Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  “Barking Fox find Mister. Talk much school.”

  She straightened, looked over at Sighing Wind. “School?”

  The Indian woman nodded, scuffed over to the hearth and stirred the corn kernels that were roasting over the fire. “Him son, Running Wolf. Him come maybe yes.”

  She was to have a student? Perhaps? She seized the knife and continued cutting the carrots into large pieces. Sighing Wind’s conversation was hard to understand. She would wait and ask Mitchel at dinner tonight. Meanwhile, she would go to the schoolroom and see what supplies William had bought. She wanted to be prepared.

  Running Wolf. The name sent a jolt of apprehension through her. She had not thought of possible students as Indians…merely as children. What if those who came didn’t speak any English? She hadn’t considered that. She would have to teach them to speak English before she could teach them to read or write. Something akin to panic gripped her. She had to get to the schoolroom, devise a plan.

  She lifted the overturned crock in front of her, snatched up the large chunk of beef she’d hidden beneath it and stepped over the basket to the fireplace, dropped the meat into a large iron kettle, snagged the end of the crane with the hook and pulled it toward her. She chose her hook, settled the heavy kettle onto it, tossed in the cabbage and carrots and an onion, covered them all with water from the teakettle and pushed the crane back until the pot hung over the fire.

  Sighing Wind pulled the pan of corn kernels off the coals, lowered her bulk into the rocker and closed her eyes.

  Anne spun toward the table. She grabbed the bowl of dough out of the basket, punched it down, molded it into loaves, put them into pans for the second rising and shoved them in the basket.

  “Sighing Wind…”

  The Indian woman opened her eyes.

  She pointed to the pot over the fire. “That is Mister’s supper. Do not let anyone touch it.” She reached her hand toward the pot, slapped it with her other hand, scowled and shook her head. “Not for braves. For Mister. Do you understand?”

  Sighing Wind frowned, nodded. “Braves no eat.”

  “Yes.” She gave an exaggerated nod. “I am going to the schoolroom. You clean the table.” She waved her hand over the vegetable scraps. “For the pigs.”

  Sighing Wind huffed out a breath, nodded and closed her eyes.

  At least she had given an answer. Anne gripped the basket handle and headed for her room to get her cloak.

  Mitchel gave a firm shake of his head, pivoted and strode into the building. Please, Lord, let him accept this.

  Sharp, guttural words and the quick tread of moccasins put an end to the prayer.

  If this went badly, Hope and Anne— Almighty God, be with me! He stepped to the forge, took a tight grip on the poker, jabbed at the fire, turned and faced the Indian. “No trade.”

  Words spewed out of the warrior.

  Mitchel’s face tightened. He closed both hands on the poker, edged toward the hammer he’d been using to pound the hot metal into shape. “I’m sure your sister is a fine woman, Eagle Claw, but hear my words—I will not trade Little Crow. Not for horses, not for your sister, not for anything. Our God says that is a bad thing to do. White men do not sell their women.” He lifted his right hand from the poker, chopped it through the air to show an end to the talk of trade, then lowered it to his side, inches from the hammer.

  The Indian’s face darkened. He spit out words, grabbed the knife at his waist and brandished it in the air between them.

  Mitchel shifted his stance to hide his hand, closed his fingers over the smooth, wood hammer handle. “I do not wish to fight you, Eagle Claw. My heart is good toward you and your people, and my ways are ways of peace.” He looked straight into the Indian’s black eyes, kept his voice even and firm. “But my God is a powerful, strong God, and He is with me. You will not have Little Crow.” He raised the hammer level with his chest, held the poker ready at his side and balanced on his toes, ready to spring aside if the warrior lunged.

  Hoofs pounded against the ground, stopped outside. There was a muted thud, soft footsteps. Moccasins! He saw the knowledge of them bring confidence leaping into the brave’s eyes and braced himself.

  “You in there, Banning?” A wiry, lean form appeared in the doorway. Keen blue eyes swept the interior of the smithy, glittered with alertness when they skimmed over the knife in the warrior’s hand. The man stepped to his left, grounded his rifle and casually folded his hands on the barrel. “Go on with your parlayin’. Don’t let me interrupt nothin’.”

  Eagle Claw straightened, lowered his knife, then spun about and strode outside.

  Mitchel stepped to the door, watched the Indian leap on his horse and thunder off, the braided rawhide leads of the horses he’d brought with him clutched in his hand. “You saved my bacon, Will. Thank you.”

  Will Cooper’s lips curved a path through his dark beard. “Didn’t do nothin’ but show up. An’ seems as how you had things pretty well in hand.” He glanced down. “Break a man’s arm easy with that poker. An’ that there hammer would make short work of a knife…or a head.” He frowned, shook his head. “I see you’re still not carryin’ a weapon.”

  “I can’t very well teach peaceful ways if I go about with a knife on my belt.” Mitchel put the hammer and poker down. “Will you stay and share supper?”

  The mountain man shook his head. “Appreciate the invite, but I got to move on. Heard tell there’s some folks lost their guide and tried to come on through to Oregon by theirselves. They’re lost up in the mountains somewhere. I’m goin’ to try an’ find them. Bring them down ’fore they all freeze or starve to death. Stopped by to give you this here letter.” He reached inside his fringed jacket, pulled out a crumpled missive. “Fella at the fort give it to me.”

  He handed him the folded paper and strode out the door. “You shouldn’t go unarmed, Banning.” He mounted, looked down at him. “You’d best consider what would happen to that little girl of yours if some brave caught you out in the field with no way to defend yourself.” He lifted a hand, wheeled his horse and heeled him into a lope.

  “Stay alert, Will! Eagle Claw could be waiting in ambush.”

  The mountain man raised his rifle into the air, guided his horse onto the path that led through the trees to the rolling hills at the base of the mountains.

  Mitchel stood staring after him, a sick, hollow feeling in his gut. You’d best consider what would happen to that little girl of yours if some brave caught you out in the field with no way to defend yourself.

  Their vulnerability, surrounded by warring Indians, slammed into him with new force. Fear tightened his chest. He clenched his hands, heedless of the crunch of the letter. Life on the mission field was not as the board members had depicted it. And rules or no rules, from now on he would carry a knife. He had to live for Hope’s sake. And now Anne’s, as well. If he were killed…

  He shoved the letter inside his shirt, spun on his heel and strode into the smithy, his jaw clenched, his stomach churning. He pumped the bellows until the small, charred pieces of wood glowed red and heat pulsated in waves off them, then grabbed the tongs and shoved the piece of iron he’d been working with into the coals. It would take on a new shape now, that of a bar lock for the inside of the schoolroom door. If Eagle Claw caught Anne alone—

  His mouth went dry. He jerked his thoughts from the direction they were traveling, grabbed the bellows and pumped harder. He didn’t need this! He didn’t need another helpless person to look after and protect. He’d written and asked William to come teach at the mission, not his sister. He wanted a man that could help him, fight with him if necessary, not another burden to carry.

  He jerked the piece of iron out of the bed of coals with the tongs, held it on the anvil and beat it with the hammer, every sharp clang of steel against iron a proclamation of his frustration and fear.

  The door opened, banged against the end of the wood box. Anne jerked her head up, took one look at Mitchel’s face and ro
se to her feet. “Is some thing wrong?”

  “I thought you were in the house.” Something hit the floor with a clang. He grabbed the door, shut it none too gently. “I told you not to go wandering around by yourself.”

  She stiffened, lifted her gaze from the black iron objects at his feet. “I hardly think walking from the kitchen to the schoolroom is wandering. And I made certain there were no Indians around when I left the house.”

  His face tightened. He stared at her a moment, then gave a brief nod she took to be a concession of the point. She turned back to the trunks, lifted out another slate board and placed it on the table. That made seven. “Did you want something?”

  “Yes. I want you to obey what I say. You shouldn’t be in here by yourself. I’ve told you these Indians are…curious. One could come in here to see what you are doing.”

  Why was he so angry? She turned back to face him, holding her own rising anger in check. “I’ve done nothing wrong, Mitchel. The door was closed. How would an Indian know I was here?”

  “The same way I did…smoke.” He shot a look toward the fireplace.

  “Oh.” Her flare of temper fizzled. “I didn’t think…”

  “Exactly.” He turned toward the door, stooped, selected one of the pieces of iron and straightened. There was a hammer in his hand.

  “What is that?” She left the table, moved to stand by the woodbox where she could watch him.

  “A bar lock.” He fitted the piece on the door frame, nailed it in place, grabbed the other piece and nailed it to the door. A narrow piece of iron bar dangled from it, held in place by a nail with a flattened head.

  She watched him flip the bar up and drop it behind the bent-up pieces of iron on the lock, grab the door handle and yank. It didn’t budge.

  He nodded, turned and looked at her. “Keep this locked whenever you’re here by yourself.”

  She stared at the lock, looked up and studied his face. A chill trickled down her spine. “What is wrong, Mitchel?” She saw the small muscle along his jaw twitch, looked into his eyes and knew he wasn’t going to tell her. She stepped close, placed her fingers on the cold iron bar. “If there is danger, I have a right to know. Why do I need this lock?”

  He didn’t want to tell her. That was plain. His mouth tightened, as if to hold back words. She looked into his eyes, waited.

  “That Cayuse brave who wanted to buy you for his wife came back today. He made another offer. I told him I would not trade you for any price. That our God says it is wrong, and white men do not sell their women.” Something flashed in his eyes, too quickly masked for her to discern. “He’s not disposed to take no for an answer, and if he comes back, I don’t want him to find you alone.”

  His hard, calloused fingers brushed hers as he reached out and raised the bar, the sudden warmth of his touch a comforting contrast to the cold of the iron. His eyes darkened, his gaze locked on hers. The warmth crept from their fingers to her cheeks. She jerked her hand away, stepped back. He cleared his throat, opened the door. Cold air rushed in, sent a chill shivering through her.

  “Flip the bar in place when I’m gone. And keep it there.” He stepped outside, turned back. “If any Indians ask to come in, tell them I said no.”

  She nodded, shut and locked the door, stood staring at the iron bar and rubbing the place where his fingers had touched hers. For that one tiny instant she had felt her heart stirring…

  She frowned, shook her head and went back to finish sorting through the trunks. She pulled out two crocks of chalk, found more slates beneath them and added them to the stack on the table. That made ten slates. Or was it twelve?

  She counted the pile on the table again, looked down at the trunks, glanced at the lock on the door. Mitchel’s worries and fears for her wormed their way past her defenses, pierced her determination to not care. She closed the trunk lids and walked to the fireplace. The dough was ready to be baked.

  She put on her cloak, carried the basket to the door and reached to lift the bar. The feel of the cold metal brought the thoughts she’d been fighting swarming to the fore. She jerked her hand away, scrubbed her fingers against her wool cloak, but she couldn’t erase the memory of the warmth of those hard, calloused fingers on hers. Mitchel’s touch had penetrated the numbness she had struggled so hard to attain.

  She set her jaw, flipped the bar and stepped outside into the cold. She would have to be more careful to maintain a merely polite relationship with Mitchel. She wanted no part of friendship. Allowing others into her heart only led to pain.

  Chapter Eight

  “Me like ’tatoes wiff bwown stuff, Papa.” Hope’s head emerged from the nightgown he’d slipped over it. Her blue eyes sparkled up at him. “And bwead.”

  Mitchel smiled and eased her arms into the long sleeves. She had not cried during her bath, only whimpered a time or two when he treated and bandaged her joints. Anne’s ointment was truly a blessing. As was the supper she’d prepared. He tied the ribbons at the neck of the gown, then tapped his daughter’s tiny nose. “That ‘brown stuff’ is called gravy, Hope. And I like it, too. And the bread. Did you have honey on it?”

  She nodded, grinned. “Me like honey, too.”

  He studied her face, his heart sinking at the telltale flush on her cheeks, the feverish brightness in her eyes. Still, she wasn’t hurting as much. And she was sleeping better. And now, thanks to Anne, she was eating better, too. As was he. It had been years since he’d had any bread other than the coarse flatbread the Indian women made from ground corn. And the potatoes and gravy—

  “Tell me ’bout the aminals, Papa.”

  He smiled at her familiar request. Noah building the ark was her favorite Bible story. “All right. But first I’ll tuck you in. It’s bedtime.” He felt her hair. It was dry, thanks to the roaring fire he’d built to keep her from getting chilled while in the tub. He tugged free a long, silky curl that was caught in the neck of her nightgown, lifted her into his arms and laid her in bed, tucked the warm blankets around her. She didn’t cry out. Such an odd thing to be thankful for.

  He handed her the stick doll Laughing Rain had made her and went back to take care of the tub. “When Noah finished the ark, all the animals came in as God had commanded.” He picked up the damp towel and hung it over the edge, stared at the small tin tub sitting beside the hearth. Hope would be outgrowing it soon. Her nightgowns were already getting small for her. He would have to send word to Lieutenant Fields’s wife at Fort Walla Walla, have her make some new ones for Hope.

  “’Piders, too, Papa?”

  He glanced over at Hope, grinned at her wrinkled nose, the tiny crease between her small, arched blond brows. His daughter did not like spiders. “Spiders, too, Hope. But they were very nice spiders. They knew Noah’s wife was frightened of them, so they climbed alllll the way to the very top of the ark to build their web. And they stayed there the whole forty days.”

  He set the tub outside the door to empty later and went back to sit on the edge of her bed. “There was a terrible racket when all those animals started talking to one another! The bears growled—” He hunched his shoulders forward and hung his hands loose in front of his chest “—Grrrr! And the lions roared—” he lifted his head, opened his mouth wide and swung his head side to side “—Raarrr! And the dogs barked…Arf, arf!”

  “Do piggies, Papa!”

  “And the piggies oinked and snorted—” He sucked in air, made grunting noises deep in his throat. She giggled. A beautiful sound. “You try it.”

  She shook her head. “Me do cow…moooo…”

  “That’s a good cow.”

  She nodded, yawned. “Me like aminals, Papa.”

  “Yes, I know you do, Hope. You go to sleep now.” He watched her eyes close, leaned down and kissed her forehead. Thank You that she can sleep, Almighty God. But I pray You will heal her. Please heal her, Lord. Let her run and play again, I pray. Amen. He rose and went to empty the tub.

  The room was chilly tonight, with a da
mpness that presaged rain. Anne shivered, pressed closer to the chimney. The sounds from downstairs had stopped. The child must have gone to sleep.

  She wrapped her arms about herself and paced the room for warmth. There’d been no crying, only a few whimpers. Perhaps the sickness was a temporary one and Mitchel’s daughter was better. And perhaps she was simply trying to avoid what she knew she must do.

  Oh, why, why, why had she ended up in this situation? All she wanted was to stay numb and feel nothing. Now…

  She clenched her hands, walked to the stairs. It was quiet. Perhaps Mitchel had retired, though it was still early evening. The faint glow of lamplight on the steps ended that hope. She gripped the railing and started down, paused. He was sitting at the desk writing, his brow furrowed in concentration. Firelight flickered over his back and shoulders, gilded the crests of the slight waves in his brown hair. He turned his head, looked up at her, and she caught a glimpse of sadness in his eyes. She was intruding on a private moment.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Mitchel. Good evening.” She turned to go back upstairs.

  “Please stay, Anne. I would be glad of your company. I will finish my letter later.” He wiped the nib of his pen, stoppered the ink well and rose. “I have not had anyone to converse with during the evening hours since Paul died.”

  “Paul?” She shivered, continued down the stairs and across the room, lured by the warmth of the fire.

  He joined her by the hearth. “Paul Dodge, the man who came west with Isobel and me to start the mission. Did William not tell you of him?”

  She shook her head, ignored the pang of homesickness for her adopted brother and turned the conversation from him. “What happened to Mr. Dodge? Did he take sick?”

  “No. Two of our horses came up missing and Paul went after them. He didn’t come home.” An expression she couldn’t read flashed in his eyes. He sucked in air, looked away, stared down into the fire. “Anyway, I waited two days, then followed his tracks up into the mountains. I found his body at the base of a deep chasm. He’d…fallen off a cliff.”