Page 10 of Shoshone Sun (Native Sun #3)
Peter Jacobs Land Claim, 1866
Ninety miles west of Fort Laramie -
The first light of dawn was weak and pale, struggling to break through the heavy veil of snow that clung to the sky. The storm had relented gradually and the wind had eased, leaving the cabin quiet. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and the soft breath of the wounded man asleep before it.
Peter had returned, half-frozen and weary, sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Still finding no signs of immediate danger, he had reluctantly accepted his need for rest.
Jane had managed to sleep by the man’s side, though restlessly. She awoke early, her mind still occupied with the strange, mysterious sense of connection she had felt the night before working over the Shoshone brave, tending to his wounds, her heart racing at the intensity in his gaze. She forced herself to push those thoughts away, knowing that the reality of their situation would not allow for such distractions. They still had work to do.
Susan, on the other hand, had not slept at all.
The moment Jane stirred awake, she knew something had shifted in the air. Susan was standing by the stove, her back stiff, her face pale and set with determination. Her hands worked mechanically, stirring a pot of porridge with far more force than necessary. Her gaze flickered to the man lying near the fire, her lips pressed tightly together.
Jane stood up, stretching the stiffness from her limbs, then walked over to the window. The snow outside was deep, the wind still blowing it about, though not nearly as strong as the night before. She could make out the tracks of Peter’s boots in the snow where he had trudged out to the barn. A sense of unease settled in her chest. It wasn’t the weather she was worried about anymore though. It was Susan.
The silence in the cabin stretched out, and Jane finally spoke. “We must keep him warm. I’ll go and fetch more firewood.”
Susan’s reply was brittle and sharp. “He should never have been brought inside in the first place.”
Jane turned slowly to face her sister. The quiet fury in Susan’s eyes was unmistakable. “We couldn’t let him die out there. You saw the blood, Susan. You heard him. He was barely conscious. We had to help.”
“I don’t care!” Susan’s voice cracked, the words scarcely more than a hiss. She slammed a wooden spoon down on the counter. “You’ve put us all at risk! And for what? An Indian? What if the Blackfoot come here looking for him?”
“I’ve told you, they won’t,” Jane replied evenly, her voice just as sharp. “They didn’t see where he went. I’m sure of it.”
“And how can you be so sure!” Susan snapped. “What if they’re out there, right now, circling us? What if they come and kill us all for helping him? You don’t know what kind of trouble you’ve invited into our home. You never think about the consequences, do you?”
Jane took a step forward, her eyes flashing with frustration. “And you never think beyond your own fear, Susan! You’re so terrified of what might happen that you can’t see the reality in front of you! This man—this human being —is wounded. And we’ve done what any decent people would do.”
Susan’s face twisted in fury, her hands trembling as she clutched the counter. “Decent? You call this decent ? I call it reckless, Jane. You’re putting us all in danger! You don’t understand, but I do. I know what’s out there. And I’m not staying here to die for some savage .”
Jane felt her breath catch in her throat as a sharp pain stabbed her heart. “Don’t say that, Susan,” she said, her voice low now, almost pleading. “We’ve lived here in safety for months. Paul and Mary have lived here for half a decade now with no trouble from Indians. Today’s reality isn’t reflected in those stories you read long ago. Stop living in fear. You’re not seeing this man as a person; you’re seeing him as a threat.”
Susan’s eyes flashed with hurt, but the bitterness in her voice was like ice. “You don’t understand, Jane. I know what Indians can do—I read about it. What if this one is dangerous? What is he tries to kill us when he’s recovers?”
Before Jane could respond, the door creaked open, and Peter returned from tending the animals, his face drawn and pale, but his eyes steady. The cold air swept in behind him, and Jane hurried to close the door, her heart still thumping from the tension.
Peter gave Susan a brief, almost apologetic smile but didn’t speak to her. Instead, he knelt down beside the injured man, checking the bandages, and then stood again, scanning the cabin as though preparing for something.
Susan’s gaze locked on him. “Peter.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “If you don’t turn that man out right now, and I mean right this minute, I will be taking Petey and heading back to England.”
Peter froze, his hand stilling on the wounded man’s blanket. He turned slowly, looking at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you talking about, Susan?”
Susan’s jaw tightened and her hands clenched at her sides. “You heard me. I’ve made my decision. I’m not staying here, not with him in this house.” She gestured toward the Shoshone brave, her words heavy with disdain.
“What?” Peter gasped, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
“You’ve saved his life. That’s enough. For all you know, when he recovers, he’ll kill us all. Strap him to his horse and send it on its way back to wherever he and it came from. If you don’t do that, I swear that I’ll pack my things and take Petey. We’ll go back to England.”
Peter looked as though she had struck him. His face went white, the weight of her words hitting him like a cold slap.
“Susan,” he said softly, his voice taut. “You can’t be serious.”
But Susan’s gaze was unflinching. “I am. If you won’t turn him out, I will leave.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. Peter’s thoughts whirled. Finally, he nodded, his voice steady though his heart felt like it was breaking.
“If it’s you or him, I choose you, Susan.” He glanced toward Jane, who was standing nearby, her face unreadable. “But I won’t just turn him out. I’ll take him to Paul’s homestead. Let Paul decide what to do with him.”
Susan’s relief was almost tangible. “Thank you,” she whispered, the tension in her shoulders easing.
Jane turned to Peter, her expression one of sadness. She had hoped they could work this out—had wanted so desperately to believe that Susan’s fears could be overcome. But it seemed that the divide between them was too wide to bridge.
“I’m going with him,” she said.
Peter’s gaze did not waver. “I hope you understand that I’m doing what I think is best for my wife and son.”
Jane nodded slowly, though something inside her ached. But there was nothing more to be said. The decision had been made.
The morning passed in a blur of hasty preparations. Susan, although relieved by Peter’s decision, still clung to a tight, thin control, her face pale and pinched as she watched her husband and sister pack the things needed for the trip to Paul’s.
By the time they were ready to leave, the storm had let up. The snow was piled higher than Peter would have liked, but it was not deep enough to stop them from traveling—though it would slow their pace. The wounded Shoshone brave lay awake but quiet. Peter could tell that the man was confused and didn’t know what was happening. His grasp of English must be basic. But surely, he could feel the tension in the air.
Peter had taken all their spare blankets and wrapped them around the wounded man, hoping the warmth provided would help him stay alive. Jane helped Peter carry the man across the snow, one of them at each end of him. The man’s limp body was awkward to maneuver through the snowdrifts. He was heavy and Jane’s muscles burned with the effort of holding his legs.
The wind, though not as furious as before, cut through her like a blade, its icy sting biting through her coat as they pressed on to the barn. They lay the man in the wagon bed on a deep layer of straw and worked together hitching the two horses to the wagon. Once Peter’s horses were hitched, and the Indian pony tied to the back of the wagon, Peter led them out of the barn, closed the doors, and got into the driver’s seat as Jane climbed onto the back of the wagon beside the man, holding his head in her lap.
Peter set a steady pace, though every few hundred yards, his gaze would flicker over his shoulder to the figure of the Shoshone man, barely moving, clinging to life. The longer they took, the more Peter feared they might not make it. He had done everything he could to remove the arrow, stop the bleeding, clean the wound, stabilize the man—but nature had its own rhythm, and time was running out. And the cold wasn’t helping.
The horses walked for about an hour before Peter could take the strain no longer and urged them into a jog. He was freezing cold, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and though he tried to keep his thoughts focused on the task at hand, his mind kept wandering back to Susan’s words, to the sudden and terrifying rift between him and his wife. He had known she was frightened, but he hadn’t realized just how deeply that fear had taken root. Her words, her threat to leave him and return to England, kept ringing in his mind. Was there a chance she’d leave him while they were taking the Indian to his uncle’s? Should he go back to his cabin and make sure she hadn’t?
He shook the thoughts away. Susan wouldn’t head out with Petey through all this snow. No, that would be insane! They couldn’t stop, not yet. The man in the back of the wagon needed him more than anything right now. He’d return to his wife as soon as he could.
“How is he?” Peter asked his sister-in-law.
“He’s still hanging on, barely,” Jane replied. “He’s freezing. We need to move faster.”
Peter nodded solemnly. “We’ll go faster. We’ll get him there.” He urged the horses on a notch faster. Peter looked around, scanning the horizon through the snow. The tracks behind them were already half-covered, fading in the swirling snow. His heart sank. Even at a faster pace, it would be almost another hour before they reached Paul’s place. Would the wounded man still be alive when they got there? Had Peter done the right thing bringing him to Paul’s? Or had he as good as sentenced the man to death?
They continued, their pace hindered by the snow, but as fast as they could manage under the conditions. The silence between them hung heavily. Peter wondered if Jane was blaming him as much as he was blaming himself.
Finally, the silhouette of a cabin appeared on the horizon. Peter felt a surge of relief, though it was tempered by the uncertainty of the man’s fate.
“There it is,” he cried, his voice rough with the strain of the journey. “Paul’s homestead.”
Jane glanced up, her eyes brightening as she saw the familiar shape of the cabin—a tiny beacon in the white expanse. But as they approached the cabin, Peter’s heart sank again. He’d hoped that his uncle would be happy to help, but how could he be sure? What if he was burdening his uncle with a burden he didn’t want to bear?
Peter pulled the horses to a halt in front of the cabin. Steam rolled off their backs. “Let’s get him inside,” he said. “I’ll explain the situation to Paul and Mary while you get all the horses into the barn, rubbed down, and fed.”
Jane nodded, and together they carried the injured man, taking slow, careful steps through the snow toward the warmth of the cabin. As they reached the door, Peter knocked once, the sound of his knuckles against the wood sharp in the silence.
The door creaked open almost immediately, and there stood Paul—broad-shouldered and rugged, his face weathered by years of hard labor and the harsh winters. His eyes widened when he saw the injured man, but he stepped aside quickly to let them in.
“What happened?” Paul asked, his voice thick with concern as he scanned the trio.
“He took an arrow in his side,” Peter said, catching his breath. “We need to get him inside, keep him warm, and keep him alive.”
Paul nodded quickly, stepping forward to help. “Let’s get him in here, quick.”
Inside, the warmth of the cabin hit Peter like a wave of comfort, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he laid the injured Shoshone man on a bed of blankets Mary had quickly laid down in front of the fire.
Once they had covered him with more blankets, Jane rushed back outside to tend to the horses, her mind a turmoil of wondering if the man would live.
When Jane finished with the horses and returned to the cabin, she saw that Paul was kneeling beside the injured man, beside him a bag of his medical supplies and herbs.
“Will he survive?” Jane asked him, watching anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Paul said quietly as he worked on the man, massaging his limbs and body to warm him. “But we’ll do what we can.”
Jane sighed in relief. Like Peter, she had also wondered if Paul would be willing to help the stranger. Apparently, he was.
“Come here,” Mary beckoned, and Jane collapsed onto a bench beside the kindly older woman. As Mary enfolded Jane in her arms, Jane finally felt hopeful that things were taking a turn for the better. Paul’s cabin, with its flickering fire, provided a small island of warmth, offered a respite from the cold, from the chaos, and a buffer against Jane’s bitter quarrel with her sister.