The Holy Warrior (33 page)

“Christmas!” she called out, emerging from the line of trees. He turned at once toward the sound of her voice. Snow lay thickly on his reddish hair, for he had removed the round trapper’s cap that he usually wore. He came here almost every day to pray, and she knew that the body of his brother lay buried somewhere nearby, though there was no marker.

“What’s wrong?” He picked up his rifle and came to meet her, his eyes searching her face.

“Running Wolf is here. He’s brought one of his young men with him who’s sick. I think his name is Little Crow.”

“I know him. What’s wrong with him?”

“Dr. Spencer can’t make it out. He wants you to come and interpret.”

“All right.” He fell into step beside her, and they made their way away from the river, their feet making no sound on the soft snow. He listened as she told him what little she
knew of the Indian’s problem, at the same time his eyes never ceased scanning the area as they walked through the forest.

When she finished, he was silent for a moment and seemed to be thinking about something else. At last he said, “We’ll be snowed in for a time—hope we don’t get cabin fever. I shared a cabin with Bill Sublette one winter. Always liked Bill, but in such close quarters, by the time spring came I was ready to scalp him!”

“Why was that?”

“He cracked his knuckles all the time,” Chris grinned. “Guess by the time spring comes, I’ll know all your bad habits, Missy.”

“I already know most of yours,” she shot back.

“My bad habits?” he asked in mock surprise. “Didn’t know I had any.”

“Come spring I’ll have brought them all to your attention.” She thought about it, then said, “It’s going to be hard—all of us living together. Like a big family, I guess, but even that’s not always easy.”

“We’ll be all right.”

They said nothing more for a quarter of a mile; it was a silent world they moved in. A doe suddenly sprang up from where she’d been lying, startling Missy. Chris had been carrying his rifle cocked and loaded. Now he swung the weapon up with a hunter’s instinct, following the beautiful bounding flight of the animal, and pulled the trigger. “No!” Missy cried, pushing his arm with all her might. The weapon exploded, sending the ball whistling harmlessly through the dead leaves of an oak. Chris whirled and looked at her angrily.

“Why’d you do a fool thing like that?” he demanded indignantly. “We could have used the meat!”

Wide-eyed, Missy watched the deer disappear into the underbrush, and then put both hands over her face. He saw with a shock that her shoulders were heaving, and the sound of her muffled sobs broke the quiet of the forest.

“Why, Missy—it’s nothing to cry about!” he protested. She
didn’t move and though he was concerned, he didn’t know what to do about it. Uncertainly, he laid the rifle against a small tree, walked softly to where she stood, and tipped her chin up with his finger. Her lips looked very red against her cold skin, and tears glittered on her long lashes before they fell and ran down her smooth cheeks. “Missy, you don’t have to cry,” Chris soothed quickly. “It’s not important—one deer.”

She reached up and dashed the tears from her cheeks, taking a deep breath. “It’s not that, Chris. When I eat deer steaks, I know where they come from.” Then she shook her head. “It’s not the deer—it’s Dove.”

“Dove?” Chris asked, confused. “Is she worse?”

“She’s worse every day!” Missy cried out, and there was a streak of anger and frustration in her voice. “You know it’s so—we all do! Every day she gets a little weaker. I was with her before I came to get you, Chris, and it broke my heart! She’s so frail!”

Not knowing what to say, wisely Chris said nothing. “Let’s go back,” she sighed. They made their way back to the grounds and passed through the gates to find the two Indians along with Running Wolf’s squaw, Still Water, inside with the doctor.

Running Wolf nodded, the puckered scar on his face giving him a twisted smile. “Bear Killer is here.”

“What’s wrong with Little Crow?” Chris inquired. He glanced at the young Indian, who was holding his stomach as he sat in the handmade chair.

“He got some bad whiskey from a trader.” Running Wolf reverted to speaking in Sioux. “At first he said he got some bad meat—but my woman got the truth out of him.” He turned to Little Crow, “You are a big fool.”

Little Crow nodded miserably. “No more whiskey for me!” he vowed.

Chris, realizing that the sick Indian was only Running Wolf’s excuse to make a visit, explained the problem to the
doctor, who shook his head. “Can’t do much for a hangover. Some of that whiskey is enough to make a man go blind!”

Chris spoke to his Indian friends in Sioux. “I brought down an old buffalo day before yesterday. You two can stick around and try to chew a little.”

The snow continued to fall, and the women busied themselves with cooking dinner as the men fed the animals and cut more wood. “Let’s have a meeting tonight,” Chris suggested to Small. “Won’t hurt to get a little of the Word of God into the chief.”

“I can’t preach to them,” Small grumbled. “They’ve all got faces like stone! Can’t tell what they’re thinking. You take the service.”

The snow piled up and the temperature dropped outside, but inside it was warm and cheerful. Chris carried Dove to the eating area, placing her in a chair and wrapping her with blankets. “You and Still Water can gossip before we eat.” He told her affectionately, then hesitated before he asked, “Do you feel any better?”

“I’m all right—and it’s good to be here with you and the others.”

Instinctively, he knew she was feeling very bad, but he touched her hand, saying, “I’ll see you get some good broth.”

The room was barely large enough for them all, but there was a festive air as the meal preparations were completed and they sat down—elbow-to-elbow—to eat. Running Wolf and his woman sat side by side across from Missy and Brother Small. When the minister asked the blessing, the Indian listened carefully, his eyes never wavering from Small’s face.

After the meal, the women cleared the dishes away, and the men made a small space at one end of the room. Barney Sinclair produced his fiddle and began to play, and soon the rich tenor of Robert Tennyson filled the room as he led them in many hymns. After Brother Small led in prayer, Chris got up and announced with a twinkle in his eye, “Brother Sinclair will read the Scripture.”

Barney, who had been sitting with his Bible on his lap, turned pale as paper at Chris’s words. He shot an agonized look toward Caroline, shaking his head, but she was forming the words with her lips: “Read, Barney!”

He got to his feet, and Chris said, “Our text will be the first sixteen verses of John three.” He suppressed a grin and winked at Barney, for he had heard Sinclair reading this passage over and over until he had it memorized.

Barney read it and sat down, glancing covertly at Caroline, who was beaming at him with pride. Then Chris preached a simple gospel message from the text just read. He avoided looking directly at Running Wolf as he spoke of how Jesus had to take the old man out and put a new man in. “Ye must be born again,” he repeated over and over, praying that some of the truth would break through his friend’s stolid countenance.

Afterward there was a time of talk, for it was early and there was no other place to go now that the weather had closed in. Soon the young ones were sent to bed, protesting, and those who remained divided into small groups.

Dove was tired, so Chris took her back to their tiny room, and she was asleep almost before he left the room. He went to sit beside Running Wolf, who gazed at Chris through inscrutable eyes. “There is trouble, my friend,” he murmured. “I have heard that Black Elk has vowed to kill you and take back White Dove and the boy. He says you are a thief and he will have your scalp.”

“I will not kill him,” Chris responded firmly. “It is not the will of my God that I kill anyone.”

“You will kill him—or he will kill you.”

Chris could think of no way to explain his position as a Christian. To Running Wolf, it was all very simple.

“I will ask my God to bring peace with the Pawnees,” Chris said at last. “That would be good for your people, Running Wolf.”

“That will be the day I believe in your God, Bear Killer,”
Running Wolf replied slowly. “The Pawnees and The People have always been enemies.”

Missy had been sitting on a stool between Ellen Schultz and Lorene Spencer. Their conversation wound down, and the married women got up and went to their tiny cubicles. After they had gone, Missy was surprised to find Aaron Small beside her. “May I join you?” he asked.

“Why, sit down, Brother Small.” She began to talk of her plan to help Lorene Spencer start a school for Indian children, but he seemed preoccupied, and she noticed that he only half listened. She stopped talking and waited for him to speak. He shifted in his chair, mopping the perspiration from his brow before he began—haltingly, nervously.

“I—I’ve been meaning to see you alone for some time, Missy, but it’s been hard to find any privacy, when we could talk privately, that is.”

With a sinking feeling, she realized what was coming. She wanted to get up, to run out of the room. That was impossible, so she frantically racked her brain, trying to form an answer for the question he was about to ask.

For a few minutes he stumbled about the difficult life they were engaged in; then he cleared his throat and clenched his fists. “I wish there were more time,” he said in a firmer voice, “but I will say what is on my heart now. I wish to marry you, Missy.”

Her hand flew to her throat as she breathlessly tried to speak. “Oh, Brother Small, I—!”

Sensing what she was going to say, he interrupted. “I know you were engaged in the past. I can’t give you what the other man could, but I can promise you I’ll always be faithful. You’ll never know unkindness from me.” He paused and tried to make a better case for himself. “I know you think of me as a stern man—but in time I hope to show you another side of myself.”

Then he waited, his eyes fixed on hers. In the awkward silence that followed, her thoughts seemed to flutter wildly.
Finally she looked him in the eye and spoke quietly. “You’ve just paid me the highest compliment any man can give a woman—and I thank you, Aaron. But I don’t think I shall ever marry.”

“I was afraid that would be your answer. I will not bother you anymore with my attentions, but if you change your mind, please tell me.”

He got up and left the room, and Missy was so shaken that she left as well. She had suspected he would speak to her, and he had done so with such simplicity and dignity that it had hurt her to refuse. For a long time that night, she lay in bed fighting the unhappy tears forcing their way to her eyes, finally spilling over onto her cheeks.

Barney’s sharp eyes had missed none of the little drama. When the two had gone, he lifted his eyes from the Bible he was reading aloud to Caroline and murmured, “Well, that takes the rag off the bush!”

“What?” Caroline stared at him, puzzled by his country jargon.

“Your sister just got a proposal—and turned it down.”

Caroline looked quickly across the room, failed to find Missy, and demanded, “Who—?” then, “Oh, yes... I thought Brother Small was thinking that way.”

“He’s a better man than he was when we left Missouri,” Barney said. “He took his lumps real well.” He looked down at the Bible on the table and studied it, still thinking of Aaron and Missy. “Yep, he took it real well. Guess he knew he’d get turned down—but he made his play like a man. I admire Aaron for that.”

Caroline’s heart stood still. She looked at Sinclair’s gangling form, thinking of how he had blossomed under her teaching. Though he had never said so, she had known for a long time that he loved her. Now she knew instinctively that he would never speak of it to her. She trembled, but with a
sudden burst of courage, she put her hand on his and spoke softly. “Barney, do you have less courage than Aaron Small?”

It was as though her words turned him to stone. She felt his big hand clench under hers, and he began to breathe as raggedly as if he had run a mile uphill.

Then he lifted his eyes and met her gaze. Taking a deep breath, he protested, “Caroline—I’m nothing! I’m ugly and ignorant, and...”

She put her other hand on his and whispered what she realized had been on her heart for weeks.

“I love you, Barney!”

He gasped and began to tremble. Slowly he took her hands, struggling silently against some unknown fear. Finally he looked up and said simply, “I love you more than I love anything on God’s green earth, Caroline Greene! Will—will you marry me?”

“Yes!”

A great joy welled up inside Barney, and he had to fight to keep himself in his chair. Clearing his throat, he commented, “Goin’ to be real interestin’—our young’uns.”

“Our children?”

“Yep.” A grin of pure happiness swept across his face, and his eyes mirrored a joy she had never seen in him. “Yep. With you so good-lookin’ and smart—and me so dumb and ugly, we gotta pray a heap that they all take after their momma!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE LAST BATTLE

Spring came to the land with a swift blow that year, breaking the paralyzing grip the late February snows held on the earth. A week later the snow was gone, and tiny spears of grass pierced the thawed ground like green tongues.