The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier

by Peggy Darty, Darlene Franklin, Sally Laity, Nancy Lavo

  “John, can you hear me?”

  “Curse you, girl,” he muttered. “Nobody asked you to come.”

  “John, you’re going to die,” she sobbed. “Aunt Matilda is already dead.”

  His eyes opened and he looked at her, really looked at her. She knew he saw her and his mind was clear.

  “You’re going to die, John, and you are the lowest man I have ever met. I’m sure there’s someone out there worse than you, but I never met him. You took advantage of a widow’s grief. You stole her homestead and ran it down to nothing. You treated her badly, you treated her kids badly, and you even treated your own little girl badly. You’re scum.”

  “Thought you was all goodness,” John protested with just a touch of irony in his whispery voice. “Ain’t right to talk to a dying man like that.”

  “You’re going to go to hell.”

  “Reckon so,” he gasped.

  “You don’t have to,” she whispered.

  “You gonna preach?” The scornful twist to his lips reminded Tildie how often he’d belittled her faith. Still, she was compelled to speak.

  “Aren’t you scared? Aren’t you ashamed? How can you die and face God, knowing He’s going to toss you in hell? It’s not make-believe or women’s talk, John. You’re going to find out too late that all the religion you’ve been scoffing at is true.”

  Tildie wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, not knowing why she even stayed beside this worthless man who had caused her nothing but grief, who had been the ruin of her aunt’s family.

  “Too late,” his voice bubbled as he repeated the phrase. A trickle of blood oozed out of the corner of his mouth.

  “It’s not,” said Tildie firmly. “You’re still breathing. Just admit you’re bad and ask for forgiveness. Christ died for you—even you. You can go to heaven if you just say it.”

  Tildie clenched her fists in her lap. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she no longer tried to stop their flow. He looked at her again. A searching look, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. She crossed her arms over her middle, and rocked back and forth as she sobbed.

  She saw his eyes close and watched him through blurry vision. His lips moved but no sound came out. He coughed. He seemed unconscious, then his lips moved again. His hand moved toward her, but she cringed away, and it fell limp by his side.

  Tildie angrily wiped the tears from her face. She did not want to cry for this man. She took deep breaths, trying to stop this ridiculous emotional outburst. Why was she bawling over this reprobate? She hated him. She felt glad he was dying. She screwed her eyes shut and willed herself to stop, holding her breath and tensing every muscle in her body. She tried to call out to God and found there were no words. Pray for me, Holy Spirit, she demanded. I can’t. I can’t.

  At last peace descended on her. With slow, calming breaths she returned to her surroundings and opened her eyes to look down on John Masters’s face. He was dead, and in his death, the perpetual sneer that had marred his features vanished. He looked calm, at peace.

  As she looked at his face, she knew. He had taken Christ as his Savior at the last possible moment. He wasn’t going to be punished for all the pain he’d inflicted on Aunt Matilda and the children. He’d escaped punishment. He’d cheated. That’s what she felt, even though her mind told her she was wrong to feel that way. God had chosen to be merciful to another wretched sinner.

  Tildie rose to her feet and turned away. God was good. His ways were right. She should be happy. Instead, she felt cold and alone.

  CHAPTER 4

  In the weeks that followed, Tildie wondered what they did with his body. As far as she could tell, it just disappeared the next day.

  The Indians’ way of expressing their condolences left her confused. They did not speak to her or show any sympathy, yet she sensed they knew of her loss and respected her grief.

  In her unsettled state of emotions, it was a good thing that they could not exchange comments. From time to time she found herself crying. How could she have explained that she cried for her aunt, not John Masters? She cried because she had never gotten to visit with the aunt she remembered from her youth. That woman was destroyed by the time she reached Colorado.

  She cried because she was angry with herself for the bitter feelings she had about John Masters’s salvation. She cried because she was afraid. She was hounded by the responsibility of caring for her little cousins. She feared being among the Indians, even in the face of Older One’s kindness. She feared going back to the white settlement where the good citizens would undoubtedly want to take the children from her and place them in homes where they could be cared for. She cried because those good citizens were probably right; she wouldn’t be able to provide for the children adequately.

  She cried because, in all of this, she should have depended on God and been strong in her faith. Instead, she slipped away from the children so she could cry without alarming them or cried quietly in the night, thinking no one would know.

  When her parents and brother had died, the pastor and church members bolstered her faith. On her own, she apparently had no perseverance. Fear dogged her every waking moment, and this disappointed her. Surely she could be strong in the Lord through adversity. When she analyzed her situation, she carefully counted her blessings. She and the children were housed, fed, and treated well. Yet, she dwelled on what might happen and could not turn her mind as she should to think of things that were good and lovely. It was only through a conscious effort to turn everything over to God in prayer that she kept her sanity. Gradually, the turmoil subsided and the routines of life filled the great inner void.

  Mari and Boister began to understand the Indians and spoke words of their language. Tildie made very little progress and had to laugh each time Older One threw up her hands in despair over her stupidity. The impatient Indian hostess would haul one of the children over to Tildie’s side, speak to Boister or Mari, then wait for the child to translate. Her expression clearly indicated that she thought the mother was the slowest of the white guests in her tepee.

  The days lengthened, and Tildie began to notice the individuals in the Indian village. A young Indian boy, White Feather, took Boister under his wing. They went out together, and although Tildie had trepidation over just where they went and what they did, they came back, dirty and content. Boister learned to fish and hunt with the help of his new friend. Mari played with the other little girls, but she also spent time doing chores for Older One. Little Evie toddled among the women and children and gathered the same tolerant affection as the other toddlers of the tribe.

  Slowly, Tildie became aware of one Indian who watched her. This strong young man often stood close by. His serious face held dark, piercing eyes, following her every movement. When he came close to the tepee, Older One scolded him and shooed him away. Once she pushed Tildie into the tepee and would not let her come back out until the men rode off from camp.

  This new worry occupied Tildie’s mind. Obviously, the man thought a young white woman would make a good wife. Tildie began to think less of her confused grief over the deaths of Matilda and John Masters and began to concentrate on what went on around her. She had no desire to be claimed by this Indian. She stayed closer to Older One or with a group of the other Indian women.

  Older One showed Tildie how to cut fresh venison into strips and lay it out to dry in the sun. Tildie’s hands ached from the hours of tedious labor. As in many cases before, she found herself admiring the older woman for her skill and stamina. No stranger to hard work herself, she marveled how these Indian women worked endlessly. They laughed, as well. Often running chatter between the ladies merrily lightened their mood as they diligently repeated a monotonous chore. Listening to the rhythm of their talk, Tildie could almost imagine her white neighbors in Lafayette sitting around a quilting frame, exchanging the same peaceful banter.

  The day had been long. Tildie took off her work dress and put on another Older One provided. She carried the soiled dress down to th
e creek along with several other items that Older One thrust into her arms. Tildie enjoyed this one chore. In the shade of an elm tree, she sat on the outcrop of flat rock, dangling her feet in the water as she scrubbed the clothes in the gently flowing stream. Mari and Evie had tagged along behind her, and they played by the water’s edge.

  Just as the thought crossed her mind that Boister was turning into a little fish from his daily swims with his friend, she heard a splash. Evie floundered in shallow, slow-moving water. Mari gave a cry of alarm and jumped in after her. Tildie tossed aside the shirt she held and scrambled down the bank. With a leap and two strides through the cold water, she had hold of Mari, but Evie moved beyond her reach. Tildie turned quickly and shoved the older child toward the shore, urging her to climb out. Frantic, Tildie swung back to catch Evie only to see the child doing a fair dog paddle. Unfortunately, she paddled away from Tildie and the bank.

  “Evie, come back!” cried Tildie. She hurried after her, but the smooth rocks in the stream bed turned under her feet. With each slip, her little cousin got farther away.

  A splash downstream alerted Tildie to the presence of the solemn Indian who shadowed her in camp. He stood in the path of the oncoming child and scooped her into his arms. With confident strides, he came upstream. Evie clung happily to her rescuer. The Indian reached Tildie and put a hand under her arm to steady her as they made their way to the bank.

  Dancing and clapping, Mari laughed at them. The Indian put Evie down next to her sister and helped Tildie up the slight incline. Tildie hugged the children and laughed with them, grateful that nothing serious had befallen them. She stood up, wringing the water from the skirt of her Indian gown and shyly looked up at their rescuer.

  He stood watching, a glimmer of humor brightening his eyes and bringing a softness to his normally aloof expression. Tildie had learned that these Indians had a well-developed sense of humor, even to the point of some very uproarious practical jokes. She smiled at him, recognizing that he, too, found the escapade amusing.

  “Thank you,” Tildie said. His expression sobered, and he looked deep into her eyes. She turned away. Tildie had no desire to offend the man, but his gaze was warm and too intimate. His interest frightened her.

  “Thank you,” she said again, quickly picking up the laundry.

  “Come, girls,” she commanded. “We must get you out of those wet clothes.”

  “We’ll dry,” Mari pointed out.

  “Come,” she answered abruptly and hurried toward camp. Mari helped Evie up and took hold of her chubby hand. The girls gave the Indian one more parting grin. They’d enjoyed the dunking and hastened after Tildie only because they were accustomed to obeying.

  That night as Tildie lay in bed with her three cousins, she prayed in earnest—something that had been hard since John Marshall’s death.

  Thank You, Father, for keeping Mari and Evie safe. Forgive me for being such a weakling. I am trying to trust You. I know that You will provide for us. I admit I’m afraid of just how You’ll provide, but I trust You. I’ll try not to be such a coward. I’ll try not to demand things my way. But, please, Father, let us stay together. Please, let us be a family. Please, don’t take the little ones from me. I trust You. I trust You. I want to trust You.

  Morning came with the usual tasks Tildie had learned to expect. She was stirring a pot when a shadow fell across her, and she looked up to see an elder with the Indian who followed her standing at his shoulder. She quickly rose and faced them.

  The elder looked her over and nodded his approval.

  “You need a man,” he stated flatly, surprising her by speaking English.

  Oh God, give me the right words. I must answer carefully.

  Assurance came to her. She did not need a man. As a child of God, she was in His care. Even though her faith had been weak of late, she knew that His care was far superior to the care of any man.

  Confidently she shook her head and spoke softly. “No, I have Someone.”

  The older man turned and spoke briefly to the younger Indian. They walked away, leaving Tildie relieved that it had taken so little to turn them from their purpose.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tildie looked up as the other women began to stand and prattle. She followed a pointing finger to a giant white man striding into the village beside an Indian.

  A Swede, thought Tildie immediately as she observed him. No other race towers over others in that golden aura like the Swedish people back home in Indiana.

  A large, reddish-gold dog followed the two travelers. The dog had a peculiar backpack, carrying part of the load for his master.

  The white man smiled easily as he exchanged greetings with many of the tribe. Several children dashed out to pet the dog, exclaiming happily as they trotted beside the two men and the dog.

  Tildie had never seen a man so stunning. His straight blond hair hung down over his collar. With a healthy tan, he was still fair beside the swarthy Indians. Straight nose, firm lips, and squarish chin, he was handsome. His expression radiated warmth. His light-colored eyes smiled on those around him. Dressed in buckskins and homespun cloth, with dark leather boots nearly to his knees, he looked magnificent.

  Tildie started walking toward him, vaguely thinking that this was a white man, and a white man would surely speak English. He would help her and the children. She caught Evie up in her arms as she passed and reached out to take Mari’s hand to pull her along. By the time he reached the chief’s tepee, she’d broken into a run.

  Something one of the Indians said drew his attention to her. He turned, watching her. She came to a halt, suddenly unsure. Her eyes searched his. Would this stranger help? Could he get them out of the Indian village? He smiled, and she recognized the smile.

  Odd, but her brother had had just that kind of smile, thin lips that tilted into a crooked smile, full of charm and good humor. Tildie felt as if her own brother had come to rescue her. She ran again as fast as she could, encumbered by the little girls. The crowd of Indians to one side parted, allowing Boister to join her. He ran, too.

  Tildie crossed the last few yards, hurling herself into the white man’s arms. Distrustful, Boister shed his wariness and grabbed one of the giant’s legs and Mari, the other. Tildie buried her face against his chest. She cried with relief.

  It felt right to be in his strong arms. His tall frame provided a bulwark to cling to. Larger, sturdier, safer than any man she could recall, he must have stooped to embrace them. She felt his chin upon her head. She heard him laugh and wondered how it could all be so natural.

  Finally embarrassed, she leaned back. He wiped tears from her face with gentle fingertips. The villagers crowded around them, rejoicing as they witnessed what appeared to them a happy reunion. The Indians’ smiling faces, their strange words of joy surrounded her. She looked up with bewilderment at the white man.

  “I came as soon as I heard you were here,” he explained.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “These are my friends. I learned their language when I lived with them four winters ago. I wasn’t very fluent back then. When I tried to tell them that I didn’t want one of their Indian maidens, that my God had chosen a woman for me, they thought I already had a wife, not that I was waiting to find her. When you knelt to pray as they’d seen me do, they decided you were my woman. They haven’t seen many people kneel to pray.

  “My name is Jan Borjesson. You have a boy named Boister?” At her nod, he continued. “They decided he’s my son because the names sound alike. That would make sense to them. Moving Waters came to my cabin with the wonderful news that my woman had arrived from the East.”

  Tildie’s head went down. She couldn’t look the handsome stranger in the face. She stared at his feet and felt herself blushing. She knew it wasn’t a delicate flush, but a searing red, covering her neck and cheeks. She could feel the warmth of her embarrassment and was embarrassed even more by the rosy betrayal of her emotions. The stranger, Jan Borjesson, squeezed her shoulders
and laughed.

  “I’m a missionary, and I’ll get you and your children out of here. We’ll talk later about where you want to go. Now, I must sit with the elders of the tribe and talk. They’ll probably want me to stay a few days to tell them stories from the Book, then I’ll take you to the nearest white settlement. Take your children back to your tepee.” He gave her a little shake at the same time using a finger to raise her chin. She had to look at him. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  He smiled, and Tildie felt that everything would, indeed, be all right. She thanked God as she herded the children away from the center of the village.

  “Who is he?” asked Boister.

  “Could you call him Pa till we get out of here, Boister?” Tildie asked. She knew he’d been listening so that he really knew as much as she did. The important thing was to aid the stranger in their release from the Indians. Surely the Indians would let the little family go peacefully. They’d never shown any hostility toward her or the children.

  Boister looked over his shoulder and studied the white man. He stood taller than the tallest of the warriors.

  Boister’s solemn face reflected the seriousness of his thoughts. He’d never given John Masters the privilege of being called Pa. This stranger had done nothing to deserve the honor. He looked up at Tildie’s expectant face.

  “If you do, the little ones will,” she explained. “It’ll make it easier for the Indians to let us go.”

  “He’s going to take us away?” he asked.

  Tildie nodded. “Back to a white settlement.”

  Boister looked down at the dirt, studying his scuffed moccasins. He shrugged. “Guess so,” he said and started moving towards Older One’s tepee.

  They ate supper with Older One while the white man, Jan Borjesson, stayed with his Indian friends. Tildie hoped to talk to him soon. She sat brooding over her bowl of venison stew. Was this missionary an answer to her sporadic prayers? Had God honored her with this blessed rescue even when she had displayed so little faith? Humbly, Tildie prayed her thanks. God again demonstrated His grace, for surely she was not worthy of this delivery. Knowing God loved her even in her weakness spread warmth through Tildie’s heart.