if I have to.”

  “Take a vote,” Sanders said. “I say if we leave him behind, then he must marry the Benson girl proper.” He turned to face the other men. “What do you say?”

  “All right—we’ll take another vote.” Greenham expelled a labored breath. “We need to get back on the trail, and this bickering is doing nothing but slowing us down.”

  “Wait a minute,” Painted Hands said. “You’re telling me that I have to marry Miss Benson or I can’t help them?”

  The men grew quiet; murmuring rose like the sound of a bunch of clucking chickens.

  “No need to vote.” Painted Hands now remembered another reason he chose Kiowa ways instead of the white man’s. They were a stupid lot—made up rules to suit themselves and claimed to be God-fearing. In truth, they were selfish. “I’d rather bury all three of them than continue one more day with the likes of you.” He whirled around and headed for his horse.

  “Who’s going to marry you two proper?” Sanders called. “I’m a preacher.”

  Painted Hands didn’t attempt to hide his disgust. “How generous of you to offer your services, but I think the young woman needs to be informed since you good men are planning her future.”

  “Let’s ride there together,” Greenham said. “You men go on home. I think you’ve made enough decisions for one day.”

  Painted Hands grabbed his horse’s reins and swung himself up onto the saddle. He couldn’t get away from Sanders and the rest of the committeemen fast enough. Marry Sarah Jane Benson? What was he thinking? All of this because he felt sorry for the family? He knew how most folks felt about him. He lived somewhere in the world between Kiowa and white man, and the Indian side of him rubbed them like fleas in a blanket. Sarah Jane wouldn’t be any different. She’d choose to take care of her folks without his help instead of marrying him. No doubt her folks had warned her about him before the wagon train left Independence. He wondered which she’d fear more, the sickness or being bound to him for life.

  Images from the past floated through his mind. His brothers, the Kiowa, saved him from a tragic fire that killed his parents, three sisters, and a brother when he was six years old. That fire permanently scarred his h
ands and earned him his name. Painted Hands loved his life with the Kiowa, but soldiers removed him at the age of sixteen and placed him in the home of the Reverend Crandle, a godly man who lived and loved his faith. The Crandles lived near Independence and were childless. They doted on him with all the devotion they would have given to their own son. From the Reverend Crandle, Painted Hands learned about God.

  Painted Hands embraced the Christian faith, but unhappiness with the white people caused him to abandon God, His commands, and His Word. At the age of eighteen, he learned his Kiowa family had been killed in a military raid. Anger and bitterness, plus confusion as to where he belonged, confronted him every day. He left the Crandles, and for four years, he’d helped guide Greenham’s wagons over the prairie and mountains to Oregon.

  Prior to leaving Independence this last time, the Reverend Crandle told him about his brother, Jacob, who had survived the fire and settled in Willamette, Oregon. Painted Hands hoped his brother was a key to the past and hope for the future.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Greenham said once they were beyond earshot of the wagons. “I wouldn’t blame you for riding as far away from this group as you can get. I say they’re crazy. In fact, this is the last wagon train I’m leading. I’m tired of dealing with all the troubles.”

  Painted Hands laughed. “It’s my last.” He paused. “Miss Benson may be repulsed at the idea of marriage.”

  “I know, but she’d be foolish to turn you down. You’re a fine man, Painted Hands, and I’ve been honored to make your acquaintance and work with you these past years.”

  Painted Hands whipped his gaze toward the wagon master. Greenham rarely did much more than bark orders, but Painted Hands respected him. “Thank you.”