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

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

  “She never saw a square dance.”

  “You never saw a square dance either.” Mari’s jaw set in a defiant line.

  “I did,” said Boister. “You just don’t remember.”

  “That’s enough. You’ll have little imps dancing all over the house with your contentious words.” Jan’s voice interrupted their debate. “Let me put your cousin in her chair, and I’ll tell you an Arapaho Indian tale.”

  Boister pushed the chair they had padded with deer skins over closer to the fireplace, and the girls pulled their pallet over as well. Instead of placing Tildie in the chair, Jan sat in it and kept her in his lap.

  “Many years ago, the buffalo left the Arapaho. The women of the Arapaho frowned with worry. The children of the Arapaho cried with hunger. The chiefs of the Arapaho turned to Black Robe, a medicine man of great power. Black Robe didn’t have the magic to call the buffalo back to the plains without at least one buffalo to use his magic on. He decided to ask Cedar Tree for help and sent the mighty warrior west to hunt the buffalo.

  “Cedar Tree hunted for many days and finally he saw black forms upon the horizon. He traveled eagerly toward what he hoped would be buffalo, but as he got closer, he began to doubt that he had found the buffalo. Then one of them spread wings and flew into the sky. Soon all the black forms sprouted wings. Clearly, they were ravens taking flight.

  “Discouraged, Cedar Tree returned to the village and told Black Robe what he’d seen. The medicine man was greatly displeased.

  “‘Don’t you know, Cedar Tree, that you have been tricked by your own thoughts. You did see buffalo. If you had remained firm in your belief, you could have walked among them and slain the biggest to save our tribe from starvation. Instead, you let them trick you into thinking they were black birds. You allowed them to fly away.’

  “The Arapaho village suffered. One old woman took off her moccasins and boiled them to make soup. Her uncle, Trying Bear, an even older Indian, did not like the taste of his dinner and set off to find something else to put in the pot. He was so old he did not even have weapons.

  “Trying Bear passed Black Robe sitting on a rock. Black Robe gave the old man a bow and arrow and told him he was to hunt until he found something, even if it was only the carcass of a buffalo long dead with only scraps of dried flesh clinging to the bone.

  “Trying Bear hunted a long time and did find a dried buffalo carcass. He had no need to shoot it with an arrow, so he shot the arrow straight into the sky in celebration. The arrow landed back in the camp and Black Robe knew the old man had found what was needed.

  “Black Robe painted his black pony white because this was part of his magic. Many Arapaho warriors followed Black Robe because they wanted to see what he would do. The medicine man traveled until the sun was high in the sky, then he came upon Trying Bear waiting patiently beside the dead buffalo. Black Robe took his magic eagle feather and threw it, point first, into the bones of the dried buffalo. Immediately, a live buffalo rose out of the dead one.

  “Black Robe turned to Trying Bear, impatient because the old man just sat there.

  “‘Shoot it,’ he commanded.

  “Trying Bear shot it.

  “Black Robe turned to the Arapaho who had followed him. ‘Do you see the ravens flying down to land in the field beyond the hill? Go shoot the buffalo you find there.’

  “The men went over the hill and found the buffalo that had so long hidden from them. There was a great feast of thanksgiving in the village lasting many days.”

  “Did they see the dead buffalo turn into the live one?” asked Boister.

  “They said so,” answered Jan.

  “Is it real?” asked Mari.

  “What do you think?” asked Jan.

  Marilyn turned to her big brother for his verdict.

  “Only God can do a miracle. It’s a story.”

  Jan nodded. “What truth is in that story? Why tell it?”

  Boister scrunched up his face while he thought. “If you want to help, you can help even if you aren’t the best hunter. You have to do what you’re told to do.”

  Jan smiled and roughed up Boister’s hair. “Right, and I told those Indians who told me that tale that God has many stories in His Book that says that God uses the weak to dumbfound the mighty.”

  “Like Joshua,” said Boister, “at the Battle of Jericho.”

  “And Gideon leading a handful of men to defeat an army,” added Tildie.

  “David,” said Mari, “and Go-li-uff.”

  “Jesus,” Evie said and clapped her hands.

  “Yes,” said Jan. “Even Jesus came as a poor baby, not a mighty warrior. That confused the Jews.”

  Evie stood up and went to stand beside Jan. She pushed at Tildie with her little hand.

  “My turn,” she said, sticking her lower lip out in a pronounced pout. “Tildie, get up!”

  Jan laughed. “You don’t really want to sit tamely in my lap.” He stood up and gently placed Tildie in the chair. “Since Tildie can’t dance yet, why don’t you and I do a jig?”

  He lifted the little girl into his arms and twirled her around the room while singing a lively song in Swedish. Boister grabbed Mari by the hands, and the two spun around and ‘round, not really keeping step to the music.

  Tildie clapped her hands and hummed along. Happy, she considered the many good times between them. Now, if she could only get up out of the chair and help more in the cabin.

  Their days began to take on a routine. Jan carved shallow trays from a slab of wood and filled them with sandy dirt. Daily, Tildie taught the children to write their letters in the trays. Jan read from his books or told stories. Tildie exercised her legs with Jan’s help, then with two crutches Jan and Boister made for her. Slowly, she gained enough strength to stand on her own and walk.

  “I’m going down to Fort Reynald to get some supplies,” Jan announced one night as they lay in bed, he on the pallet, and she on the pine needle mattress.

  “How long will you be gone?” Tildie didn’t like the idea, and a plaintive tone invaded her voice.

  “About a week.”

  “Jan, what do we need so badly?”

  “Flour, salt, and I’ll try to get Christmas presents for the children. Maybe there’ll be some material and you can make dresses for the girls.”

  “Is it really necessary?”

  “I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think so, and I trust you’ll be all right. The weather’s been so warm, there’s little snow on the ground. It’s best that I go now, while I still can.” He reached up and patted her hand reassuringly. “Boister’s become right handy. You’re strong enough now almost to walk without those crutches. I’ll even leave Gladys with you.”

  She grasped his hand. “Jan, come up here. Please. I don’t want to talk to you when you’re so far away.”

  “All of two feet.”

  “Please.”

  “No, honey, it’s not a good idea.”

  “Jan,” she pleaded.

  “Enough, Tildie. Be quiet, or I’ll go to sleep with the horses.”

  “They’d step on you.”

  “As you’re stepping on my heart right now. Don’t ask such a thing of me, Tildie.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He rose and gathered her in his arms to kiss her with all the longing that drove him crazy. He released her and sat back as far away from her as the tiny space would allow. “Do you understand, Tildie? I’ll be wanting us to marry just as soon as I get back.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m going to sleep out with Boister and Gladys.” He quickly rolled up his pallet. “Good night, honey.”

  “Good night, Jan.”

  In the morning, they helped him get his things together. He readied Horse and Greedy Gert. He would ride on Gert and use Horse to pack out furs they had ready, but didn’t need to use themselves.

  He kissed Tildie and the girls good-bye, then gave Boister a sturdy hug. “Take care of them for me. If the weather
turns bad, it may take me a little longer to return. You’re not to worry, and don’t let the women worry either.”

  Boister grinned, accepting the responsibility eagerly.

  Jan rode off into the sunshine, following the path that led to a game trail down the mountain. The fine day begged Tildie to bring her chair outside, so they did their letters and sums in the dirt together. Evie drew pictures with her stick beside her older brother and sister. They were so peaceful in their endeavors that two chipmunks scampered on a log near the door with no fear.

  Tildie gave thanks for the beauty that surrounded them and prayed safety for Jan.

  CHAPTER 13

  Established by fur traders, raucous Fort Reynald held not a single woman within its walls. Situated on the Arkansas River at the best ford for miles up or down the river, it catered to the rugged mountain men and traded with Indians for buffalo skins.

  Jan went to trade his furs at the long, low shack with the hand-scrawled sign claiming, “Mercantile.” He found brightly colored material for the girls’ dresses. Since the Indians favored the pretty calicoes, the dealer had a good variety. Jan got plenty to make the girls’ dresses and maybe a shirt for Boister. He also bought a rifle, intending to take the boy hunting.

  The owner also had an assortment of oddities gathered when the mountain men traded for supplies. Jan looked them over, searching for a ring to surprise Tildie when they wed. There was none. He bought a knife for Boister, a hair ornament worked in leather for Marilyn, and a little copper pot with a lid for Evie. He bought enough forks and spoons so all of them could have their own when they sat down to dinner. They’d been using wooden spoons that he had whittled.

  One spoon stood out among all the others. It was obviously silver with a slender handle and a floral design at its end. Although tarnished, Jan knew it would serve the function he had in mind. He smiled as he added it to his selections.

  Next, he went over to the side of the building that stored the grocer goods.

  “You be the preaching Swede, be you not?” asked a man with a thick French accent. He sat on a barrel behind the counter, his feet propped up on a stack of boxes marked “salt.” A heavyset man, not fat, his short frame bulged with massive muscles. His dark beard straggled from a swarthy face. His greasy hair matched his old, worn clothes in filth. He’d whittled a toothpick and passed it back and forth across his row of yellowed teeth as he spoke.

  Jan looked into the small, shifty eyes of Armand des Reaux. “My name’s Jan Borjesson. I’ve traded here before.”

  “Heard you lived with the Indians.” The grocer’s voice held a note of disdain.

  “I’ve lived with several tribes.”

  “Arapaho?” Des Reaux spit out the word.

  “Yes.”

  “You being an Indian-lover, I suppose they’d give you something valuable if it came their way?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “A white woman, say a young white woman.” Des Reaux rose from his seat and leaned menacingly over the makeshift counter.

  His attitude drew the attention of the men swapping tales around the potbellied stove. They stopped to listen to the exchange at the counter. Many of them had heard des Reaux brag about how his bed would be warmed this winter.

  “I’ve just collected my family from Chief Two Bear’s camp. Is that what you’re referring to?” Jan responded quietly, seemingly undisturbed by the questions.

  Des Reaux snorted. “Seems improbable a man who lives in the mountains, travels over the plains living with Injuns, does a little fur trading on the side, should all of a sudden acquire a wife and three shavers.”

  The dirty Frenchman shrugged as if he was merely relating an interesting bit of speculation, but Jan knew better. Menace underlined every word.

  “Now, I was expecting a bride this summer,” continued des Reaux. He stood polishing one of the many knives from his display case. “She was being brought to me by a friend.” He paused and looked directly at Jan. “A friend who never made it.”

  Des Reaux carefully put the knife down and picked up a bigger, wicked-looking blade before he spoke again. “I traded with Drescher a while back, and he’s friendly with your Arapaho.”

  Jan nodded. “I know Drescher.”

  “He tells me that the Arapaho took on a young white woman with three kids. This most unusual event happened just about the time my bride was to come. Very unusual, don’t you think?”

  “My friend Moving Waters,” Jan said distinctly, “came to get me. He recognized whose family had come to their camp.”

  “Not many white women in this territory.” The words dismissed Jan’s explanation as if he hadn’t even spoken. The Frenchman suddenly leaned back, but rather than easing the tension, the move charged the air. In the same way a mountain lion drawn back to spring on his prey flexes his muscles, he turned the knife in his hand over and over in a rhythmic motion.

  “Was your bride bringing you three children to rear?” asked Jan.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no.” Des Reaux sneered.

  “And the name of your bride?” asked Jan, wondering just how much the man knew about John Masters’ niece.

  Des Reaux’s eyes narrowed with hatred. “What would be the name of this woman you got from the Arapaho?”

  “Tildie. The children are Henry, Marilyn, and Evelyn. Have you any more questions before we get around to the salt, flour, salt pork, and beans I came for?”

  Des Reaux reached behind him and Jan tensed for action, but the Frenchman merely put down the knife and pulled out a pad of paper, slamming it down on the countertop.

  “I don’t know you. I’ll want hard cash for your goods.” The words delivered implied an insult but Jan ignored them and got down to the business of acquiring the things he wanted. The grocer scratched out the charges on his paper and totaled the sum.

  It seemed high to Jan, and he asked to see the list. The men behind him once more abandoned their talk to watch the next episode. A fight would relieve the monotony.

  Jan found an error in addition and pointed it out. He was on the alert. The Frenchman might have made an honest mistake, but it was more likely he meant to cheat him or provoke a fight. Des Reaux shook his head and smiled. Somehow the smile was not reassuring.

  “I have made a mistake. We all make mistakes. Is it not so, Monsieur? Some mistakes, however, are more costly than others.”

  Jan felt a frisson of warning and prayed that God’s angels would protect him from this wicked man, for now Jan was sure that the trader was not merely unpleasant, but truly evil. He prayed to be alert to the danger and ready to protect himself. The Frenchman was plotting some revenge. Even if he was unsure that Jan had taken the woman he planned to marry, he hadn’t liked being pointed out in error over the bill.

  Jan took his purchases to one of the outer buildings where he expected to spend the night. Still within the compound of the fort, the boardinghouse had several rooms where lodgers slept side by side on the floor. After looking over the accommodations, he decided to sleep with the horses in the livery. The bedding was filthier than the last time he’d been in Reynald, and he didn’t wish to itch all night and carry bed bugs back with him.

  “Now, I don’t mind the company,” said the young man who ran the stable. His speech was more formal than the usual in the west. He delivered it with great precision and a thick British accent. “But I’ll be charging you for the stall just as if you put another horse in here.”

  Jan laughed, for the small Englishman had a cocky smile on his unlined face and was friendlier than most of the inhabitants of Reynald. He was by far cleaner, as well, than the old codgers around the fort.

  “I don’t mind paying. The hay here is cleaner than the blankets at the house.”

  “I’ve been told that before. It might not be as warm here as it is in the house, but few of the horses snore.”

  “My name is Jan Borjesson. I don’t believe you were here the last time I was through.”

&nbs
p; “My name’s Henderson. I came to the territory in late March, and now I shall most likely reside here forever.” He sighed as if admitting a great sorrow in his life.

  “Why is that?” asked Jan, intrigued by the man’s sudden gloom.

  “Have a seat, and I’ll tell you a sad story.”

  Jan pulled up a small, empty nail barrel, sat down, and leaned back against the stall door where Greedy Gert ate her dinner. He noted that the Englishman had perked up at his interest and didn’t look particularly despondent about the prospect of telling his sad tale.

  “Cup of tea?” Henderson offered.

  “Thanks.” Jan took the warm mug of strong, sweetened tea.

  “My story starts in London. I was the butler to the Earl of Dredonshire as was my father before me. The earl died and the new earl was a bit of a scoundrel. I had it in my mind that I didn’t want to settle down to the same life my father had. I decided to cross the Atlantic and start fresh in a new country.

  “I was seasick to the point of offering fellow passengers all my worldly goods if they’d just end my life in a quick and painless way. One more day at sea, and there would have been no need to employ their services.”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever been plagued with that particular ailment,” commiserated Jan. “Of course, I’ve never been on the ocean—just Lake Erie.”

  “Please, let us not mention any body of water bigger than a mud puddle.”

  Jan laughed.

  “I lay torpid—”

  “Torpid?” Jan interrupted.

  “Oh, definitely torpid, dear sir,” said the ex-butler.

  Jan saw the gleam of subtle humor in the young Englishman’s eye and liked him better for it.

  “I lay torpid in New York City,” Henderson began again, “until I could stand once more. Then, I felt the inclination to come deeper into the country. I heard of prairies so wide, you could walk days and not come across another human.”

  Jan nodded for that was certainly true.

  “Unfortunately, I got sick on the train. Indeed, it was not as bad as when I was on the ship, but my constitution just isn’t made for traveling.