Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
The Story Goes On…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by the Author
Copyright
Read the Complete Series:
1. Walks the Fire
2. Soaring Eagle
3. Red Bird
The Prairie Winds Novels are available in all popular eBook formats
The story continues in The Keepsake Legacies Novels
1. Sarah’s Patchwork
2. Karyn’s Memory Box
3. Nora’s Ribbon of Memories
For Bob
Robert Thomas Whitson, 1946-2001
My leader, my example, my beloved, my friend
Prologue
LisBeth stared in disbelief at the patchwork that spilled out of her mother’s lap onto the floor. She studied the hands that held it, noticing for the first time how time had worn them. Deep wrinkles accented every swollen knuckle. What had once been a sprinkling of freckles had become dark splotches. “Age spots,” Mama called them. The hands that had always gone about their work with deliberate calm now twitched nervously as they clutched the quilt. Finally, LisBeth looked into the eyes of the woman who had borne her.
Jesse was no longer just Mama. With the telling of the quilt she had become a woman who had loved and hurt and kept her faith and grown and triumphed in her own, quiet way.
The silence became too heavy. Jesse broke it “So, LisBeth, that’s how you came to be.” As she spoke, Jesse’s eyes searched her daughter’s face anxiously.
How can I ever marry MacKenzie? LisBeth thought. Now that I know, how can I ever marry any respectable man…?
One
My heart’s desire and prayer to God… is, that they might be saved.—Romans 10:1
He had seen cholera decimate the ranks of the fur train in Bellevue and had endured the taunts of the rough-hewn mountain men. He had struggled to stay astride his mule when illness made him too weak to mount without help. His pulse had quickened at the sight of a galloping party of Indians closing in upon the train from the west—and then slowed again when they shot their guns into the air to show their friendly intentions.
He had doctored and suffered and hungered and prayed. But none of these things had prepared Marcus Whitman for the sight of an Indian camp boasting 2,000 inhabitants. The village stretched for miles along the Laramie River, just above where the river emptied into the Platte. The meeting of the two rivers was a natural crossroads where fur traders had built Fort Laramie. The fur train was to stop here on its journey to the great rendezvous site on the Green River.
Whitman and his fellow missionary, the Reverend Samuel Parker, had joined the fur train in Bellevue, Nebraska, and would travel with it to their destination in Oregon. They had heard that the Indians in that land wished to know about the white man’s God. At the rendezvous they would have opportunity to investigate the veracity of those rumors. Then, they would journey west to carry the gospel, “even to the ends of the earth.”
The arrival of the fur train caused a great commotion in the Lakota village. Children tumbled out of tepees, shrieking greetings and questions. Dogs joined in the tumultuous escort, yapping at the heels of Whitman’s cantankerous mule until the beast lashed out in fury. Reaching the fort, Whitman dismounted carefully, thankful for his returning strength.
Hungrily he drank in every detail of the scene before him, filled with compassion for the vast nation of unreached souls. But when whisky kegs were brought out later and drunkenness prevailed, the missionary’s compassion was mixed with disgust. As night fell, the Lakota entertained their white visitors with a buffalo dance, leaping high in the firelight, reeling in drunken ecstasy.
As Whitman turned to retreat to the privacy of his own tent, his attention was drawn to one handsome warrior standing at the edge of the firelight. Huge brass rings hung from each of the warrior’s ears, and eagle feathers dangled from his thick dark braids. A string of bear claws adorned the muscular neck.
Whitman wondered at the Indian’s reluctance to join his friends in their wild celebration. He studied the face. Intelligent dark eyes squinted slightly, studying every movement of the dancers. Resting one hand on the shoulder of a beautiful young squaw at his side, the Indian gestured and whispered. The corners of his well-formed mouth turned up in a half smile. A few wrinkles across the high forehead and at the corners of his eyes made him appear older than the woman. Still, she looked up at him expectantly, clearly enjoying his attentions.
As Whitman watched, the Indian turned sideways and took a step toward his woman. Shadows from the firelight accented his square jaw and cleft chin. Suddenly, the half-smile disappeared. The brave clenched his jaw and jerked his head sideways, looking away from the fire. His hand dropped from the woman’s shoulder to his side. He gripped the fringe along the side of one legging.
Fur traders and natives alike met the dawn with groans and complaints about the effects of the night’s celebration. Still, they packed up to continue to the Green River rendezvous, chiding one another for their behavior the night before and shouting anecdotes from last year’s rendezvous to encourage one another to travel quickly. Whitman was left with unanswered questions about the injured warrior and his lovely companion.
Twelve days later the fur train and the missionaries arrived at the Green River. The traders set up shelters to show the fabric, ribbon, beads, knives, and axes they had packed so far to trade for skins.
Whitman had been repulsed by the drunken display at Fort Laramie, but the debauchery at the rendezvous left him speechless. Indians, mountain men, and traders drank and feasted and shouted and fought until they passed out. They slept only to begin the cycle again as soon as they awoke.
Late one evening as Whitman sat straining to read by his dying campfire, a young boy beckoned him to follow him across the camp to another fire. There, waiting for the doctor, sat a mountain man and a few other traders. The man did not rise, but drawled gruffly, “Boy here says yer a doctor.”
Whitman bowed. “I am a doctor, sir.”
Lifting his fringed shirt and turning his back to the campfire, the man said, “See that lump on the shoulder? Been carryin’ that near three years now. Blackfoot arrowhead. Hurts like the devil. Think you can dig ’er out?”
The doctor examined the area. “I can remove it, but there is no anesthetic…”
The man lifted a flask at his side and took a long draught. “Got my anesthetic right here, doc. Dig ’er out.”
Whitman retreated to his tent to get his surgical instruments. Returning to the trader’s campfire, he began. The arrowhead was covered with a thick layer of scar tissue, and Whitman apologized as he hacked away at the wound, intent upon success. At last, he pulled the point out. The trader gasped only once. Otherwise he sat immovable while the doctor performed his crude surgery. The o
peration complete, Whitman stepped away and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Yer all right by me, Doc. What can I trade ya fer the chop job?”
“I was glad to be of service, sir,” was all the missionary could say. He watched in amazement as the trader donned his shirt, wincing only a little, stood up and turned his head slowly from side to side, then shrugged his shoulders as if nothing had happened.
The trader retreated to his tent and came out again with two beaver pelts, which he handed to Whitman. “Heard ya got a missus’. These’ll make her a right nice lap robe… tell ’er I’m beholdin’ to ’er husband.”
It was said gruffly, but sincerity shone in the trader’s eyes. With a few brief instructions on keeping the wound clean, Whitman picked up the beaver pelts and returned to his own campfire, ignorant of the fact that his surgical skills were fast being told throughout the camp. He was soon the center of attention, and a long line of patients formed outside his tent to have the doctor treat various wounds and complaints.
It was late before Whitman could retire. As he lay back wearily on his bedroll, his tent flap was pulled back soundlessly. Almost before he could look up, an Indian’s imposing form filled the doorway. The brave wore a necklace of bear claws. Silently he sat before Whitman and began to unwrap one leg that was tightly bound with strips of leather from ankle to knee. Whitman recognized the Indian from Fort Laramie.
He moved to help unwrap the leg, but the brave waved him away. Perspiration formed on his forehead. He grunted under his breath and his hands trembled, but he persisted. The skins nearest the leg were crusted with dried blood. At last, he pulled them away, and Whitman drew in a sharp breath as the putrid smell of the wound filled the tent. Gasping with the effort, the Indian straightened the leg out before the doctor and leaned back on his hands, waiting. The dark eyes met Whitman’s in a wordless plea.
The doctor saw that infection had set in. He moved quickly to cleanse the wound. His patient gasped, but somehow controlled the urge to cry out
“With daylight, I can do more,” Whitman explained, despairing of the language barrier. He had done all he could by the light of the fire. But words weren’t needed to keep the Indian in his tent. With the last ministrations of the doctor, he gave one small agonized cry and passed out
At dawn Whitman had the Indian carried outside where he began the process of removing dead tissue. The man refused the whiskey offered as an anesthetic, pressing his lips together and turning a stony face away from the flask.
“Tell him I have to break his leg again,” Whitman said. The trader who had been summoned to interpret shared the bad news. The Indian looked long into Whitman’s face. The missionary’s gaze did not waver.
Asking a question, he waited as the trader interpreted. “Why d’ya have to break what has already been broken and healed?”
Whitman explained. “The break hasn’t healed correctly. The bone is still jutting out too far, and that has caused the swelling and infection. I must break it, set it correctly, and then stitch the skin together so it will heal properly.”
The interpreter repeated the information to the Indian, who interrupted with a question. “He wants to know if what you do will make him able to walk straight again. Says he walks like a wounded buffalo now.” The trader turned abruptly to Whitman and offered his own comment. “This here feller’s name is Rides the Wind. I seen ’im at the last rendezvous. He’s a dancin’ fool when he’s in shape. Got his wife by dancin’ to impress her. He ain’t too quick to have you breakin’ that leg again unless it’ll help him dance again.”
The trader winked at the doctor. “Even the redskins like to impress the ladies, Doc.”
Whitman cleared his throat and moistened his dry lips before responding. “Rides the Wind,” he said, looking directly at the warrior. “I am Dr. Marcus Whitman. I have come to this land to tell your people of the God who created us all. I tell you by that One that I do not know if you will dance again. But I do know that if I do not do this, you will lose this leg. You may die.”
Whitman’s honest gaze never left the eyes of the Indian as he spoke. His voice was gentle, filled with compassion.
The trader interpreted, and when he had finished there was a long silence. Rides the Wind pondered the doctor’s advice. He looked away for a moment and then back again at Whitman and gravely nodded his assent.
Several Lakota men were summoned to hold the warrior down while Whitman grasped the injured leg and twisted it. The sickening sound of the bone snapping caused a murmur to rise from the crowd of men. Rides the Wind bit the stick he gripped between his teeth in two and fainted. Whitman welcomed the chance to thoroughly clean away infected tissue and stitch up the leg.
One of the traders contributed the clean cloth that Whitman used to bind the leg. He worked quickly and efficiently, and when consciousness returned, Rides the Wind saw that his leg, which hurt worse than it ever had, was bound in clean cloth between two straight tree branches. He was carried away to his tepee where his wife and the tribal medicine man took over his care.
On the day Whitman began packing to leave for the West, the trader who had served as interpreter called on him, summoning him to Rides the Wind’s tepee. Stooping low, the doctor went inside where Rides the Wind lay on his buffalo robe. He was alone in the tepee, and as the doctor settled onto another buffalo robe, the Indian looked steadily into his face and said slowly, “You have medicine.”
Whitman stared, dumbfounded, as the English words were pronounced.
The trader grinned. “He’s been comin’ to the rendezvous a long time, Doc. He understands more’n he lets on. Too smart fer his own good, prob’ly. Fer some reason, he’s decided it’s all right to let you know he can talk a little of the white man’s talk.”
Whitman smiled warmly and turned to Rides the Wind. “Yes, I have medicine.”
The Indian pointed to his leg. “Make strong.”
“It will take much time, but it will be strong again. However, I fear you will always walk with a limp.” The Indian frowned and turned to the trader, who interpreted what Rides the Wind could not decipher.
Impatient with the primitive speech, Rides the Wind returned to his own language, speaking rapidly. Finally, the trader raised his hands to interrupt the long speech.
“Well, Doc,” he began. “It seems you’ve made quite an impression on this Injun. He’s sayin’ you’ve got good medicine. He wants you to make sure his leg heals right. Says he’ll travel with you ‘til yer sure it’ll be okay.”
Whitman interrupted, “But he can’t ride.”
Understanding, Rides the Wind interjected angrily. The Trader grinned and shook his head. “He says even with a broken leg, he can outride a white man any day. He rode here from Fort Laramie.”
Whitman turned to look at the warrior and saw the challenge in his dark eyes. The Indian reached out to grasp Whitman’s arm. His huge hand completely encircled the doctor’s thin forearm as he said, “I ride. You talk.” Then, Rides the Wind again spoke rapidly to the trader and motioned for him to translate.
“He wants you to take care of his leg, Doc.” As Rides the Wind talked on, the trader stopped and shoved his hat back on this head. “Well, I’ll be…”
“What is it?” Whitman urged.
“He says he wants to learn more white man’s talk. And he wants t’ hear more about that God you talked about the night you set his leg. The one you said created all things.”
The trader smiled broadly at Whitman. “Looks like you got yerself a prospective convert, Doc.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Just make sure he don’t scalp ya’ when he finds out that your God says he’s supposed to love the Pawnee that butchered his pa last winter.”
Whitman rose to the challenge. “It is my God who died for even his enemies, sir.”
The trader was unimpressed. “Save it, Doc. I ain’t buyin’. Anyhow, this Injun says he’s goin’ along. So you can practice your sermons on him.” The trader abruptly left Whit
man alone with Rides the Wind.
With a prayer for wisdom, Whitman spoke slowly. “You come. I will care for your leg.” Rides the Wind nodded his agreement. Whitman added, “I will talk of God.” Again, the Indian agreed. As Rides the Wind struggled to rise, Whitman reached out to help him, but the Lakota brave shook his head and pushed the doctor away. With great effort he managed to stand, bearing all his weight on his uninjured left leg.
As Whitman watched, he reached up for the knife and arrow sheath that hung from a nearby pole. Strapping them on, he grabbed a recently cut stick that leaned against the pole. Using it as a cane, Rides the Wind hobbled to the entrance of the tepee. Motioning for Whitman to precede him, he bent awkwardly and lunged outside, nearly falling and gasping with the effort to stand straight. His wife approached. Rides the Wind spoke rapidly to her, and she obediently trotted away to fulfill his demands.
“Go. I come,” was all he said to Whitman. The missionary started toward his own campfire to pack, looking back over his shoulder to see Rides the Wind re-enter his tepee.
When the fur train pulled out of camp later that morning, Whitman’s mule was followed by an Indian pony carrying a wounded Sioux hunter.
Rides the Wind stayed with the train until his broken leg was completely healed. The fur train had long since entered territory inhabited by enemies of the Sioux. Rides the Wind seemed unconcerned. With fierce determination he learned to speak the “white man’s talk.” With equal determination, he listened and questioned as Whitman talked night after night of the God who had sent him to the Indians.
When at last they parted, Whitman placed a Bible in the hands of the warrior.
“This book tells of God, Rides the Wind. I give it to you in friendship.” It was an odd gift, Whitman knew. Rides the Wind couldn’t read. Still, the missionary felt impressed to give it.
Rides the Wind took the bear claw necklace from around his own neck and handed it to the missionary. He held the Bible to his chest and watched as Whitman rode away. When at last the missionary was lost from view, Rides the Wind wrapped the book carefully in deerskin.
Walks the Fire Page 1
