The Holy Warrior (28 page)

“And this is my son, Sky.” Again the eyes flickered. “Fine looking boy.”

“And this is Caroline Greene, and her sister, Melissa, and their brother, Asa.”

Small drew himself up to his full height, but still was not quite as tall as Missy. He smiled at them both. “A pleasure! A great pleasure! We have looked forward to this—I’ve heard such good things about your father!” He shook his head and added quickly, “Such a loss! But”—he smiled again and drew his shoulders back—”The work must go on. I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you having a part in this great endeavour to carry the gospel to the savages.” Chris winced slightly at the last word, but Dove’s face was expressionless.

He bustled around, calling the names of the rest of the party who came forward to meet the newcomers. Chris found they were pretty much as Barney Sinclair had described them.

John Spencer was a tall fine-looking man of thirty-two; his wife Lorene was younger, very small with a fair complexion and large blue eyes.

Karl Shultz was almost as tall as Chris, and much heavier. He was like a draft horse, massive and slow to move and to speak.
Too big for a man—and not big enough for a horse
was the way Barney had put it. His wife Ellen was a well-formed woman, tall and attractive with dark hair and eyes. At fourteen, Anna was much like her; while Max, a year older, was like his father, muscular and blond.

“And this is Robert Tennyson and his wife Helen. They are our musical arm.” Tennyson was small but wiry. He had been a coal miner in Wales, Chris learned later, and the arduous labor had molded his upper body into a compact mass of
muscle. He was a fine tenor; and his wife, dark and rather plain, was a talented pianist.

“Brother Moore and his good wife Bessie.” Moore was a small, thin man with mousey hair and the squint of a nearsighted man.
Been a clerk all his life,
Sinclair had said, and he looked the part. His wife was overweight, and her fair skin was already burned and peeling.
A good woman—but she’s got a tongue long enough to set in the parlor and lick the skillet in the kitchen!
Chris chuckled under his breath, remembering Barney’s remark.

The single men came forward: Neal Littlejohn, a heavy-set man with a cheerful face—and a nose that made Chris suspect he had been a heavy drinker—and Leon Prince, a man of average height who hid his features behind a massive beard.

“Well, let’s have supper,” Small said after introductions were made, and the group moved toward the wagon. The meal was good and Small did most of the talking. He was full of “the mission,” and as he talked Chris eyed the size of the wagons, noting how heavily they were loaded.

When the meal was almost over, talk turned to the trip that lay ahead of them. “I know it will be hard,” Small remarked, and he waved toward the wagons, “but these wagons are the best that money could buy—specially built just for this mission work. Gift of a wealthy manufacturer in New York—a convert of mine.”

Swallowing hard, Chris put his plate down and stood up and stared at the wagons. He was speechless as he thought of the distances and obstacles that lay ahead of them.

“Brother Small,” he said slowly. “Let me understand you. Do you mean you intend to take these wagons overland to the Yellowstone country?”

“Why, certainly!” Small stopped and stared at Chris. “There’s never been any question about that.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to question it,” Chris said; and instantly he saw Small’s eyes grow hard and his
shoulders set defensively. “This train will never make it. Not in those wagons. We’ll never make it—it’s never been done.”

“Oh, I don’t think we need worry about that, Brother Winslow.” Small waved his hand, adding, “This is God’s work. He will see that we get there.”

Chris stared, incredulous. “When Lewis and Clark were commissioned by President Jefferson to chart the purchase this country made from Napoleon, they could have gone any way they wanted, because the government was paying all expenses. But, as I’m sure you know, they refused to go overland. They took small boats up the Missouri in 1803. And even with hardened French boatmen and little baggage, they had trouble.”

Small settled back on his heels and rocked slightly. Clearly, this was to be a test of wills. With a stubborn set to his jaw, he said loudly, “No doubt, but there is now a way overland. You’ve not heard of it, I dare say.”

Chris thought of the miles of desert, the steep canyons, the upthrusting Tetons, and shook his head. “I don’t know who’s been talking to you, but he’s wrong.”

At that moment a horseman appeared, coming out of the grove that grew fifty yards back from the river. “Here’s our guide, Brother Winslow.” A sudden sly smile touched Small’s full lips. “He tells me you two are acquainted.”

Chris stiffened as the rider stopped his horse and slid to the ground. He was a tall man, heavy in the shoulders and in the flanks. The worn buckskins he had seemed molded to his muscular build, and he wore a trapper’s round fur hat and a pair of moccasins. He was a virile man, full of animal strength and energy that seemed to spill over as he moved. He stopped and stared across the fire, and the buzz of conversation stopped abruptly until the lastcomer broke the silence. “Hello, Winslow.”

“Hello, Ring.”

He remembered Ring Tanner well. Years ago the two had narrowly avoided a fight at his first rendezvous. Tanner had
drawn a smaller man into a fight, then whipped him unmercifully. But when he started to kick at the man, Chris had offered himself as a substitute. “C’mon, Ring—pick on someone your own size,” he’d said, and for a moment he saw the desire flare in Tanner’s eyes. Only the size of Chris—and his reputation—had made Ring back down. Chris had heard several times later that the bully had boasted about what he would do to him the next time they met.

“This is the man who says he can guide you across the desert to the Yellowstone? Don’t you believe it,” Chris stated flatly, staring into Tanner’s eyes.

“He comes highly recommended.”

“You always was a sorehead, Winslow,” Ring Tanner retorted. “You got a big reputation, but at least I didn’t have to marry no squaw to get my beaver!”

For one instant a red rage flared in Chris’s eyes, clouding his judgment and inducing Tanner to unsheathe his knife. Small cried out, “Here! None of this! Winslow, I’m ashamed of you! A minister of the gospel acting in this fashion!”

Chris took a deep breath, then nodded, forcing himself to say, “Sorry.” He looked at Tanner, determination in his eyes. “You can take your people overland if you like—but I’m going to hire a keelboat for my family.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Small said smoothly. “I have a letter for you from Bishop Asbury. He says that you will submit yourself to my orders. If you do not, you will no longer be a Methodist minister.”

Chris looked at him, stunned. “I’ll pray about it, but I can tell you now, neither Tanner nor any other guide can get these wagons through.” Then he added, “We’ll camp downstream. Perhaps we can find some way to fix things.”

He walked away, followed by his family, and as soon as they were out of hearing, a loud debate sprang up. Some were fearful of what Winslow had said, but Tanner insisted, “He don’t know nothin’. He ain’t never been through that desert like I have. But he’s a stubborn one. He won’t go.”

Rev. Small stroked his chin and nodded. “Oh, I think he will, Tanner.” He smiled, adding, “He values his calling—and Bishop Asbury made the matter clear. Winslow will go, or give up the ministry—and he’ll never do that!”

CHAPTER TWENTY

ON THE TRAIL

“I can’t make this decision alone.” Chris looked around the small fire at each face. The air beside the river was still and heavy, so that the smoke curled upward slowly as if reluctant to leave the blaze. The other camp, only a hundred yards away, was quiet. Dove usually said nothing, but she nodded slightly, and said, “The man is foolish. Even The People would not start across the great dry space now. There is no water for the horses—and the enemies are many and cruel.” Then she stopped herself. “But you know this. I will go if you say.”

“Why don’t we just let them go their way and we’ll go ours?” Asa asked. “They ain’t none of our business—”

“Asa, I think Chris feels they really are our concern,” Missy broke in. She was sitting with her legs drawn up, her chin resting on her knees in a childlike fashion. Her eyes were enormous in the firelight. “And he’s right,” she added. “Aside from the fact that Bishop Asbury has given a direct commission, they’re our fellow Christians—and I think they need Chris more than they know.”

Chris studied her a moment, then looked at Caroline. “It’s got to be unanimous. Caroline, do you have a word from the Lord on this?”

“Oh no!” Caroline shook her head. “But,” she went on, reaching out and touching Missy’s shoulder, “Missy is right. We can’t desert them—even if they’re wrong.”

The stillness that followed, briefly interrupted by a coyote’s call rising in a series of yips, could almost be felt. Sky
was sitting back from the fire, as usual, distancing himself from the rest of the group. He studied his father’s face with a puzzled expression.

“I don’t understand,” he remarked at last, breaking the silence. Chris turned quickly to look into the eyes so much like his own. “The big man, he hates you—and the little man is keroti.” He moved his head slightly from side to side and asked Chris, “Why go with them to die?”

Chris smiled at the description of Aaron Small, and when Missy asked what keroti meant, he explained offhandedly, “Well, it’s a bird, Missy—a very small bird with lots of feathers. It puffs itself up, swelling out and strutting, trying to look bigger than it really is.” Missy giggled and Chris added quickly, “Not that I’m criticizing Brother Small, of course.”

Caroline gave a rare smile that made her face almost beautiful in the warm light of the fire. “We are bound not to speak evil of anyone, especially of the Lord’s anointed, but...” She paused, searching for a kind way to put what was in her mind. “Brother Small has been very effective in his work—but he has not realized how different this mission is going to be. He’ll come to himself, I’m sure.”

Once again Sky spoke. “The big hunter—he will not change.”

Chris looked swiftly at his son, surprised by Sky’s insight, but nodded in agreement. “That’s the trouble, son. Ring Tanner is bad medicine. He was up in the Milk River country with Tom Sellers and Milt Cannon in the dead of winter. Tom fell into a crevice and broke his leg. Well, that was rough—Milk River’s a bad country, especially in winter. Most partners would have built a hut and toughed it out till spring. But Tanner took off. Milt stayed, and he got out all right. But the point is this: If trouble comes, Tanner won’t stick.”

“Then it’s decided,” Caroline stated. “If he’s that kind of man, the people need you more than ever, Christmas.”

“I think Caroline is right, Chris,” Missy agreed.

The boys were silent, and Chris turned to Dove. He studied
her thin face. “It’s your say, Dove. The trip by boat would be a lot easier for you.”

White Dove’s face was softened by the glow of the fire, and she smiled. “You must decide. I will go with you.”

He sat there, a big shape in the flickering light, and then he got up abruptly. “All right. We’ll go with them—but we’re gonna have to pray like we’ve never prayed before. Better get some sleep. It’s going to be a hard trip—but we won’t leave for a few days.” He gave a short laugh, adding, “First item in the morning is, I go to Brother Small and eat humble pie.”

True to his word, after breakfast Chris walked over to the other camp. He knew exactly what he would say, having racked his brain the night before in order to find the right words to smooth things over. Every eye in camp was on him as he approached the leader. “Brother Small, we would like to join your wagon train if you will have us.” The preacher drew himself up, and the light of pride in his eyes assured Chris that his little speech had done its job.

“Certainly—certainly!” Small replied, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “We all make mistakes, don’t we? And I must say that your spirit of humility is a thing that’s good to see in a minister of the gospel!”

“When did you plan to leave?”

“As soon as possible!” The man turned to go.

“I’ll have to trade my horses for oxen,” Chris informed him. “These were fine for a short trip, but they won’t do where we’re headed. Oh, and Brother Small...”

The preacher turned back to look at him.

“Brother Small,” Chris said quickly, “it seems to me that some of your wagons are overloaded—and I know ours are. It might be good to take care of that here where we can sell the surplus. Be better than tossing it out later.”

Small generously conceded, and for the next two days a continuous debate went on as to what should go and what should be sold. Soon Chris discovered that the party had enough to supply a general store, including an over-supply
of bacon, flour and beans, plus an enormous quantity of useless articles: pins and needles, brooms and brushes, glass beads and hawkbells, jumping jacks and Jews’ harps, rings, bracelets, pocket mirrors, pocketbooks and boiled shirts. “Looks like a flock of birds building nests,” Chris remarked to Barney.

Finally the preparations were complete and at dawn they pulled out. Missy recorded the first weeks in her log: