Walks the Fire

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “I must get the fire started.” She said the words, but they held no meaning, for she remained seated, clutching at the strong hands in her lap.

  “It’s all right, Jesse.” Homer almost whispered. Then, clearing his throat he added, “You know I didn’t want to leave him there…”

  Jesse interrupted, “But, Homer, we had no choice.” The chasm of grief that had separated them seemed to close.

  Jesse stirred, reaching for the flour sack. Homer lifted her down from the wagon. It was a gesture many would take for granted, but Homer King was not a man given to such gestures. Jesse had always found her own way into and out of the wagon. She had been left to make friends on her own in the wagon train and to adapt to life on the trail as best she could. This small show of caring comforted her.

  “We’ll catch up with them by dark,” Homer assured Jesse. “I won’t unhitch the team today… just give ’em a short rest”

  Lunch finished, Homer squinted toward the horizon. “Sounds like there’s a storm comin’. Let’s be on our way.”

  The two of them worked quickly, Jesse listening to the low rumble of thunder in the distance. Glancing up she saw a dark cloud on the horizon.

  “Oh, my…” her voice caught in her throat She laid her hand on Homer’s shoulder, and as he stood up from quenching their camp fire, she pointed in disbelief at the cloud.

  The roar of the buffalo stampede reached their ears, and instantly Homer flew to the wagon. Jumping up onto the seat he grabbed the reins. Screaming to Gabe to “git-up!” he motioned wildly to Jesse to climb aboard. The desperate tone in his voice and the shaking of the reins communicated danger to the horses. Already restive from the sound of the distant stampede, Gabe and Beau snorted and plunged ahead.

  Jesse dropped her shawl on the prairie, grabbed the wagon side, and hauled herself up beside Homer. Her bonnet hung down her back, and as the wagon jolted across the prairie her hair came loose, flowing in a red torrent down her sweat-stained back. Homer shouted, “Get inside—safer” as he urged the horses forward. His eyes searched the terrain for a large rock or a copse of trees—anything that might serve as a shelter against the oncoming river of animals.

  Jesse tumbled over the seat into the wagon bed. It was a jumble of barrels and sacks. With every bounce of the wagon, she felt a new pinch from some out-of-place bundle. One glance out the rear of the wagon brought a gasp of dread as she saw the danger approaching.

  Homer drove skillfully, but the buffalo came on, gaining steadily. He searched in vain for the shelter to pull up next to. He would have to keep his horses running and hope that the overtaking herd would run with them and not crush the wagon. Beau and Gabe bounded forward, pulling with all their great strength. Lather appeared on the horses’ rumps. Foam flew from the bits. Gabe stumbled, then lunged forward in response to Homer’s desperate urgings. The earth shook as the buffalo came closer.

  Jesse watched, caught in a slow-motion version of reality. Through the dust-filled air she saw Homer’s hand raise the whip—the tool he had always refused to use on his beloved team. Her mind registered the picture of that whip poised in the air, silhouetted against the blue sky. Then the whip came down, again and again, across the rumps of the laboring team.

  The roar of the buffalo was deafening now. Jesse clutched wildly for something to hold on to inside the lurching wagon. Scrambling toward the back, she peered into the eyes of a huge beast. It stared blankly ahead, nostrils dilated, tongue lolling out of one side of its mouth. They were caught in a rolling sea of thundering hooves and dark brown, shaggy bodies.

  The sound of those pounding hooves drowned out Homer’s futile urging to his spent team. Gabe and Beau staggered and went down. Jesse instinctively leaped backward, away from the oncoming rush. Her head hit something hard. Darkness and thunder and the sound of splintering wood all melted together into unnatural silence.

  Six

  Be not afraid, only believe.—Mark 5:36

  It was hot. And quiet. So quiet that Jesse could hear the high-pitched whine of a fly as it buzzed about her head. But no, she thought, I hear Gabe and Beau stomping about, too. And… a shadow fell across her face. The lessening of the sun’s warmth made her open her eyes. Someone stood over her, but the bright sun from behind made it impossible to see his face. Homer? No, not Homer. His hair is not quite so long.

  Then, all in a rush, Jesse remembered. The buffalo stampede! She recalled those last terrifying seconds and with that memory came the realization that this man was not Homer. She was looking into the face of a Sioux warrior.

  Where is Homer? Jesse lay still, silent in her terror. Oh, to be saved for this! In the hands of these savages, what will become of me?

  “Be not afraid… for the LORD thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” The words came again and again: “Be not afraid… Be not afraid… Be not afraid.”

  Jesse offered herself up to her Father’s keeping and, without actually forming any conscious words, Jesse prayed.

  As her thoughts turned heavenward, the Indian who stood above her reached down to investigate the glint of gold at her neck. Jesse clutched at her mother’s cross and chain. The Indian was insistent. He pried her fingers away from the cross but, to Jesse’s surprise, did not snatch it from her neck. Instead, he examined it carefully, let go, and stepped away.

  Jesse sat up. Every muscle screamed in pain. She was stiff and sore and thirsty. Still, no bones seemed broken. She looked about her at what was left of the wagon. And then, toward the front of the wagon, her eye caught a flash of red flannel waving in the breeze. Homer? No, not Homer any longer, yet it had been Homer only a little while ago. Gabe and Beau were there too. Their valiant efforts to outrun the buffalo would be their last pulling contest.

  Jesse realized that she was alone and at the mercy of the Indians who stood about, looking through the wreckage as their ponies snatched up mouthfuls of coarse grass. They were a quiet bunch, commenting occasionally on what they found in the wreckage, examining the iron stove with curiosity. The flour and grain and stored foods were scattered about, ground into the dust and useless. Only one wheel of the wagon remained unbroken. The rest were shattered, so that the wagon stood askew, propped up like a newborn colt on its long, spindly legs.

  “Be not afraid… Be not afraid…” The words kept drumming in Jesse’s mind as she watched the Indians move about. They ignored her for a long time, and then the one who had seen the cross made his way back to her. She noticed for the first time that he was taller than his companions—or would have been, had it not been for one bad leg. He had apparently broken that leg in the past, and it had mended badly, for now he walked with a lurching gait, his braids shaking with each step. His face was painted red. Three stripes of black paint adorned each cheek; bright yellow rings encircled each eye.

  His face was grim as he approached Jesse, and she shrank away from his grasp. But he pulled her to her feet, and as he did so, the soreness in her back and legs made her cry out in pain. She stumbled, tried to stand but could not. The brave grabbed her roughly about the waist and half pulled, half carried her to his snow white pony. He was strong and lifted her up on the bare back effortlessly. Jesse clutched fearfully at the dancing pony’s mane and prepared to be led away.

  But the Indian brave leaped up behind her. He smelled of war paint and sweat. Jesse’s stomach lurched. She took a deep breath, praying, God, keep me on this pony. Surely I was not meant to die out here, like this—alone—God, help me!

  Jesse tried to look back at the wreckage. She was surprised when the Indian turned his pony to allow her to look back. How did I survive that? she wondered in amazement as she surveyed the scene. A flash of white caught her attention, and she saw that her best quilt now lay across the back of one of the other ponies. It was the all-white quilt that she had worked steadily on for months before she and Homer were married. She had quilted it meticulously, stuffing the designs in each large block so that flowers and wreaths stood out from the stippled backg
round. Homer had complained about bringing it, but Jesse had insisted. “No matter where we may live, Homer,” she had said respectfully but firmly, “if I can put that quilt on my bedstead on Sunday, I’ll feel like I’m keeping a proper home.” For once, it had been Jesse who “set her jaw,” and Homer who acquiesced.

  Now the quilt shimmered in the hot sun. It was dusty, but seemed to have survived the tragedy unscathed. Jesse smiled grimly as she wondered if she would have such good fortune once these savages got her back to their camp—or wherever they were taking her.

  “Be not afraid… Be not afraid… Be not afraid…” The words were drummed into her heart in rhythm with the clip-clopping of the pony’s trot across the prairie. They seemed to ride for hours, leaving the level plains and ascending the distant bluffs. Jesse’s legs ached and her heart lurched each time the pony made a sudden move.

  They forded a small creek, and the Indians dismounted to drink. Jesse’s captor pulled her down from the pony and pushed her toward the water. She drank deeply, splashing her hot face and rinsing her trembling hands in the clear water. Her eyes searched the distance for signs of a search party. Would they come from the wagon train?

  The Indian tugged at her arm and pulled her away from the creek. He gestured, seeming to wave, then pointed to her. His right hand turned palm up as he moved it side to side across his abdomen. Jesse watched dumbly and stood still, afraid to move. The Indian repeated the three motions more forcefully. Then she understood. It was the sign language she had seen Dr. Whitman employ with other Indians along the trail. But the motions held no meaning for her. She shook her head nervously, fearful of the reaction.

  The brave showed little reaction except to reach into the pouch at his side and offer her a tough strand of dried meat. Jesse took it obediently and forced herself to bite off a piece. Her stomach refused the offering.

  Rinsing her mouth again in the creek, she glanced up fearfully. The Indian lifted her onto his pony again, and they trotted away, this time in the lead of the band of warriors. It was a torturous, day-long ride. Jesse clung to the white mane of the pony, too numb to pray, too tired to be afraid anymore. Finally, the band halted for the night, turned out their ponies to graze, and built a fire. Several prairie chickens that had been shot earlier in the day were roasted. Her captor repeated the gestures of earlier in the day and then offered Jesse a portion. This time she took it eagerly. She sank, exhausted, onto the ground and fell asleep as soon as she had eaten.

  Low thunder and a sudden cool breeze awoke her sometime in the night. Hurling itself across the open prairie, a violent storm arrived. The Indians collected their horses and held them fast while lying flat on the prairie, defenseless against the onslaught of torrential rain.

  Lightning ripped open the night sky, illuminating the surroundings in a freakish light. Great sheets of water poured upon them, and still the Indians lay flat on the prairie, simply waiting for the storm to pass. The white pony she had been forced to ride stood by his master, nose to the earth, calmly enduring the downpour.

  Jesse trembled with fear and crouched low, her head on her knees. Wrapping her arms about her legs she rocked back and forth. She remembered the storms at home in Illinois when, as a girl, she ran indoors and clambered into her parents’ rope bed, hiding beneath the pile of comforters until the storm had passed. She had nearly succeeded in imagining herself there when a brilliant flash of lightning struck the earth nearby.

  The creek had swollen, and she heard its rushing waters come nearer. Then she felt it pulling at the hem of her water-logged skirt. Another burst of lightning and she screamed aloud. A strong hand pulled her away from the water. A rain-drenched forearm flattened her against the earth. She was pinned to the earth by that arm and lay there, face down, for what seemed like hours.

  At last the storm began to abate. It was passing to the east. The arm across her back was lifted, and she pushed away, raising her head to see that the clouds were breaking apart. Stars twinkled in the patches of sky that appeared. At last the moon shone a bright light over the sodden landscape. In the eerie predawn light, the white pony resembled a ghost-horse as it moved about grazing.

  As dawn broke, only the swollen creek remained to tell of the violent night. The Indians mounted early, and Jesse was once again forced up onto the dancing white pony. With a jolt she realized that the storm would have washed away all trace of their journey. No search party would be able to find her.

  Near evening of the second day’s journey, the band of Indians topped a rise, and Jesse saw an encampment of tepees arrayed on the prairie below. The rhythm of her heartbeat matched the pony’s swift hoofbeats, and she clutched desperately at its mane, wondering, What will happen now?

  Everyone in the village came out to meet the returning hunters; children shouted welcomes. As they passed among the east-facing tepees, curious women stared at Jesse. Numb from fatigue and fear, Jesse stared blankly about her. Soon, it will be over, she thought. I will die here, and it will be over. Death would bring welcome relief from the torture of riding and riding with every muscle agonizing as each stride jarred her weary body.

  At last the pony stopped outside a large tepee, and the brave leaped to the ground. He grabbed Jesse roughly, appearing to throw her to the ground. But his strong arm actually broke her fall so that she landed quite gently at the door of his tepee. His voice was angry as he motioned for her to get inside. The village women and children looked on quietly. One squaw whispered something to her companion, and they nodded and smiled to one another. Jesse gathered up her skirts and hurried inside.

  The brave limped after her and snatched down the doorflap. Instantly his demeanor changed. Jesse watched as he removed his weapons. He turned to her, and she backed away. He waited until she looked up into his eyes. The tension about his eyes relaxed. Could it be that he does not plan to kill me after all? But then… no, death would be preferred to some things.

  The Indian turned abruptly, muttering to an old woman who squatted by the fire stirring something in a kind of bag hanging on a tripod made of sticks. She cackled a response and the man left, leaving the flap open. Sunlight poured into the tepee, and across its expanse Jesse spotted the reason she had been brought here.

  Over the top of a cradle board two dark eyes glistened as they watched the old woman move about. Jesse heard a soft cry that quickly grew to an intense wail, and the old woman shuffled over to the cradle board. Gently she pinched the infant’s nostrils and a gasp for breath interrupted the wail. The old woman set to work quickly mashing grain and adding liquid to make a runny gruel. Each time the infant began to wail, she hurried over to repeat the pinching of his tiny nostrils until a gasp for breath would again stop the crying. At last the woman began to dip her fingers into the gruel and then into the infant’s mouth. He sucked greedily at her fingers, but soon began to wail again in frustration.

  Jesse felt her body respond to the cries and looked down, embarrassed by the dampness beginning to show through the bodice of her dress. She folded her arms and pressed them against her bosom, but the old woman had seen. She did not hesitate to unwrap the infant and carry him across the tepee to Jesse.

  Jesse looked away, pretending not to understand, but the wail persisted and she turned to look at the child. The wail stopped momentarily when the child’s eyes met hers. Jesse whispered, “I am not who you want,” but even as she spoke, she instinctively reached out to stroke the velvety cheek. The tiny head turned to seek out her fingers to suckle.

  Instinct took over. Jesse reached for the infant and cradled him on her lap as she unfastened her bodice. Put to her breast, the child sighed, nuzzled gently, and began to nurse greedily. He lay quite still, his tiny dark hand posed against her white skin. Then he stopped, looking up. As his eyes searched her face, milk trickled out of his mouth. He burped loudly and began to nurse again.

  Weariness overtook Jesse, and she sat looking dumbly about. Through the flap of the tepee, she caught glimpses of Indians moving about a
s twilight approached. The fire in the center of the tepee was burning low. A lazy wand of smoke circled upward and out the hole at the top of the tepee. Jesse’s eyes followed the smoke upward, and she saw a star twinkling in the fast-darkening sky.

  The old woman intervened again, taking the child from Jesse’s arms. Carrying him closer to the fire, she unwrapped him and laid him on a buffalo robe near the fire. Legs and arms flailed the air. Jesse watched as the old woman ministered to the infant, murmuring softly as she massaged his body with some kind of lotion.

  The old one left the newborn then and moved to the side of the tepee opposite Jesse. Grunting loudly she dragged a bedroll across to where Jesse sat. Returning to the opposite side again, she unrolled two more skins, obviously preparing beds for the tepee’s inhabitants.

  As dusk arrived, the Indian came back. He glanced Jesse’s way and turned abruptly to speak softly to the old woman. He tipped a skin that hung on a pole near the center of the tepee. Fresh water spilled out and he washed his hands, then drank deeply. Jesse watched fearfully as the head tilted back to drink. The muscular neck was set onto powerful, broad shoulders. The hands that held the water skin were large. In the growing darkness, the glow of the fire gave the Indian’s skin an eerie redness. Jesse shivered as he finished drinking and turned toward her.

  But it was the infant who commanded his attention. Kneeling by the child he stroked the dark hair, softly chanting,

  A wa wa wa

  Inila istinma ma

  awawaxua

  wablenica.

  He padded a skin hide with something white and fluffy taken from a leather bag. Then he wrapped the baby in the hide diaper and returned him to Jesse. He motioned for her to lie down on the buffalo robe the old woman had unrolled. Jesse gratefully lay down, the child at her side. In spite of her fears, sleep came. The baby slept in her arms, waking to nurse greedily several times that first night.