The Holy Warrior (34 page)

The winter had been a time of waiting, and as Chris had warned Missy, they had to learn to live with one another’s bad habits. Barney and Caroline announced their intention to marry as soon as he could get a cabin built in the spring, and the pair were teased considerably. “It’s given them something to talk about—a little fun,” Caroline said privately to Barney. “I don’t mind the joking, but I hate to see Brother Small always looking so miserable.”

“Can’t fault him for that,” Barney grinned. “If I hadn’t got you, I’d have gotten the sulks myself. He’ll just have to make it on his own—or maybe go back east and get a bride.”

Except for Dove’s illness, there was no serious tragedy during the cold season. She had both good and bad days; but over all, she grew weaker. Chris kept hoping that good weather would bring her around; and on the first day of March, he bundled her up and carried her outside. She felt almost weightless in his arms, though he did not let his fears show on his face. Instead, he kept up a running commentary as he moved around, carrying her from place to place like a child.

“There’s where the new store will be—and look, Dove! Barney’s already piling up logs for a cabin for him and Caroline!”

“She says they will be married as soon as the last shake is on,” Dove replied. The sunshine brought a faint flush to her cheeks, but her eyes were deeply sunken and she seemed to have no energy left. “We didn’t have such a nice cabin as they’ll have, did we, Chris?”

“It was all we needed.” He smiled at her, remembering. “If Barney is half as happy with his bride as I was with you, he’ll be a lucky man!”

He took her out to the fields and put a blanket down for her, and for an hour she rested there, enjoying the warm sunshine and the wildflowers he brought her. Finally he rose, saying, “Wind’s getting chilly. We better head for the house.”

She sighed and looked around fondly. “It’s been such a good day!”

“We’ll have lots of them.”

He picked her up and she laid her cheek on his chest. “Not very many,” she said.

“You’ll get better now, Dove,” Chris tried to reassure her. “The winter’s been bad, but now it’s over. When you get strong again we’ll have lots of days like this. You’ll see.” She looked at him doubtfully, and he forced himself to sound cheerful. “Why, I’m planning to take you and Sky all the way to the Big Falls soon as you get a little better. You just mind the doctor and he’ll have you well by midsummer!”

Still she didn’t answer, and he spoke rapidly to cover his own misgivings. After he put her back in bed, Missy came by and commented, “I bet you two had a nice walk—Oh, my! What beautiful flowers! Let me put them in water.” She left the room and returned with a pottery vase. “Everyone’s looking forward to the big meeting at the Flathead village, Chris. When will it be?”

“Just been waiting for a break in the weather. Guess we ought to go in a couple of weeks.” He leaned back and added, “Brother Small has quite a burden for that tribe.”

“I know,” Missy returned. “It was an article about the Flatheads in a Boston newspaper that got him interested in
mission work to begin with. Do they really bind the skulls of babies, Chris?” She frowned and set the vase of wildflowers on the table beside Dove’s bed. “I saw the pictures and they looked awful!”

“Well, some of them do. They tie the babies tightly to a board and put a hinged board over their foreheads—as they grow it slopes the skull back. Not many do it anymore.” He shrugged. “I hear the Chinese bind the feet of baby girls till they’re real small. All sounds bad, but it’s their souls we’ve got to think about. Get them converted and customs like that will die out.”

“I heard you say once that the Flatheads are a much more gentle people than the Sioux or the Pawnees.”

“Sure. That’s one reason why I agreed with Brother Small on starting a work there.”

Dove spoke up. “Their village is close to Black Elk’s people—” A fit of coughing seized her, so severe that Chris and Missy exchanged helpless glances. The fierce coughing tore at her tiny frame until she lay there gasping for breath, nearly unconscious.

“I’ll have Spencer come by,” Chris said. “He mentioned something about a new cough syrup he’s concocting.”

He left, and Missy sat down to bathe White Dove’s face with a damp cloth. Dove lay so still that Missy thought the woman was asleep, but then her eyes opened, and she said weakly, “I wish Chris would not go to the Flatheads. Black Elk is a cruel man—a great warrior. He will try to kill Chris to save his own honor.”

“We will pray for Chris’s safety.”

“I am afraid...” Dove clutched Missy’s hand. “Not because I must die, but for my husband—and for my son! Black Elk will kill Chris—and take Sky!”

“No!” Missy cried, covering Dove’s frail hand with her own. “God will take care of them. You must believe, Dove.”

Dove lay still but tense, her eyes filled with anguish. Gradually she relaxed a bit and lifted her other hand, laying it on
Missy’s cheek. There was a note of wonder in her feverish eyes as she whispered, “You believe that God will take care of them?”

“Yes!”

The certainty in her voice seemed to satisfy Dove. She did not move her hand, seeming to draw some strength from the touch. The silence ran on and then she said, “You love Chris.”

Missy’s heart throbbed, and she said in a shaky voice, “Of course, Dove. I—I love both of them—Chris and Sky.”

“He will need much love when I am gone.”

“Don’t—don’t say that!” Missy begged, falling on her knees beside Dove’s bed and throwing her arms around the small woman. Dove held her as she began to weep; and despite the fact that she was much larger than Dove, Missy felt so small and helpless—like a child.

Finally she grew quiet, and Dove said gently, “You have been faithful, my Missy. I am so happy that God gave me a friend for this time. Jesus God—He is good!”

Then her eyes fluttered shut and she abruptly dropped off to sleep. This suddenness always frightened Missy. After watching Dove’s breathing for a while, Missy got to her feet and tiptoed outside. The young ones were playing some sort of game with a ball, filling the air with their happy and carefree cries. She watched Sky in the midst of the fun, laughing heartily as he sent Max Schultz rolling along the ground.
He’s going to be all right,
Missy consoled herself. But despite the warm spring sights and smells, she could not repress the foreboding in her heart.

“I hate to leave her,” Chris said, striking the side of the house with his fist in a helpless gesture of frustration. The others were all waiting for him; he had delayed departure as long as he could. But it was now the middle of March, and Brother Small insisted that they must go. “Let me stay here,” Chris begged. “My wife’s too sick for me to be away.”

Brother Small looked up at Chris, who was standing on the porch. “I know it’s hard, Chris, but we’ll be gone only a few days. This is just a preliminary visit into Flathead territory. After this, I’ll feel more confident—but I would feel much better if you went along on this first effort.” He shifted his feet and added, “Caroline and Dr. Spencer will be here. I won’t order you to go, but I—I would be most pleased if you would.”

This is not the old Aaron Small,
Chris realized. The short preacher’s humble appeal was impossible to refuse. “All right, I’ll go, Aaron,” he agreed, and jumped off the porch. He had already said goodbye to Dove, so the two joined the others who were waiting. In addition to himself and Small, the party included Sinclair, Neal Littlejohn, Lorene Spencer, and Missy. They mounted and rode out through the gate, and soon the mission was a distant blot.

It was a two-day ride to the Flathead village. The first night they stayed at Running Wolf’s lodge, and were warmly greeted by The People. The next morning as they got ready to leave, Running Wolf and fifteen of his braves mounted and prepared to accompany them.

“Why are you doing this?” Chris asked in surprise. “Didn’t know you had all that much interest in the Flatheads.”

Running Wolf’s face was passive, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Good hunting that way—and we like to hear Bear Killer preach.”

Chris knew there was more; he also knew that Running Wolf would never admit to it. They made the trip easily, coming to the Flathead village just before dark. Chief Many Horses met them as they rode in, saying, “The Black Robes have come.” Chris, who had heard the expression before, knew the chief was referring to the Catholic priests who made infrequent trips through the territory. He did not correct the man, however, for he felt that it was not the right time to explain doctrinal differences. Instead, Chris introduced the party as Small stared at the chief, speechless.

Many Horses was a fine specimen of a Flathead warrior, nearly six feet tall and well proportioned. He had large, expressive eyes and high cheekbones—but it was his forehead that drew Small’s attention. He had heard of the custom observed by these people that caused them to bind their children’s foreheads, but he had never seen the result of this practice until now. Many Horses’s forehead was a flattened slope that extended from the man’s eyebrows to his hairline. It gave him a rakish appearance, and made him look unfinished somehow.

“We will hear the medicine of the white eyes,” Many Horses announced, glancing at Running Wolf and his warriors. “The People are here. We will smoke together.”

“Preaching will have to wait, Aaron,” Chris said. “Got to get through a few formalities first.”

“We won’t be asked to do anything against our convictions, will we?”

“All you have to do is sit around and take a puff on a pipe and listen to ’em jabber. Don’t know where people get the idea Indians are quiet. They talk like magpies when they meet in this way. Just have to let ’em run down.”

The council continued far into the night, and then they all gathered for a feast. Small liked the stew he was given until he inquired what it was. Chris asked a Flathead brave across from him, then turned to Small with a straight face. “Puppy stew.”

Aaron Small, a product of the upper levels of Boston society, turned pale at the answer. But he had come a long way since leaving Boston, so he grinned and took another bite, saying, “No worse than eating snails, I suppose.”

They slept where they could that night, and the next morning the entire tribe met to listen to the preaching. Barney had brought his fiddle and was an instant sensation. He played and they all sang for the better part of an hour until Chris said, “We better get to the preaching, Aaron. They can go on like this all day.”

“Maybe you should preach,” Small suggested uncertainly. He looked out at the sea of dark faces and strange foreheads, feeling completely alienated.

“Just tell them about Jesus—how strong He is! The gospel will work here just like it does in Boston.”

Small took a deep breath and stood up. With a rather desperate expression on his face, he began to speak, careful to avoid the pulpit mannerisms he had mastered in seminary, and the abstract theological terms he was so fond of. For the first time since he had been a very young preacher, he spoke very simply of the love of God for all men, and the hope of salvation found in Jesus Christ.

When he finished, Chris told him quietly, “That was real fine, Aaron. They may look hard to you, but I can tell. It meant something to them—it may well be that they’ll come to the Lord because of the words you spoke today.”

Many Horses stood up and said, “We will have more of this—after we eat.”

The meeting broke up and the visitors were welcomed into the lodges, where the women were initiated into the secrets of Indian housekeeping and cooking. The men and boys wandered off late that afternoon for footraces and other games in a large field adjacent to the village. Chris was thrilled to see Sky easily outstrip the other boys in a long foot race. Running Wolf commented with a smile, “His grandfather was like that—he could almost catch a deer!”

Later Chris joined in the races, losing to the striplings, but he was able to wrestle every challenger to his back. He was larger than any of the Indians and more agile than most.

They were just ending a contest with bow and arrow that Running Wolf easily won when suddenly a shout went up: “It’s the Pawnees!”

Chris turned to see Black Elk leading a group of at least fifteen warriors to the edge of the clearing—and he knew instantly why they had come.

“Does Black Elk come in peace?” Many Horses was in a
difficult place, for if he took sides with either tribe, the other would bring war to his people. And he could not ignore the invasion of his territory by what appeared to be a raiding party.

Expressionless, Black Elk looked across at Running Wolf, who had notched an arrow, and saw the Sioux fanning out on either side. He had not expected to find the fierce warriors of Running Wolf at this camp, and he said to Many Horses, “I come for a thief. My heart is good toward my brothers; but that one has stolen my slave—and there is my son!” He pointed at Sky. Despite the terror that shone clearly in his eyes, the boy did not move from where he stood.

“I came for my wife and son—as you would do for yours, Black Elk,” Chris replied.