Forever by Your Side

by Tracie Peterson

“My mother sent all of this for you.” Connie waited as Faith produced her bag. “Where is Ruth?”

  “I had her lie down. She said she has pain in her back.”

  Faith nodded. “Which room?”

  Ann took her to the room and opened the door. “Faith is here, Ruth. I asked her to come and see if she could help you.”

  Ruth looked pale and small. “I’m so afraid.”

  Faith smiled. “Don’t be. First babies often cause women a lot of fear, but everything will be all right.” She looked over her shoulder at Ann and Connie. “Give us a few minutes alone.”

  Ann closed the door and looked at Connie. “I’m worried about her.”

  “Then maybe we should sit down together and pray. I find that always helps.”

  “You remind me of Faith’s mother, Eletta Browning. Your aunt, I believe.”

  “Yes, she was married to my father’s brother. I never met her, but people tell me she was an amazing woman.”

  Ann nodded. “She was. She showed such great love. We were good friends. She always said prayer would change everything.”

  “It does. I’ve been so busy lately that I might have temporarily forgotten that, but now it’s uppermost in my mind.”

  Ann took Connie’s hand. “There is much we need to pray about. I fear for my people and for Ruth.”

  Connie squeezed the older woman’s hand. “I understand, but more importantly, God understands. Let’s just give it to Him.”

  The day was fairly warm. In fact, if Tom was honest, it was downright hot. It wasn’t as bad as Washington, DC, however. The humid days of summer there were unbearable at times. There were days when he could feel heat permeate from everything around him, and often he felt he was slowly being cooked alive.

  To alleviate the warmth, Tom went to the pump behind the government house and wetted his handkerchief. The cold water felt so good as he wiped his face and neck that he wetted the cloth again. As he made his way around the house, Tom caught the sound of voices through the open windows. Clint was talking to someone about the mill and processing the fallen trees. Tom was glad to hear the agent was finally doing something to help get the mill up and running. If the Indians could produce lumber, it would be a good way for them to make money and better the reservation.

  On his way back to the Browning house, he remembered that he needed pencils and turned to head to the little store. Inside, the dim light made it hard to find things, but he supposed most folks relied on memory. He found the pencils and took five of them to the clerk at the counter. The clerk seemed almost put out at having to deal with Tom’s cash rather than credit.

  “You could set up an account like everybody else,” he suggested. “Makes it easier.”

  “I prefer cash, but if that’s the way you want to do things, I suppose I can set up an account.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Doubt you’ll be here that long anyway.” He gave Tom change for his dollar.

  “I intend to be here for a long time. My job will take a while. We’re supposed to interview all of the Indians who live on Grand Ronde.”

  The clerk gave a huff and turned back to his dusting. “Might not be anyone to interview.”

  Tom wondered what he meant by that. Did he know something about the uprising? Tom started to ask, but two Indian women walked into the store, talking in a language Tom couldn’t understand. The clerk turned back around and spoke to them.

  There was nothing to do but leave. If Tom stayed, the clerk might think it curious, and if he flat-out asked what the man knew about the uprising, it could give away his other reason for being at the reservation.

  As he walked past the government house once more, Tom heard raised voices.

  “We’ll do it my way or not at all,” Clint was all but yelling.

  Several men replied in lower voices. The Indians seemed unhappy about something. Tom caught the gist of it having to do with completing their plans. Clint responded by telling them that they needed to trust him with this decision.

  Tom tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, but there was no place to hide. Needing an excuse to tarry, he let the pencils scatter on the ground. He knelt to pick them up, being slow and careful in his retrieval.

  “I know you’re anxious and everything is pretty much in place,” Clint declared. “We just need to wait for the shipment. You know as well as I do that without the proper tools, we can do nothing. The shipment should be here next Thursday. We can act after that.”

  Tom felt an icy finger go up his spine. Suspicions began to dance in his head. Was Clint talking about guns? Or was he working on seeing the mill put back together? Tom knew Connie’s family planned to help. The mill had been damaged long ago and then again in the storm. There was much required repair.

  “Now, I want you to go home and wait for my instructions. As soon as I know more, I’ll be in touch.”

  Tom quickly made his way toward the trees. He drew a deep breath and tried to settle his thoughts. He watched as the men left the house. These men were not members of the Legislature. It suddenly dawned on Tom that Clint might very well be the connection they were looking for. Someone who was white and familiar with the reservation was most likely to be heading up the planned uprising. There was no doubt someone at Warm Springs and Siletz would be involved, as well. From what Tom understood after talking to Seth Carpenter, there was an organized group of men from around the state—wealthy men who could afford to buy mercenaries as well as organizers.

  “But Clint’s family has always worked to improve conditions for the Indians.” Tom barely whispered the words. It didn’t make sense that Clint would be planning an uprising. Or did it? Perhaps he didn’t feel as devoted to helping the Indians as his father and brother did.

  By the time he reached the house, Tom had considered any number of possibilities, but all of them eventually pointed back to Clint Singleton. It was time to have a talk with Connie’s father. He knew Clint better than anyone else. If Clint was capable of such thinking, Adam Browning would surely know.

  “Will she be all right?” Ann asked as Faith came out of the back room.

  “She’s running a fever,” Faith admitted. “I think she’s caught some sort of sickness, but I can’t figure out what it is since it’s at such an early stage. Make sure she gets plenty of liquids—maybe try a little honeyed tea. Keep her here. Tell Sam you’ll take care of her, that her time is very near. I’ll slip back this evening.”

  Ann looked frightened. “Is the baby all right?”

  Faith put her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “So far everything is fine. Just make sure she stays in bed and drinks plenty.”

  Connie followed Faith to the door. Faith put her bag back into the burlap sack. “I’ll be back after dark,” Faith promised.

  Outside, the two girls walked back to the Browning house. Faith kept her voice a hushed whisper. “Ruth told me about a house where Sam goes every day.”

  “What about it?” Connie kept watch around them. Ever since her evening walk with Tom, she’d been rather spooked. She had known Tom was afraid that night, and the thought filled her with worry. Were any of them really safe if a war was about to start?

  Faith’s voice was barely a whisper. “She said it’s full of guns—rifles.”

  Connie looked at Faith. “Was she certain?”

  “Oh yes. She said Sam is always talking about the war he’s going to help start. He wants to kill as many white men as possible. He believes once the Native peoples rise up, the government will have no choice but to set them free. Ruth said she had to tell us because she doesn’t want anyone to be hurt.”

  “We need to talk to my father. And Tom too.” Connie scanned the area, more worried than ever before.

  When they cleared the trees, Connie had to fight to keep from running across the clearing. She felt a great sense of dread. What was going to happen and when? Should they leave the area? Should they call for the army?

  “Where’s Papa?” she asked as t
hey came through the back door into the kitchen. “I need to speak to him and Tom.”

  Her mother and Hope had been working at the stove, canning more jelly. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?” her mother asked.

  “There’s going to be trouble.” Connie moved from the kitchen into the dining room. “Papa, where are you?”

  “We’re in the front room,” he answered.

  When she and Faith entered the room, Connie was relieved to find that Uncle Lance and Tom were with her father. What she didn’t like was the worry in their expressions.

  “Connie says there’s going to be trouble,” Mama said from behind her.

  It was only then that Connie realized her mother and aunt had followed her and Faith into the living room.

  “What do you know?” Tom asked.

  “Faith was tending Sam Sheridan’s wife, over at Ann’s house. I’ll let her explain.”

  They all looked at Faith.

  “Ruth said there’s a house where Sam goes every day. She said it’s full of rifles for the war that’s being planned. The war to kill all white people.”

  Chapter 16

  It was hard to know what to do. No one had any idea where this house might be. Papa suggested the women pack up and return to Portland, but no one knew how that could be accomplished without arousing suspicion.

  “It’s clear we can’t do anything drastic without causing people to wonder why,” Uncle Lance said. “Maybe we could spread the word that we’re leaving. That our visit is over, and we’re heading home and taking Mercy and Connie with us to see the rest of the family. That would make total sense.”

  Papa nodded. “It would. I like that idea. Especially since you planned to leave in a couple of days anyway.”

  “Meanwhile, we can just go about our business,” Mama suggested. “Faith can go with Hope and me to gather herbs. That will give us an opportunity to search areas that aren’t well traveled.”

  “I used to be a fairly decent tracker,” Lance added. “I’ll go along and keep an eye out for signs of foot traffic. No one will think it strange for me to be there to guard the women.”

  Papa nodded. “That sounds good. Connie and Tom can move about doing interviews. There’s one couple, the Menards, who live not far from the river to the east. They’re past the other landholdings, so you’ll need to ride. Maybe take the wagon. James Menard is a good friend. Tell him we need information—that I have asked. See if he knows about any strange things going on. Ask if he knows about a house where weapons are being kept, and tell him it must remain a secret between us. He can be trusted.”

  “I could go visit them alone,” Tom suggested.

  Connie could see he was concerned about her. “I know the place. It’s not easy to find. I need to go with you.”

  Tom shrugged. “If I look lost, no one will suspect that I’m doing anything untoward. That might well work to our benefit by giving me the chance to look around.”

  “I’m not going to sit here doing nothing. I’m going to the Menards’, and that’s that.” Connie went to get her satchel. “With or without you.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Let me get a loaf of fresh bread for you to take to them.”

  Connie and Tom arrived at Christine and James Menard’s house after a roundabout journey. They had chosen to ride on horseback since horses could travel where there were no roads, unlike a wagon. They’d hardly spoken on the road, and Connie worried that she’d upset Tom.

  They dismounted and secured their horses, but before approaching the house, Connie took hold of Tom’s arm. “I’m sorry if I made you angry.”

  “What?” He shook his head. “I’m not angry.”

  “Oh. I thought perhaps I’d upset you by insisting I come along.”

  “No, not really.” The edges of his lips rose slightly. “I’m used to your bossiness.”

  “I just want to get to the truth as soon as possible, and I think we must all work together.”

  “Hello there,” a man said, coming around the side of the house. “Can I help you?”

  Connie stepped forward. “Do you remember me, Mr. Menard? I’m Adam and Mercy Browning’s daughter, Connie. I’ve returned after being gone for seven years. My friend Tom and I have been hired to make a record of the Indians at Grand Ronde.”

  “I heard about that.” He smiled and ushered them into the house. “Welcome to our home. Your father is my good friend,” he told Connie. “He mentioned last week that you’d be coming to see us sometime. You can call me James.”

  A beautiful Indian woman appeared from a back room. She had a small boy clinging to her apron.

  “This is my wife, Christine, and our son, Ned.”

  Connie soon learned that Christine and James were Clackamas Indians in their forties. Their house on the far east side of the reservation came with several hundred acres that they put up in hay each year, along with a small amount of wheat. They had three children—two were girls in their teens, and the boy was just three.

  “Our girls are helping the nuns today,” James explained.

  “My mother sent this bread,” Connie said, remembering to take the loaf from her satchel.

  Christine took the bread. “You must thank her for me.”

  Connie nodded. Her mind was ever on the rifles. “Are there any other houses nearby? I didn’t see any as we approached.”

  “The Monadas are fairly close. They are Kalapuya. And there are other Clackamas, but not too close,” James explained.

  “No other houses? Maybe something small that hasn’t been around long?” Tom asked.

  James shook his head. “No. I’d know if there were.”

  Connie liked the couple from the start. They remembered life before the tribes were moved to Grand Ronde and were eager to tell what they remembered. They had just married in 1856 and lived near the Willamette River when their tribe was forced to leave, but unlike many of the other Indians, they bore little bitterness.

  “We love your mother and father, Connie,” Christine told her. “They were so good to us. When we had no food and everyone was starving, your father did what he could to bring in supplies. He didn’t ask for money either. He gave to the people without charging. The agent told him not to do that—that the government would provide.” She shook her head. “But they only sent flour and salt. No meat. Your people brought us cattle and sheep.”

  “And chickens,” her husband said, smiling. “I like your mother’s fried chicken very much.”

  Connie laughed and nodded with great enthusiasm. “So do I.”

  “But my favorite is salmon,” James added. “Your father brought us baskets full of salmon. He saw us through in those early years.”

  “The salmon were everything to us,” Christine explained. “When we lived on the Willamette River not far from the falls, my father was one of the best fishermen. He would lash long poles together and secured them under the large rocks. This let him go out over the falls at different levels, where he could catch fish with his net.” Her voice was filled with pride as she continued. “There was only one better fisherman, and that was my husband. He and my father had contests to see who could catch more salmon.” She smiled at James, and Connie smiled at Tom.

  She hadn’t expected to catch him watching her, but his blue eyes captured her with such intensity that for a moment she couldn’t look away. What was he thinking? Was he worried?

  “We were happy then.” Christine shifted her son as his eyes grew heavy. He put his head on her shoulder.

  The sound of Christine’s voice drew Connie back into the conversation. “I understand you made wonderful canoes.” She looked down at her journal, pencil poised to write. “Tell us about those.”

  James picked up the conversation. “We made many good canoes, and not just for the river. They were used as coffins too. When a person died, we would put them in a canoe and lash them in with their favorite things, and then put the canoe up in the trees along the falls on either side of the river.”
r />   “How did you make the canoes?” Tom asked. “Describe them to me.”

  “We would find a large cedar log,” James replied. “We would strip the bark, then sand the wood until it was smooth. Woodworkers used fire to hollow them out. It made it much easier to carve. The front of the canoe had a shovel-nose.” He held out his hand to Tom for the journal and pencil. Tom handed both over. “They were twenty to twenty-five feet long. You could put hundreds of pounds in a canoe—even a dozen or more men. And some were carved with the most amazing patterns.” He drew quickly on the journal page, then handed it back to Tom.

  Connie leaned over to see what James had drawn. It was quite good and easy to see that it was a canoe.

  “Thank you,” Tom said, smiling. “This is very good.”

  James seemed pleased. He was far and away one of the more friendly men they had encountered.

  “Did your mothers and fathers make the march to Grand Ronde?” she asked.

  Christine shook her head. “No. There was much sickness. They died in 1855. That year the Clackamas people signed a paper that deeded our lands to the white man. They promised to pay our people two thousand five hundred dollars a year for ten years.” She shook her head and looked down at her lap. “But they never did.”

  Connie nodded, not knowing what else to say. There were stories of such failed arrangements among many of the tribespeople. Apparently the government was poor at keeping its word. No wonder the tribes at Grand Ronde were considering war as an option.

  “Thank you for your time,” Tom said, getting to his feet. “It’s getting late, and we need to return home. Could we come again another time?”

  James nodded. “It is good to tell old stories and remember the days when we were still a free people. You can come again tomorrow.”

  Connie gathered her things and put them in the satchel she had taken to carrying when they made their rounds. Christine stood and placed the now-sleeping Ned on a pallet of blankets.

  “I must leave now,” James said. He glanced at Christine. “I will be back later after I help Paul with his hay.” He nodded to Tom and then Connie. “You are always welcome, and I will tell the others good things about you.”