The Holy Warrior (31 page)

He walked over to where Barney and Thad Moore stood, staring down at a broken wheel. “Ain’t no way to fix it, Thad—not without a forge,” Barney sighed.

Moore’s face, always thin, was now little more than a skull. The trail had worn him down and his nerves, never strong, were thin as wire. There was a rising note of fear in his voice as he cried, “What’ll I do! It’s all we got!”

“Take it easy, Hoss,” Chris encouraged quietly. He put his hand on Moore’s shoulder, shocked at how fragile the man was. “There’s a way out of this somehow, I reckon.”

“Never should have come to this godforsaken place!” Moore choked, tears filling his eyes. He was not far from falling off the edge, Chris saw. The worst was, Thad was not the only one acting like this. It was time to tighten up.

The women finished cooking the steaks from one of the oxen that had played out, and they washed the meat down with sips of the tepid water from their shrinking supply. It was early, and the stars glittered overhead, but the wind was hot even at night.

Brother Small led in a service: he was not the same man who had started the trip. He had lost weight and looked ill. The hardships seemed to have shaken his confidence; for once he did not preach an hour-long sermon, but read a psalm, then asked Tennyson to lead in some hymns. Their voices sounded thin and reedy on the air, and when the last note faded, Small said, “We will pray for deliverance. God is our only hope.”

The prayers were urgent, and Chris knew that it was time to make his move. After Small dismissed the meeting, Chris announced, “Before we break up, I think we better talk a bit.” Everyone looked at him expectantly as he continued. “We’re going to have to make a few changes.”

“What sort of changes?” Small frowned. He was jealous of his position, well aware that he had lost prestige. It was to Christmas Winslow that everyone looked, and Small resented it.

“We’ve lost a lot of animals, Brother Small,” Chris answered, “and we’re going to lose more. Don’t want to discourage you, but the stretch ahead of us is bad.”

“Worse than what we’ve just come through?” Spencer asked.

“Water’s scarce—and we’re pretty well whittled down, Doctor. It’s rough country, and some of the wagons are going to fall apart.”

“Can’t do much without tools and a forge,” Barney added. He looked across the fire at his friend. “What you got on your mind, Chris?”

“Have to strip the wagons down. Get rid of everything we can do without,” Chris explained. “All the furniture and farming tools—anything we can do without.”

“I don’t have any frills in my wagons, Brother Winslow. Got rid of everything that could be spared before we started.” Aaron Small drew himself up like a gamecock, his back straight and his black eyes defiant.

Chris dreaded the confrontation that was brewing, but could not back down. “Brother Small, you’re our spiritual leader—but much as I dislike having to do it, I’m going to have to insist that you join the rest of us in stripping down to the bare essentials.”

“I am down to that!”

“No, sir, you have hundreds of pounds of books, as all of us have seen.”

“I can’t leave my books out on this desert.”

“If you don’t, you may have to leave your bones here, Aaron!”

The blunt words drove the color from Small’s face, and he stammered in protest, but one look around the circle told him it was no use; he would get no support from the others. He was an intelligent man, knew that he could not press the issue without losing face, so he quickly changed his tactics. “Well... maybe I was hasty! This is a crisis—so I will submit to whatever is necessary.”

“That’s generous of you, Brother Small,” Chris rejoined. “We’ll take the best of the wagons, and those we leave we’ll strip for wheels and parts. And with fewer wagons we can
alternate the teams—give them a chance to rest, so it won’t be so hard on them. And with fewer oxen it may be easier to find a place for grazing.”

“What about water, Chris?” Tennyson voiced the chief fear of all of them.

“We’re all believers here, and now is the time to trust the Lord God,” Chris replied, and his eyes glowed with confidence. “Here’s the plan. Three of us will go ahead looking for water. We may not find a river like the Missouri, but I believe God will supply what we need.” He looked over the men, considering the prospects, then shook his head. “No—I better do the scouting.”

“You can’t cover enough ground, Chris,” Barney argued. “Let me go.”

“You’re needed here,” Chris said firmly. Then a thought struck him and he added eagerly, “My boys and I will do the scouting. That all right with you and Asa, Sky?”

Asa blinked, unable to believe his ears. “Sure it is!”

Sky nodded slowly, saying nothing.

“Why, they’re just children!” Small exclaimed. “You can’t ask them to do a dangerous thing like that!”

“Boys grow up pretty fast out here,” Chris returned evenly. “Now, let’s get these wagons stripped down.”

There was a flurry of activity as each family began to sort through the wagons. Cries of distress arose from the women as their men placed treasured items of furniture on the growing pile. Aaron Small’s face was a study in misery as he laid book after book beside his wagon. “I’m sorry, Brother Aaron,” Chris said quietly, taking the minister aside. “I know what your library means to you.”

Small looked up and tried to smile. Holding up his large black Bible, his voice choked. “I’ve still got the one that counts, Brother Winslow!” Then he dropped his voice and asked quietly, “Are we going to make it, Chris?”

It was the first time the stocky minister had ever used his first name. By stripping Small of his library, God had
stripped the man of his pride as well.
All things work together for good...,
Chris realized, and thought the better of the preacher. “We’ll make it, Aaron. You’ll be mightily used to preach the Word to the Indians.”

“I—I trust that is so.”

At last the sorting was complete. They all gathered to stand in front of the large pile. A silence fell as they stared at the goods, until Ellen Schultz spoke up. “Ve are all alife. Let us tank Gott dat ve leaf only tings here.” Chris said later as he lay beside Dove, “I was proud of them, Dove. They’re green, but they’re learning to trust God.”

She coughed—she had been coughing a great deal lately, Chris thought. When she was able to speak again, she said, “I was proud of you, Chris. When you speak of your God, there is something that makes people believe.”

He rolled over and looked at her face in the moonlight.
Your God.
It troubled him that she never spoke of her own belief. Though he would never try to force God on anyone, he longed to see some response in her. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm. She looked very young and vulnerable in the dim light, and he reached over and caressed her shoulder. She opened her eyes, startled. He had not done such a thing often.

“Dove, what about God? Do you believe in Him?”

White Dove lay there quietly, thinking. When she first came to live with him, she had expected that he would force her to pray to his God, but he had not. She thought back over the months of her sickness, how kind he had been—and how undemanding. Her years of slavery had seared her emotionally; in order to survive, she had forced herself to feel nothing. Except for Sky, she had known nothing of love since the day of her captivity.

Chris had released her from physical bondage, but her inner release had taken more time. She was still very sick, she knew, but Dove was not afraid of death. What tormented her instead was the deadness she felt inside. She would do
anything to escape that! All the years of loneliness rose up and she whispered, “You have been so good to me!—and to Caroline and Missy.” Tears flowed down her cheeks. “I do not know your God, Chris. Tell me.”

He wiped her tears and began to tell this woman, his first love, of his love for Jesus Christ. She had heard it all in church many times. But there in the quiet darkness, listening to the sound of his voice and feeling his hand on her head, it finally become real.

When she had heard it all, she said, “I want your God to be my God, Chris.” And for the first time in her life, White Dove opened her heart to God, pouring out all the pain and fears inside her. “And he has heard me, Chris!” she told him later. “Jesus Christ is in my heart, now! He is real—I know He is real!”

He held her all night, his own heart full with a joy that he could not express. When the dawn came, he bent his head and kissed her.

“Now I know what Solomon meant when he called his wife ‘My sister and my bride’!”

The group got up before dawn and ate a meager breakfast. Between mouthfuls Chris instructed, “Head due north, Barney. Soon as we find water, one of us will be back to guide you to it.”

“Watch yourself, Chris,” Barney warned. Then he grinned, adding with a streak of wry humor, “Looks like you got yourself a volunteer.”

“What?” Chris turned and found Missy standing beside Thunder along with Asa and Sky. “What’s this?” he demanded.

“Four can cover more ground than three.”

He noted the stubborn set of her lips and said reluctantly, “I reckon you’re right.” He motioned to the boys. “I’ll take the east flank, Asa you search to the west. Go about five miles. Missy, you and Sky spread out between us. Look for pockets of water trapped in hollows of the rock, a moist creek
bed—anything wet. If it looks like enough for the train, fire one shot, wait two minutes, then fire another.” He hesitated. “Don’t have to tell you this is Indian country. Not likely a band would be here this time of year, but just one wandering buck is all it takes. So keep your eyes open all the time.”

They left as a gleam of light broke over the prairie. Chris worried about them, but there was no other way. He got off his horse when he was about five miles away, and walked along the burned, parched earth. All morning he walked, taking sips from his water bottle, but finding no trace of a creek. About two that afternoon he was about to swing farther east when he heard a shot far off to the west. He counted out the seconds, and sighed with relief when the second report sounded. Jumping on his horse, he raced off in the direction of the shot.

He found the three “scouts” waiting for him. “I found it, Chris!” Asa yelled, pointing to the pool of water that was trapped in the saucer-shaped depression of a rock formation. Chris clapped young Greene on the shoulder. “You did mighty well. I was beginnin’ to wonder if we’d ever find anything.”

“I’ll go bring the train here,” Missy offered.

“Think you can find it?” Chris asked.

“I’ll go with her,” Asa spoke up importantly. “Can’t have a woman runnin’ around loose.”

“Might be best to have a man along, Missy,” Chris told her, giving her a wink that Asa missed.

“I suppose that’s best,” she agreed solemnly.

“They’re about ten miles over there. Go slow, now; your horses are pretty well spent. It’ll take a while—maybe till midnight. Get along, now.”

After they left, Chris looked at the pool. It was about seven or eight feet across and stretched in a rough shape about fifteen feet long. “Pretty shallow,” he remarked to Sky. “Time we fill our water bags and water the stock, won’t be much left.”

“Asa did well,” Sky commented. He looked around and
said, “Maybe something will come for water—maybe an antelope.”

Chris gave him an approving look. “Wasn’t thinking of that,” he admitted. “If we get back behind that rise, we might get something. Gettin’ to think like a real hunter, son!”

Sky ducked his head and turned to lead his horse away. Chris followed him, and they tied the animals up far enough away that game would not be alerted to their presence.

Making their way back to the rise, they carefully picked across an outcropping of broken shale. Right across the middle of it was a gully nearly five feet deep. Sky scrambled down into it, followed by Chris, and tried to climb up the other side, but the sides were steep and the boy slid back to the ground.

“Need a boost?” Chris asked, stepping forward to help—and they both froze. The noise of a dry rattle sounded nearby... very close by!

“Look out!” Chris yelled, spotting the huge head of a dusty rattler rise from beside a rock on the gully ledge, not two feet from where Sky stood. It was a monstrous snake with its fangs out, poised to strike. There was no time to take a shot, and Sky could not move—paralyzed at the sight of the snake’s gaping jaws on a level with his face.

Chris lunged, whipped his right arm around Sky’s neck, and threw him violently to one side just as he saw the flash as the snake struck. Falling to the side, Chris felt the sharp stab in his right forearm and the weight of the snake as he hit the ground.

Hearing Sky’s terrified shriek, Chris reached out with his left hand, caught the rattler behind the head, and jerked the fangs out. With his right hand, he whipped out his long knife and, pinning the thrashing body to the ground with his heel, severed the head. He stepped back to allow the body, thick as a man’s leg, to writhe across the rocks. Then he threw the head away from him with a shudder.

With enormous eyes Sky watched his father pull the sleeve
back and study the two red punctures on his forearm. He raised the knife and slashed one, then the other, with an X that instantly welled up with bright crimson blood. He raised his arm and sucked the blood, spitting it out often.

More than once, Sky had seen what happens to those bitten by rattlers. His best friend, a boy of nine named Otter, had been bitten by a very small rattler. Sky never forgot the screams of agony he heard as the boy died, nor the sight of his friend thrashing on the ground until he was held down by four strong men.

Horrified, Sky’s mouth was dry with fear, and he could not speak. He had spent months hating this man—the man they said was his father—and now he was going to die. Many times at night he had pictured the death of Bear Killer, but now that it was here, his legs trembled and his mind swam. Aloud, he cried the only word he could think of:

“Father!”

Chris’s head jerked up and he met the boy’s grief-stricken eyes. Despite the pain, his heart sang.
I may die here—but my son has called me “Father.”