Frontier Father

by Dorothy Clark

  The child…your daughter… The flare of hope fluttered and died, left disappointment, an unexpected bleakness in its place. So much for the foolishness of dreams. He turned and strode into the kitchen to make sure the door was barred.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mitchel yanked down the brim of his hat, lifted his head and scowled at the white flakes swirling on the wind. They were coming faster, would soon cover the ground. He should ride out and check on the heifers and their calves. He should. But he wouldn’t. It was too far.

  He pulled the collar of his buckskin jacket up around his neck, grabbed another piece of split wood off the wagon and slapped it onto the stack in the sheltered corner between the Indian room and the front door. With no help around the place, he had his hands full caring for the stock and keeping the woodpiles for the fireplaces full. He’d stacked the wood for the kitchen yesterday. This afternoon he’d refill the stack by the schoolroom. At least the work kept him close to the mission house and—

  He jerked his head up, listened. Hoofbeats, coming fast. His stomach knotted. He loosed his jacket, checked his knife and stepped out in front of the building where he could see who was coming. Please, God, be with us.

  The horseman emerged from the trees that lined the trail that led to the hills, thundered toward him, the tails of his covering blanket flew in the wind.

  Red Squirrel. The son of White Cloud’s dead brother. A friend. The knots in his stomach eased, tightened again as the brave jerked his horse to a stop and leaped to the ground in front of him.

  “You come! White Cloud him much hurt. Him want talk in your ear. Hear words of Almighty God before him die!”

  His heart lurched. “Chief White Cloud is hurt?”

  Red Squirrel nodded, lifted his arm and pointed back the direction he had come. “Him on trail. Bad hurt. You come!”

  “I’ll saddle my horse.”

  Mitchel turned and ran for the stables, swerved to the schoolroom, opened the door. “Anne, White Cloud is badly injured on the trail. He sent Red Squirrel to bring me back.” He stared at her startled face, saw fear shadow her eyes. “It’s all right. He wants me to pray for him. If it’s possible I will bring him back here to the mission to care for him. There are no Indians around, or—”

  “I understand, Mitchel. White Cloud needs your help. Go.” Her hand lifted, made a little pushing motion in the air.

  “I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He yanked the door closed and ran to saddle his horse.

  Anne took a deep breath, squelched the apprehension flooding through her. Mitchel would not leave if there were any danger. He’d told her Chief White Cloud was one of the few Indians who had accepted the message of salvation. Surely the chief would not endanger Mitchel’s life.

  A spate of Indian language broke through her thoughts. She pulled her attention back to her teaching.

  “That is enough, Running Wolf. You are to speak English.” She glanced at Iva, looked into her bright blue eyes. “And you, Iva, are not to translate for him. Why did you do so?”

  Iva straightened, lifted her head. “You spoke with excitement, and too fast for Running Wolf to understand. He wished to know what was said.” The little girl looked abashed. “I thought the rule not to translate was for schoolwork.”

  “I see. Well, as long as it does not happen again.”

  She shifted her gaze. “From now on, if you have a question, Running Wolf, you are to ask me, not Iva. Do you understand?”

  The boy stared up at her, nodded. But there was a pensive look in his eyes.

  “Is something troubling you?”

  The boy frowned. “Iva say Mission Man go help Chief White Cloud. She say Mission Man bring Chief mission to—” He looked at Iva, grunted out words.

  The little girl pressed her lips together, shook her head.

  “To take care of him!” Kitturah’s eyes widened, she clapped her small hands over her mouth and pressed her forehead against the bench-desk.

  Anne repressed a smile, laid her hand on Kitturah’s head, snatched it back at the feeling of fondness the touch engendered. “It’s all right, Kitturah. But do not do it again.”

  She turned her attention back to Running Wolf. He was still frowning. “What troubles you?”

  “Does Iva speak truth? Does Mission Man bring Chief White Cloud to mission to make better?”

  “Yes. Of course. Chief White Cloud is Mr. Banning’s friend. Mr. Banning will do all he can to help your chief heal from his injuries. It is what friends do. They help each other.” She studied the young boy’s face, tried to discern his thoughts. “Why do you doubt this, Running Wolf? Mr. Banning helps all who come to him. Does he not give your people food in the winter when the game is scarce, and the braves cannot find meat?”

  Running Wolf nodded, stared at her, his expression intent, his gaze unwavering. It was as if he were absorbing her thoughts.

  “Have you another question?”

  “You tell Mission Man go help Chief?”

  “Well, of course. He’s injured.”

  “Him Indian.”

  She stared at him, taken aback by his tone. “That is not important, Running Wolf. Chief White Cloud is a man who needs help. Mr. Banning will willingly give him that help. And so will I.”

  She turned her thoughts back to her teaching before the interruption. “Now, to continue our lesson.” She lifted her slate. “Kitturah, please tell me the names of the letters as I point to them.”

  Mitchel shivered, ducked his head against the onslaught of wind and trotted his horse after Red Squirrel’s appaloosa. The snow came faster as they climbed. Here in the hills it already spread a white blanket over the ground.

  He stared at the snow, hoped the chief had a warm blanket to cover him. How serious were White Cloud’s injuries? Would the chief be alive when they reached him? Would they be able to move him to the mission house?

  His horse lunged up a steep rise, found its footing and trotted on. How much farther? They had come a good distance already. He looked up to ask, found Red Squirrel had stopped his horse across what looked like a footpath that branched off to the right. “No go here. There.” The brave waved his hand ahead.

  Mitchel drew rein, stared at the path behind the brave, wondered at its destination. “Where is Chief White Cloud?”

  “Him at big rock.” Once again Red Squirrel pointed ahead.

  Mitchel stifled a twinge of unease, nodded and urged his horse up the steep path, looked around. The unease grew to wariness. He’d never been this way before, but the country looked familiar. He studied the way the trail ahead narrowed and wound around a sharp curve in the hill, tensed. It was a perfect spot for an ambush. Is that why Red Squirrel had dropped behind him? To close off any possible route of escape?

  But Red Squirrel had always been friendly. Was he only imagining possible treachery because of the situation? Or was it real? Alarm streaked through him, settled in his gut. Was this a ploy to get him away from the mission while the Cayuse attacked? No. What would be the purpose? They wanted revenge and Halstrum had not returned. Or had he? Was he even now on the trail to the mission? The Cayuse had been watching the fort. They would know. And if it were true—

  Almighty God, be with me! He shifted in the saddle to camouflage his movements, slid his left hand beneath his jacket and drew his knife. In a slow, easy motion, he reached forward, transferred the knife to his right hand and took a firm grip on the reins with his left. One war whoop could frighten his horse into a lunge that would carry them both over the edge onto the rocks below.

  Is that what had happened to Paul?

  Another shiver shook him, and this one not from the snow and wind. This was from a chill deep inside. That was why this country looked familiar. It was not the same path, but this was the area where he had found Paul. He adjusted his feet in the stirrups, shortened his grip on the reins and clenched his jaw. If he were ambushed, by God’s grace, he would be ready.

  Chapter Sixteen

 
“And now it is time to practice our numbers.” Anne pulled a stone from the drawstring bag, placed it on the desk table in front of the children. “How many stones are on your desk? Please write the number on your slate.”

  She checked each answer, nodded and smiled. “Very good. One is the correct answer.” She drew out another stone and placed it by the first. “And now how many stones are there? Count them and write the answer.”

  Kitturah frowned and gripped her chalk. It screeched against the slate as she drew the number two. She shot a surreptitious glance at Iva and grinned.

  Iva frowned and shook her head, the black loops of her braids swinging against her beaded tunic.

  Anne repressed her own grin. She had little to do in the way of discipline for her youngest student. Kitturah’s older sister kept her well in line. She checked all the answers and nodded. “You are all correct. Now listen carefully, for I am going to teach you to add numbers as white men do.”

  Running Wolf straightened, fixed an intent gaze on her.

  She picked up the stones. “To add numbers is quite simple. But you must understand the word plus. All of you, say plus.”

  They chorused the word.

  She nodded. “Plus means to add. Thus—” she laid down a stone “—one stone, plus—I am adding another—” she laid down another stone “—one stone, equals two stones.” She repeated the cipher, touching the stones as she spoke. Three frowns greeted her when she looked up. “All of you, hold out one hand to me.”

  Three small hands were extended.

  “Now hold out your other hand.”

  “How many hands have you?”

  “Two!”

  She smiled at their excited answers. “Yes. One hand, plus one hand, equals two hands.” She picked up her slate and drew the numbers as she spoke. “One, plus—” she made the plus sign “—one—” she drew the line beneath them “—equals two.”

  There was a clatter of hoofbeats, the rumble of wheels outside. She stiffened, listened. Mitchel must have come back to get a wagon to use to bring Chief White Cloud to the mission. “Copy the cipher on your slates three times, children.”

  She went to the small window at the end of the room, but could see nothing but falling snow. Would Mitchel return before night fell? Or would she be left alone with his child? She thrust that thought from her mind. It didn’t bear thinking on.

  Cold radiated off the small, glass windowpanes. She cast another look out at the snow, shivered at the thought of Mitchel being caught out in the storm. Had he thought to take blankets?

  She crossed to the fireplace, added wood to the fire and frowned. If he didn’t return before dark, she would have to make certain there was wood enough in the child’s room and the parlor to last through the night before she barred the doors. Did Indians attack at night?

  The thought sent a shudder through her. She refused to think on it. There had been no Indians around the mission for days, save for those warriors who had killed the pigs. It was perfectly safe, or Mitchel would have never gone off and left his daughter.

  The ululating cry from above him split the silence, rose to a nerve-shattering crescendo.

  Mitchel kicked his boots free of the stirrups and lurched from the saddle as an Indian, dressed only in leggings, loincloth and war paint, launched himself off the wall of stone and dropped onto his horse’s haunches, a scalping knife in his hand.

  The Indian rolled, slid to the ground as the horse screamed in fear and bolted wild-eyed up the trail. Red Squirrel thundered by in pursuit.

  Mitchel crouched on the balls of his feet, his gaze fastened on Eagle Claw’s eyes, his left arm bent to ward off deadly knife thrusts, his own double-bladed skinning knife held low. He felt the readiness in his body and knew he hadn’t forgotten.

  A wall of stone rose on his left, the earth fell away in a sheer drop on his right. He registered the facts, accepted that there was no place to maneuver, no way to feint. It would be a face-to-face battle of cunning, strength and skill on the narrow trail.

  He ignored Eagle Claw’s taunts. Stayed loose. Waited. He took a firmer grip on his knife and let his instincts take over. They had never failed him coming across the country.

  The warrior rushed him, slashed with his knife. Mitchel jumped back, planted his right foot and propelled himself at his off-balance foe. His knife found the thin skin stretched taut over the warrior’s ribs.

  Eagle Claw recovered his balance, edged toward the wall of stone, black eyes glittering with hatred.

  Mitchel dropped back into his defensive crouch, braced himself for another rush.

  The warrior came low, drove the scalping knife toward his groin. He brought his left arm down in a slashing blow that deflected the eviscerating, killing thrust. Before he could withdraw, Eagle Claw’s blade sliced through the sleeve of his leather jacket, drew a line of fiery pain across his upper arm. He closed, thrust his own blade straight and true. It hit Eagle Claw’s ribs, slipped between them. Blood warmed his hand.

  The warrior grunted, caught him in a bear hold and pushed him toward the edge of the trail. He wrapped his arms around the warrior’s torso, staggered back, planted his left foot and stopped, grappled for the killing blow.

  His foot slid back. He dug in his toe, pushed. The ground crumbled away, his foot and leg slid into nothingness. His grip on Eagle Claw broke. His hands slid down the brave’s leather-clad legs. Eagle Claw’s victory cry quivered on the air.

  He twisted his hand, grabbed a fistful of the long fringe on the brave’s moccasin, swung his other hand over, grabbed around his ankle and held on. He lifted his legs, pushed against the cliff, tried to gain a purchase and climb.

  Eagle Claw teetered, tried to step back.

  He felt the warrior’s foot slip. Dirt peppered his face. Eagle Claw toppled off the trail and they both fell into nothingness.

  Hope! Air whistled past as he plunged toward the rocks below. He slammed against the ground. The breath gusted from his lungs, burst out of his nose and mouth. His neck snapped backward. Pain exploded in his head. Dark descended.

  “And now I have a surprise for you.” Anne lifted three slates off her table and carried them back to the children. “We have not learned all of the letters of the alphabet, but I thought it would be good if you could write your names.”

  She put the slates down on the bench-desk. “The slate in front of you has your name written on it in the white man’s language. This one says Kitturah.” She pointed to the word, smiled at the wide-eyed wonder on the little girl’s face as she stared at her name.

  “And this one says Iva.” She watched the seven-year-old struggle to hold her excitement in check, felt a rush of pleasure when the child couldn’t stop herself from reaching out to touch the slate.

  “And this one says Running Wolf.” The boy held his face impassive, as befitted a warrior, but his eyes shone with pleasure.

  “Copy your name three times on your slate. Make your letters carefully, so—”

  The door opened, banged against the woodbox.

  Her heart lurched. She jerked her head up, stared at the stocky, bearded man who stepped into the schoolroom, followed by a younger, taller version of himself.

  “Been looking for you, Banning.” The man stomped his boots free of snow. “Wanted to let you know me and Seth are back. Tom took sick, he’s at the fort—” The man looked up, gaped at her. “Who are you? Where’s Banning?”

  Halstrum! It had to be. It must have been his wagon she had heard earlier. Were the Indians watching? A quiver started in her hands and arms, spread through her. She had to get the children out of here! Get to Mitchel’s daughter. But Halstrum didn’t know. And she couldn’t let him find out. He might do something to precipitate an attack.

  She squared her shoulders, mustered a cool look. “I am Widow Simms. I am the teacher here at the mission.” She kept her voice quiet, calm, refused to let her racing thoughts and inner quaking affect it. “May I help you, Mister…”

  “H
alstrum.” The man gave a polite nod. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Widow Simms.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This here’s my boy Seth. Where’s Banning?”

  She nodded at the young man, gave his father an edited version of the truth. “Chief White Cloud has been injured. Mr. Banning went to see if he could help him.”

  Cold air poured in the door. The fire flared from the draft, smoke swirled, drifted up the sloped ceiling.

  She shivered, resisted the urge to rub her arms with her hands. The poor children! She should ask him to close the door, but she wanted him to leave. Perhaps if she ignored him.

  She looked down at the children. They had stopped work, were sitting as still as statues looking up at her, their faces tense. Running Wolf’s gaze was wary. Clearly, they sensed her apprehension. Perhaps it was all foolishness on her part. Perhaps there was no danger. But she wanted the children out of the schoolroom. She wanted them to go home where they would be safe…in case.

  She forced a smile. “Children, put your slates and chalk on my table.” There was a soft rustle as they moved to obey.

  “When did Banning leave?”

  She shifted her gaze back to Halstrum, shook her head. “I don’t know the time. It was earlier—”

  “Banning.”

  The call sent a prickle chasing through her.

  The Halstrums spun around.

  A tall, wiry man appeared in the doorway, flicked his gaze over the room, saw her and snatched his hat from his head. “Begging yer pardon, ma’am. But it’s urgent I find Banning.”

  Halstrum shoved his son aside, stepped closer to the man. “What’s wrong?”

  The man looked down. “Trouble’s afoot. The Indians caught themselves two trappers this morning, drug them off to their camp. I didn’t hang around to see more. I been riding full out to get out of the hills. Had to stay off the trails. I stopped to warn Banning. Figured he’d want to prepare to fort up, ’case there’s an uprising.”