At the bottom of the steep ravine the wagon lay shattered. One horse lay lifeless. The other horse struggled to rise, then fell still, only to repeat the pathetic attempt a moment later. Halfway down among the rocks sprawled the still figure of Matilda Masters, only recognizable by the color of her dress. A brilliant red stain flowed from her shattered form, across the rocks. Masters was nowhere to be seen.
Boister suddenly wrenched away from her and ran to the other side of the trail. Bending over, he threw up, then crumpled into a sobbing huddle. Tildie scooped him up in her arms. Tears blinded her as she stumbled back down the trail. Mari approached, her hand firmly clasping Evie’s. They looked so small and helpless.
Dear God, this can’t be! Tildie’s anguish turned her to her heavenly Father. She reached the smaller children and knelt in the dirt, gathering them all as close to her as she could. She and Boister wept, and the little girls joined them, not really knowing why except that something was terribly wrong.
Eventually, the emotional storm subsided. They clung together, weary. Tildie wondered if she would be able to creep down that sheer drop to her aunt’s body. What if she were only injured? Could she move her to safety if she was? Were there ropes in the wagon? Surely, she’d seen some. Threads of a plan began to form in her mind. She must do something.
A small sound startled her, and she looked up. The children felt her tense, and they, too, looked up from where their heads were buried against her.
“Indians,” whispered Mari.
Three stood on the trail, their black, serious eyes studying the children without emotion. Tildie looked over her shoulder, seeking an escape route. Two more of the bronzed men stood about the same distance behind her, and another two on horseback waited at the turn of the trail. Some of the strange men had circles tattooed on their chests. Others had numerous straight lined scars on their arms. One had what looked like a stuffed crow dangling from his waist.
Three men came forward in long easy strides. The oldest passed without a word. The two younger stopped beside Tildie and the huddled children.
“Be calm, children,” she whispered. “Remember Jesus is always with us. He will never leave us nor forsake us.” Tildie’s voice shook, and she tightened her hold on Evie as one of the Indian men reached for her.
The second man put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into his face. His serene expression waylaid her fear. She saw sympathy in his eyes. Shocked to find an underlying kindness in one she thought of as a savage, Tildie didn’t know what to think. He placed his hand under her arm and, with no visible effort, lifted her to her feet.
One Indian took Evelyn, who whimpered softly. Tildie saw him pat her back. The second released her arm and swooped up Mari. Mari gasped and terrified little blue eyes peered over the Indian’s shoulder as the men started up the hill. Tildie shook herself from her trance, grabbed Boister’s hand, and started after them. Wherever they took her girls, she would follow.
Around the bend, several more Indians patiently waited with a group of quiet, unsaddled horses. An Indian efficiently threw Tildie up on a dappled pony. The same Indian hoisted Boister up with another young man. No, not a man, but an adolescent boy. He looked so hard and serious. Tildie gulped down the fear rising in her throat. These people hadn’t threatened them… perhaps they even meant to help.
As one unit, they started moving. The Indians carrying Mari and Evie rode on either side of Tildie, so close that her horse needed no guidance from her hand. The men didn’t speak. Tildie prayed.
Lord, protect us. Further prayer tumbled through Tildie’s bewildered mind. She trembled over words for her unhappy aunt. Her thoughts rambled, mixing with her prayers. Was Aunt Matilda still alive? Where was John Masters? Did the Indians intend to harm them? God, are You watching out for us? I promised the children that You would. Your Word says You will. Oh God, I’m scared.
They reached a descending path and turned aside to follow it. At the base, a few of the men separated and headed back. Surely they were going to see about the wagon. Was it possible that they would bring her aunt to her? Could she have survived? Was Masters alive?
Her band picked up speed and Tildie concentrated on staying astride the swift pony. If she fell, she would fall under the other horses’ hooves. She began to wish that she rode with one of their Indian captors. Were they captors, or were they rescuers? What did these men intend? She had only a hazy knowledge of Indians. Was this one of the ferocious tribes, bloodthirsty and inflamed by revenge? How could she know? They were not exactly friendly, neither did they seem hostile.
Tildie swayed and felt herself slipping. A strong hand steadied her. She looked into the face of the man next to her. The same Indian who had first placed a hand on her shoulder gazed steadily into her eyes. She drew strength from his solemn demeanor. He had saved her from a fall. His face registered no emotion. He released her and turned to watch the way they traveled.
Was this God’s answer to her fearful questions? Was this action by the stoic Indian meant to relieve her worries? God, speak to me. I’m scared! She looked over at Evelyn, riding with an Indian’s strong arm around her little body. A big grin brightened her face as they sped along. Her fair hair, the sweat dried now by the wind, flowed back against the Indian’s dark chest, spreading over the dark tattoos.
Okay, I’ll trust, promised Tildie.
The village surprised her. She had not expected the neatly erected tepees, the smell of dinner cooking, or the curious stares of the little children.
When she slid off the pony, her knees buckled. Again, the same silent Indian reached to steady her. The older man spoke, and a woman came forward to guide Tildie and the children into a tepee. The woman gave them water to drink.
Even in her anxious state, Tildie stared in fascination at the inside of the Indian’s home. Spaced about four feet apart, the framework of twenty-one pine poles made a twenty-foot circle. About two-and-a-half inches in diameter at the base, the poles tapered off as they extended their twenty foot length. The thinner tops rested together as they crossed in a narrow bunch where a hole in the hide covering had a small flap. A shallow hole dug in the middle of the earthen floor smoldered with a small fire. A larger fire had been directly outside the tepee. Bedding, buffalo robes, and various household items were piled in neat order around the sides.
An Indian woman bathed little Evie and chattered to the child in soothing, incomprehensible syllables. An older woman with long braids heavy with gray hair brought water, soothing potions, and a change of clothes. When Tildie and the children were physically more comfortable, the older woman brought them food.
Tildie thanked her. Then, she and the children joined hands to pray. They must have been a strange sight, sitting cross-legged in an Indian tepee, wearing Indian clothing, but praying as they did around the kitchen table of the wooden house on the homestead. The Indian woman watched with serious eyes. When they finished praying and began to eat, she gave a decisive nod as if she understood something from the little scene. She abruptly walked out of the tepee.
Left alone, Tildie and the children relaxed and enjoyed the surprisingly tasty stew.
“When are we going home?” Mari asked. With her hunger satisfied, she had thoughts of something besides her stomach.
“I don’t know,” answered Tildie. Evie curled up in her lap. The long dusk of summer finally deepened into night. The wind stilled as it often did at twilight and insects tuned up just as they did back home. Evie hugged Tildie and seemed almost content.
Boister cast her a worried look, and Tildie started speaking quickly for fear he would say something upsetting to the girls. He was perfectly capable of predicting their death by some means of torture. “They’ve been very nice to us, haven’t they? I wonder if any of them speak English.”
“Is Mama dead?” asked Mari.
Tildie looked at her small, sad face and longed for a better answer. “I think so,” was all she could say.
“Did she go to heaven?” Ma
ri asked solemnly.
“Yes.”
“Then she’s dead, Tildie. She wouldn’t go to heaven unless Jesus called her. Jesus called Pa. Now he’s called Mama. She’ll be happy, Tildie, don’t worry.”
Tildie stared at her little cousin. She hadn’t told the children these things. Apparently, before their mother withdrew into her shell of despair, she had talked to them of God and heaven. Tildie nodded, “That’s right, Mari. Your ma and pa are in heaven.”
“He isn’t,” said Boister. Clearly the response indicted John Masters. Boister never referred to the man by any name if he could help it.
The boy’s cold expression clutched at her heart. Remembering his tears at the scene of the accident, Tildie sighed. Perhaps those tears signified something good. Boister so very rarely showed emotion. The apathetic attitude resembled his mother’s too much. A shiver ran down Tildie’s spine in spite of the warmth of the night air.
She bowed her head, closed her eyes, and rested her cheek against Evie’s curly head. God, this is too much for me. I can’t take care of these children. Boister hurts so badly. Inside, he’s hurt. I don’t know what to say or do. Are we going to die here? Will I be able to keep little Evie, Mari, and Boister if we get out? Where will we live? How will I provide for them? Oh God, this is impossible. You must truly be able to achieve the impossible this time. I have no choice but to leave it all in Your hands.
Evie gave a soft muzzled snore in her sleep, and Tildie gently placed her on a mat next to the buffalo skin wall. Marilyn took her place in Tildie’s lap, and even Boister scooted closer. Tildie sang softly. She wandered through the tunes without any order. Sometimes she sang one through, and others, she skipped from verse to verse, using the words of the old hymns to soothe her own heart as well as the children’s.
Horses came into the camp. Voices murmured in low, urgent tones. Even knowing that she could not understand, Tildie strained to hear the words. Finally, she heard a shifting of feet and horses being led away. The older Indian woman came into the tepee. She handed Mari’s rag doll to her. To Tildie, she handed Aunt Matilda’s Bible.
“Thank you, thank you,” Tildie said through the tears, clutching the precious Book.
Some of the Indians had been to the wagon. They’d brought these items to her. In light of the language barrier, questions were futile. Tildie looked at the old woman and saw understanding and compassion in her face. Tildie gratefully accepted the comfort God sent for this moment.
The old Indian woman apparently lived alone in the tepee. She made no attempt to verbally communicate with her guests. With kind eyes and firm nudges, she prodded the newcomers into doing what she wanted. The first day, she showed them how to help with the chores, beginning with building up the fire for their cooking. None of the village Indians seemed to be much interested in the little family and let the old woman be in charge of all their doings.
“Couldn’t we just leave?” asked Boister at midday.
“I’m too sore to walk very far,” answered Tildie. “And I don’t know where we are, or where we should go.”
“We should head for the mountains. That’s the way we were headed before. Or we could turn away and keep the mountains to our backs. That’s the way to go home,” Boister said, then fell silent.
A horrible prospect crossed Tildie’s mind, and she hastened to say something that would keep Boister from striking out on his own in some attempt to find help. “We should stay together, Boister. I need you to help me be brave. I mean it. God will send us help or show us how to get back home. Meanwhile, we must take care of each other.”
Boister nodded, and Tildie took a measure of comfort from the small gesture.
“Who’s that old lady?” Mari pointed to the Indian woman who cared for them. “Is she the tribe’s grandma?”
“I don’t know who she is, Mari, but we should be grateful she’s kind to us.”
“What should I call her?” asked the little girl with big eyes.
“Older One,” said Boister promptly. “If you look around the camp, you won’t see anyone older. She has more wrinkles on her face than any I ever saw anywhere.”
“The others seem to treat her with a great deal of respect,” said Tildie. “Until we learn her name, I guess it would be all right to call her Older One.”
Late in the day, more Indians arrived. At the far side of the village, Tildie saw them surrounded by her new neighbors. Through the crowd, she got glimpses of the newcomers. The Indians who had just arrived had a litter with an injured man strapped to it. Older One went over to the crowd, speaking to first one, and then another of her tribe. She waved them impatiently away from her tepee. She obviously did not want the man in addition to her other white guests.
The Indians brought the litter closer, carrying it past Older One’s tepee. Tildie gasped as she recognized John Masters’s clothing more than his bloody features. She followed the men. The children also started after them, but Older One would not allow it. She turned them back sternly.
The grim Indians placed John Masters in a tepee quite a distance from Older One’s. They put him down gently, spoke not a word, and left the tepee quickly. One man stayed to cradle Masters’s head and dribble water between his battered lips. Tildie did not think her aunt’s husband even swallowed. The Indian stood and walked out.
Tildie knelt beside Masters and looked him over. Dried blood caked one side of his face. His swollen, discolored features bloated with bruises. Loosening the binds which held him to the litter, she saw his broken legs. One mangled hand lay tied with a cloth to stop the bleeding. His raspy breathing pushed a trickle of bloody drool from his mouth. His wounds were too massive for Tildie’s few nursing skills. She wondered if even a doctor could save him.
The tepee flap drew back, and an Indian elder walked in. Tildie moved aside as the man knelt beside John Masters, assessing his wounds in a thorough manner. If there were a healer in the village, Tildie felt sure this was the man.
He sat back on his heels and studied the patient in silence. In the end, he stood and walked out without doing anything to aid the wounded man.
Tildie bathed Masters’s face and squeezed water into his mouth as she had seen the first Indian do. After some time, another Indian came into the tepee and indicated she must leave. Tildie left feeling inadequate. John Masters was going to die.
CHAPTER 3
During the night, Tildie worried. The children snuggled beside her in the pile of animal skins which served as their bed. Older One snored softly from across the way. The stars twinkled through the hole at the top of the tepee where poles crossed and smoke could drift out. Her prayers seemed to go around in circles rising no higher than the little opening to the sky visible above her. The worry weighed them down.
It all boiled down to whether or not she could trust the almighty God who had given her work when her parents and brother died, guided her to Aunt Matilda’s home, and given her strength to put up with John Masters’s taunts. God had stood close in times of trouble before, but now He seemed distant. Present troubles cast menacing shadows so that she could not see Him. Reason told her that her thinking was faulty, but fear told her there was no help, no end to this predicament. Sleep came eventually, without her soul settling into peace.
The morning surprised Tildie. It mocked her with cheerfulness. Older One chanted a sing-song melody. Birds twittered in the trees. The bustle of the Indian camp echoed the busy noises she had heard the previous morning. Evie chattered her toddler nonsense to the doll Older One had made for her. Mari hurried to help stir the pot of mash. Boister followed another lad down to the stream.
Surely there should be some sign that a man had died, or lay dying. Tildie’s eyes turned to the tepee harboring John Masters. Had he made it through the night? She started toward the tepee, but Older One turned her back, just as she had turned the children back the day before. Older One put a bowl before her, and Tildie knew she was to grind the corn. She sighed and sat down in the shade of a tr
ee. As her hands worked the round grinding stone across the rough stone bowl, her mind kept returning to the injured man in the tepee.
After several tries, Tildie escaped Older One’s interference and reached the tepee where John Masters lay. She went in cautiously. An old woman sat in the gloomy space and nodded solemnly at her entrance. She did not, however, offer anything more than the acknowledgment of her presence. Tildie knelt beside the broken man.
“John,” she spoke after a moment. “John, do you hear me?”
He groaned and stirred slightly.
Contradictory feelings overwhelmed her. This despicable man had caused so much misery. She’d tried not to hate him, but now that he lay helpless before her she realized how great her anger and resentment had grown. She blamed him for taking over her uncle’s home and making it a place full of strife. She blamed him for her loving aunt’s withdrawal and neglect of the children. She blamed him for every uncomfortable moment she had experienced since she arrived, uninvited, on his doorstep. She even blamed him that they were prisoners in this Indian village. This accusation skittered around the fact that she didn’t really believe they were prisoners.
Still, John Masters was despicable, and that was his own fault. He was hateful, proud, a bully, and a lazy, foul-smelling vermin. He deserved to die, and she knew he would go to hell. She looked at the miserable shell that struggled to breathe, sweated with fever, and smelled of death. Her emotions battered against the cold hatred she felt for him. The careful reserve she had used to deal with this man crumbled, and she cried.
The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier Page 69
