“Next, I rode in a wagon. I surmised that that conveyance would be slower and wouldn’t cause me much discomfort.” The Englishman shook his head mournfully. “A wagon proved to be irrevocably and too frequently plagued by great jostling. I decided a horse might prove acceptable to my contrary stomach. This, too, proved to be disastrous.
“Mr. Borjesson, I walked the last three hundred miles to this fort, and I am ashamed to say I was stricken with yet another malady.”
“Surely, you weren’t nauseated while walking?” Jan asked incredulously.
Henderson stared down at his boot tips and sighed wearily. “No, I discovered a phobia, a weakness of character, that has doomed me to stay within the confines of this rudimentary settlement.”
“Rattlesnakes?” guessed Jan, thoroughly understanding how one could be terrified of the venomous beasts.
“No,” said Henderson wearily. “Perhaps you will understand if you know a little of my background. I was born in London. Never traveled until the day I set out for America. The most grass I’d seen at one time was in the London parks. The aristocrats prefer beautifully kept, tidy bits of lawn. Groomed, you might say, to match the cosmopolitan style of the populace.
“On the ship, I rarely came above deck. Those few times I did, the sight of the expanse of ocean quickly heaved my stomach. In New York, there were buildings to which I was accustomed. On the train, I rarely looked out the window since the countryside speeding by adversely affected my internal organs.
“I rode inside the wagon, and I stayed mounted on the horse for less than a day. At this point, I was bound to my companions by the sheer circumstance that I could not return east on my own, not knowing anything about the country or how to survive. For weeks I walked in utter agony, every moment fighting as panic rose within my breast, threatening to drive me mad. Once within these wooden barricades, I was able to resume a more equable demeanor.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jan. “Were you afraid of Indians, wild beasts, renegades?”
“The open space, Mr. Borjesson. The great endless expanse. The complete infinity of the horizon. It is a completely irrational fear. Totally beyond my abilities to subdue.”
CHAPTER 14
Jan watched the Englishman’s display of total dejection. The man used a great deal of self-effacing humor in the telling of his tale, but there was an underlying melancholy that rang true. Jan tried to imagine the grip of such a terror and found it difficult. To fear being out in the open? Preposterous!
Of course, he knew many a man who broke out in a cold sweat at the sound of a rattler. Jan, himself, got a chill up his spine whenever he encountered a snake. He didn’t particularly like scaling cliffs, either… but to be paralyzed with dread? The closest he could recall being in that kind of panic was when he thought Tildie might slip out of his grasp into the torrential waters of the flash flood.
Henderson jumped up, startling Jan. “Enough of this! They tell me you are a family man, and des Reaux has taken a dislike to you.”
“I did get that impression,” agreed Jan.
“Not an enviable place to be,” sympathized the Englishman. “Des Reaux is a frustrated man and therefore, dangerous. He does not have the power over the fur traders he imagined when he embarked on this enterprise.”
“How do you know this?” asked Jan.
“The Frenchman drinks, and when he drinks, he talks. Since no man is his friend, he comes out to the livery and talks to his mule. A very sad state of affairs, don’t you think?”
Jan nodded his agreement, noting again the humor on Henderson’s face.
“Des Reaux is disappointed to have a man of integrity sharing his place of business. Across the room, Rodgers, in the mercantile, will not cooperate in the Frenchman’s schemes to turn a bigger profit. Des Reaux is affronted daily by the gall of honesty.
“And des Reaux ran a saloon in St. Joe. He misses the excitement. Unfortunately, he had to leave that establishment quickly. A situation turned sour over the lamentable death of one of his clients.
“A particularly unpleasant part of his exile is the lack of female companionship, and he thought that rectified. Something went wrong. The white female was not delivered. He advanced fifty dollars to an imbecile—this is the word he uses—eager for the supplies. Des Reaux made an error in judgement.
“The Frenchman is a dangerous man because he is angry over too many things. His life is full of irritations.”
“You’re saying the Frenchman bought a wife.”
Henderson shrugged, “An arranged marriage. I tell you, his heart was not engaged. He was discussing the woman with his mule one night, and he could not even remember her name. Only that it started with an M—Mary, Martha, Melissa, Margaret. He guessed them all, and none sounded right to his intoxicated brain.”
The Englishman sat abruptly on a bale of hay.
“Now,” he said, “you have heard too much about me and too much about the despicable des Reaux. I am interested in you. Do I discern in you a kindred spirit? I have heard of you, the Swedish preacher who lives among the Indians. Tell me of your adventures. I may never walk out onto the plains again, but you shall free me in my mind. I shall see the things you have seen. I shall know those whom you have known.”
“That’s a pretty tall order.”
“First then, tell me of the friends you have made among the Indians. They fascinate me.”
The two men enjoyed each other’s company and talked late into the night. Henderson shared his dinner with Jan and gave him an extra blanket to put between him and the itchy straw. In the morning, they continued their discussion while Henderson used his small forge to fashion the silver spoon handle into a ring, a Christmas present for Tildie.
Jan thought it was worthwhile to remain an extra day. Henderson began questioning what the preacher told the Indians and the opportunity arose to share the gospel with this displaced English butler.
“Henderson, you’re needed over at the boardinghouse.” A rough-looking trader interrupted their talk in the early morning.
“What is it?”
“Knifing.”
“You must excuse me, Jan,” apologized the liveryman. “I have some skill in taking care of wounds and am called upon at least twice a week to stitch up someone, pull a tooth, or remove a bullet. Please stay. I shall return as soon as is possible.”
Henderson returned an hour later and busied himself about the livery taking care of chores. Jan joined him, helping out where he could.
“My suspicions have been aroused over this knifing,” admitted Henderson. “There was no reason for the attack. No one knew of any grudge against the victim. He was a man who has often slept in one of the rooms, but this night he chose to sleep in a different room because he was finally, ‘fed up’ were the words he used, with a fellow boarder’s snoring. He was the new man in a room usually given to those who do not sleep there for more than one night.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at, Henderson.”
“Your disagreement with the French grocer. Of course, I admit to a healthy English prejudice against all things French, but Jan, the man who was knifed was of the same build as you. A very tall, lean giant of a man. Not as young or with hair as fair, but in the dark this would be indiscernible.”
“You think des Reaux was out to murder me?”
“Oh, he would not have gone himself, but he is a disreputable villain.”
“I can’t take this seriously, Henderson. How could the man profit by my death?”
“To some, it is not always necessary to profit monetarily. He may believe that your lovely Tildie is his lost betrothed. You have therefore cheated him. Too, he did not care for your easy detection of the extra profit he hoped to make by misrepresenting your bill. Such a man would relish revenge even of an imagined insult.”
“I think you’re being highly dramatic, Henderson.” Jan raised his hand to ward off Henderson’s sputtering objection. “I’ll watch my back, and I thank you
for the warning, but I’m not convinced that an innocent man was stabbed because he happened to be lying in a place where I might be sleeping.”
Henderson was slightly affronted by the disregard of his supposition. He became a very haughty Englishman for all of ten minutes, and Jan got a glimpse of how very proper an English butler could be. Henderson thawed in a short time.
Late in the evening, after several hours of spiritual talk, Henderson admitted his need for a Savior and bowed his head in submission and acceptance of the Master’s plan.
The following morning, Jan presented him with a gift. Jan tore a few pages out of an old Bible.
“I’m tearing out the book of Acts, Henderson. I’m sorry but I’ve already ripped out the gospels and given them away. You’ll find much to think on from this account of the young church. Here’s an address you can write to, and the good people I know there will send you a whole Bible.”
“Thank you, Jan.” The Englishman held the pages carefully.
Jan swung up into the saddle and, with a promise to see Henderson at the next opportunity, bid the man farewell.
“Watch your back, Mr. Borjesson,” Henderson said as he waved good-bye. “It is an American expression that I think is very apropos to your situation.”
Jan grinned over the prim and proper young man’s concern.
Two hours later he was no longer amused. He lay beside the trail with both horses gone, pressing his wadded-up shirt to a bullet hole in his shoulder.
On the plus side, he wasn’t so far from the fort that he couldn’t walk back. On the minus side, the bushwhacker had hit him twice, once in the shoulder and a crease along his scalp. He had bound the head wound with his bandanna, but it bled profusely and was slow to stop. The other bullet lodged in his shoulder and, if he was not mistaken, had broken his collarbone.
Jan leaned against the rock and wished some of his gear had fallen off the horse when he had. A canteen would be nice. The new rifle he’d purchased for Boister would be handy.
He reached in his pocket and retrieved his pocket knife. First cutting the sleeves off of his shirt, he rewadded the already soaked shirt and tied it on tight against the bullet hole. Next, he dragged himself over to what little shade an outcrop of rock and straggly scrub brush provided. He knew he was near collapse and didn’t want to wake up in worse shape. Even though the winter sun didn’t have the strength to fry him, lying unconscious beneath it at this altitude would be two more strikes against his chance of survival.
When he came to, the sun had disappeared behind the Rockies. The evening sky was still light, having taken on the aquamarine hue that would deepen to purple before the tiny pinpoints of starlight showed. The air had taken on a distinct chill and it helped clear his head.
Jan grimaced as he pulled himself to a sitting position. He maneuvered himself to sit on one of the lower rocks and looked about him for anything that would help. Jan reached out to pluck the old stems of a mountain dandelion. The dried plant could be chewed like gum, and he needed the little nourishment it would provide.
It wasn’t cold enough for him to freeze to death during the night, but he would certainly lose energy staying warm. He’d had a rest, and it probably behooved him to make progress toward the fort while he could. Jan plucked another stem and searched around for a stick to make some kind of crutch. He found one long enough to use as a cane. It was better than nothing.
Closing his eyes, Jan prayed before he hoisted his considerable frame to his feet and started the trek back to the relative safety of the fort. He owed an apology to Henderson for scoffing at his concern and hoped he’d be able to deliver it.
Think, he ordered himself. You’ve got to think straight, or you won’t get out of this. Sitting down before he fell down, Jan rested on a boulder. His mind drifted.
It had been a couple of hours, as near as he could figure. He’d concentrated on keeping his right shoulder to the mountains, not wanting to get turned around and lose time wandering.
Where was Camel Rock? Did he cross that stream by the stand of blue spruce? Jan swiped a shaky hand across his face. All the landmarks couldn’t have been swallowed up by the night. Am I passing them without seeing them? Am I lost?
Oh Father, guide my steps.
Jan moved on, forcing each foot to step forward as it came its turn.
Again, he slumped against an incline. It had been necessary to sit. For some time, he’d been fighting the dizziness. It wouldn’t be wise to fall hard upon his shoulder and start the bleeding once again. With an effort, he formed words of a prayer in his head. He needed strength. He needed guidance. He needed endurance. He needed help. Fleetingly, he thought how desperately he needed to get back to Tildie and the children before winter set in—but that was trouble for another day. Tonight, he needed to stay alive.
The morning birds brought him back to his senses. Shivering, he struggled to his feet. He must make a few miles before he ground down to a complete halt. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.
CHAPTER 15
If watching out the window could bring him back, thought Tildie, Jan would be drawn here like a moth to the lantern. She turned from the window and hobbled across to the table where the children shaped biscuit dough into odd clumps to drop in the fat to fry.
“That’s too big, Boister,” Mari said with authority. She often did kitchen chores with Tildie and felt that in this one area she had an advantage over her older brother. Since the last deep snow, Boister had joined them out of boredom.
“It’ll be all soft and gooshy in the middle, even if the outside is nice and crisp.” Mari continued to display her superior knowledge.
“I like the middle doughy,” claimed Boister. He set his lump of dough aside and pinched off another.
“Snake,” proclaimed Evie enthusiastically as she put her long piece with those to be fried.
“That’s nothing but a fat worm,” taunted Boister.
“You let imps in the house all the time,” said Mari with a fierce scowl at her brother. “Remember Jan’s story. There’s no need to be ugly to Evie. Her snakes are as good as your great lumps that’ll never cook through.”
Tildie drew out the chair and sat down at the table. She laid her crutches on the floor. She could get by in the morning without using them, but they became necessary as the day wore on and she got tired. It irked her, and she deliberately turned to distract the children from their quarrel in hopes it would also distract her from the pain in her back that ran through her hip and down the right leg. Tildie picked up a lump of dough.
“They say in Africa there are animals as big as a house. They’re called elephants and the only thing about them that is a normal size is their tail. An elephant has a tail much like a cow, only it is stuck to a body as big as this room.” She fashioned a huge lump and stuck on a tiny tail.
“His legs are like tree trunks.” She added four sturdy legs.
“He has a great, huge head, but tiny eyes.” She picked up another pinch of dough, shaping the head and putting indentations for the eyes. “And he has flapping ears on each side of his head.” The children giggled at the creature she held in her hand. “But the strangest thing is his nose, which comes out and out and out.” She pulled and pinched until she had a trunk formed. “He can use it to pick up things, squirt water he sucks up from the river, or pat his baby elephant on the head.”
“Can we fry him?” asked Boister.
“No, he’d fall apart,” said Tildie. “I’m not as good as God at making wondrous creatures. Mine won’t hold up under wear and tear.”
“It isn’t a real animal anyway,” said Boister.
“Oh, but it is,” declared Tildie. “Maybe it’s the animal the Bible refers to as the behemoth or the leviathan.”
“I thought that was a water animal,” said Boister.
“Maybe, it is. I’m not sure.” Tildie looked doubtfully at the elephant. She stood it on the table, and the weight of his body caused the legs to buckle. His h
ead fell forward and was in danger of dropping off.
“I wish Jan were here. He would know.” Mari sighed.
“He won’t come back now,” Boister announced. “Not ‘til the snow melts.”
“Is that true, Tildie? Is Jan not coming back?” Mari turned to her cousin and her eyes reflected the fear she was feeling. “Will he never come back? Will he come when the snow melts? Will he come at all?” The questions tumbled one after the other in an avalanche of apprehension. The last word came out with a sob.
Tildie reached across and gathered Mari in her arms, dropping bits of dough and shedding flour down her dress.
“He’ll come back as soon as he can, Mari, as soon as he can.”
“What if he fell off like Mama and…” She choked on the thought.
“He’s used to traveling alone. He can take care of himself. He’d want us to be brave and look after ourselves, too. We can do that,” said Tildie. She leaned away from the little girl. Still disregarding her floured hands, she took Mari’s face between her palms. “We can do that, can’t we?” Tildie looked the girl straight in the eye.
Mari stared back for a moment to gather the strength Tildie hoped she saw there. Nodding her head firmly, Mari answered, “Yes, we can!”
When the darkness came and the children were sound asleep the confidence that Tildie had manufactured for them disappeared. She lay in the bed Jan had given her and cried quietly, praying through the tears that her big Swede was not hurt, suffering someplace out on the trail. It never occurred to her that he might have just decided he didn’t want a wife and family. She knew something had happened, because Jan Borjesson had promised to come back—and so far, he hadn’t.
Mentally, she took stock of what provisions they had in the cabin. They could make it. With only one horse to feed instead of three, there was probably enough of the long meadow grass stacked for hay in the crib outside. Of course, they would have to stretch out the flour by making biscuits every other day. Would that be enough? Maybe she should say twice a week. The meat would last a long time, but they had no vegetables. Water was no problem, either. They had meat and water.
The Brides of the Old West: Five Romantic Adventures from the American Frontier Page 77
