Page 8 of Shoshone Sun (Native Sun #3)
- Peter Jacobs Land Claim, 1866
Ninety miles west of Fort Laramie -
The wind howled across the prairie, carrying with it the first snow. Flakes, light as feathers, began to drift lazily down from a grey sky. It was the kind of snow that whispered of winter’s arrival: a soft, insistent reminder that the seasons had turned. Ahead of them loomed the harsh realities of life on the winter frontier.
Peter Jacobs stood with his wife, Susan, and her sister Jane on the front porch of their cabin. In the distance, the dark line of pine trees swayed beneath the wind, their evergreen boughs dancing in the land’s cold breath. His son, Petey, bundled in layers of wool, rested in Susan’s arms, his chubby face scrunching in curiosity as the snowflakes drifted down around him.
“Looks like we’re in for a long one,” Peter said, the weight of the coming winter in his voice.
Susan nodded, a faint frown creasing her brow. She had always been practical, but the thought of their small family alone on this wild stretch of land through the bitter cold unsettled her. She had always been one to rely on the warmth of community, but out here there was none barring Uncle Paul and Aunt Mary, ten miles away.
A flake landed softly on Peter’s worn work coat, a delicate contrast to the hard labor his hands had known for years. He watched the snowflakes fall with a kind of quiet satisfaction, knowing that he and his family had made it this far. The barn, the fences, the cabin—all had been built by their own hands. It hadn’t been easy, but it was theirs, and they would defend it, come what may.
Suddenly, a distant cry cut through the stillness of the falling snow. At first, it was just a faint noise, like the wind playing tricks, but then it came again, louder this time. The cry of a man. Then furious hoof beats.
A solitary rider galloped toward them. Peter’s heart skipped a beat. His hand instinctively went to the rifle slung over his shoulder.
The rider was headed straight for their cabin and, seemingly, for them. The lone figure on a mighty horse, his silhouette sharp against the snow-filled horizon, shocked them all, and sent terror racing through Susan. As the black-and-white horse skidded to a stop in front of them, its sides heaved with exertion and its nostrils flared. Peter’s stomach clenched. This could only mean trouble.
The man on the horse—a young Indian, wild-eyed and grim-faced—suddenly collapsed against the horse’s neck. Blood stained the side of the man’s buckskin tunic, dark and seeping, and an arrow protruded from his side, red at the shaft.
“Shoshone!” Peter barked, recognizing the brave’s tribe despite the blood and grime that marred his face. “And look!” He pointed. “Blackfoot on the horizon.” Six Indians galloped across the fields, Peter identifying their tribe by their elaborate feathered headdresses.
“Let’s get him inside, quick!” Jane cried. “Before they see where he’s gone.”
Without hesitation, Peter rushed forward, meeting the Indian as he fell from the horse. The weight of the brave’s body collapsed into Peter’s arms. He grunted under the strain, but the sight of the blood and the pain in the Shoshone man’s eyes made him move faster.
Susan screamed and backed away, instinctively clutching Petey closer to her chest. “Peter, be careful!” she shouted, but Peter was already hauling the injured man toward the cabin.
Jane stepped forward in alarm. “Peter, what should I do?”
“Quick, Jane! Get the horse into the barn,” Peter ordered. “We need to hide this man and his horse both.”
Jane wasted no time, rushing to grab the animal as Peter wrestled the young man, who could barely move his legs, inside. There was little time to think, only to act.
“Susan,” he ordered. “Get some blankets and lay them in front of the fire!”
The young woman stood stock still, as if frozen, clutching her son to her body, and shaking her head.
“Susan, we need to help him!” Peter insisted.
“No!” she screamed and ran into their bedroom, desperately clutching her child and slamming the door closed. Peter stood dumbfounded and at a loss for words, holding up the injured man. Suddenly, the front door flew open and Jane rushed inside.
“Jane,” Peter said, relieved that she had appeared. “Get some blankets together and arrange them in front of the fire so that I can lie this man down.”
Immediately, Jane did as asked, her eyes wide in fright.
“Where are the Blackfoot?” Peter asked urgently. “Are they riding toward the cabin?”
“No.” She shook her head. “They must not have seen where he went. They kept to a straight path, riding into the forest.”
“Thank God,” Peter breathed. Then he laid the wounded man down on the makeshift bed of blankets Jane had arranged.
The Indian brave moaned and then, wincing with the effort, he broke the shaft of the arrow protruding from his side. As he did so, he let out a strangled cry and his eyelids fluttered closed.
Peter took a deep breath and tore a strip of cloth off of his own shirt. He tied it tightly above the man’s wound to slow the bleeding, but he knew it wasn’t enough. The man needed more help than that, but help was far away.
“Should we fetch Paul?” Jane asked, her voice tight with fear.
Peter glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. He knew his uncle would come if called, but it would take time to ride to his homestead to summon him and more time for him to ride back here. They didn’t have that much time. Peter knew he must do something quickly if the man was to have any chance of survival.
“No,” he said firmly. “We have to do what we can as fast as we can. Jane, help me with this.”
“Where is Susan?” Jane asked, looking around the cabin.
“She ran into the bedroom. You know how terrified she is of Indians.”
“Yes, but this one can hardly hurt her. He’s unconscious! Should I go get her?”
“No. The two of us can handle this. Once we’ve done here, I’ll go reassure her,” Peter said.
Jane moved into action, gathering supplies. She set water to boil to cleanse the wound, and then, steady and focused, brought over clean rags, whiskey, a knife, pliers, thread, a needle, and bandages.
The brave stirred slightly, groaning. His face contorted in agony, and his breath came rapid and shallow. Despite his obvious pain, Peter sensed a fierce determination within him. This was not a man who would give up easily, not even in the face of death.
Peter worked swiftly, but cautiously. First, he cut away the man’s tunic. Then he manipulated the arrow, to see how deep the arrowhead had penetrated.
He sighed with relief. “The arrowhead isn’t too deep. The man’s rib stopped it going through to his lungs. As long as it wasn’t dipped in some kind of poison, he might stand a chance.”
“I pray to God that it wasn’t!” Jane said.
“You’ll need something for the pain,” Peter said and raised the man’s shoulders. “Drink this,” he ordered the wounded man as Jane carefully poured some liquor into his mouth. Seemingly realizing that these strangers were trying to help him, the man complied. After the man took several deep swallows, Jane set the bottle down on the cabin floor beside her. Then as Peter worked to carefully remove the arrow from the brave’s side, Jane knelt beside the makeshift bed, a damp cloth in her hands. Her initial shock gave way to the steady rhythm of necessity. Gently, she began wiping the man’s face, her fingers brushing away the dried blood and dirt.
With each stroke, his features became clearer—strong cheekbones, a firm jaw, the broad brow of someone used to hardship, yet with a softness in the curve of his lips, as though his face had once known laughter. His skin was sun-kissed, dark and smooth, and though the pain he was suffering marred his appearance, there was something undeniably handsome about him—something that tugged at Jane’s heart. She found herself lingering on his eyes, half-closed, the long black lashes fanning out in sharp contrast to the deep hollows beneath them.
The young man’s face, though foreign, felt strangely familiar to her—a ruggedness that matched the wild land around them. She blinked and drew in a sharp breath, realizing with a start that her hands had paused in their work, and her gaze had softened into something more than mere sympathy. What is this? she asked herself, her heart suddenly racing in a way she couldn’t explain. She quickly averted her eyes, shaking her head as if to dispel the sudden feeling that had risen within her—an inexplicable attraction to a man she had never met before, a man who was a stranger. But the feeling lingered, almost as touchable as the warmth of the fire flickering nearby.
Meanwhile, using knife and pliers, Peter dug the arrowhead out of the man’s rib and pulled it out of his body. Then he cleaned, disinfected, stitched, and bandaged the wound, finally covering the man with another blanket.
He rose to his feet. “Well, that’s that,” he said. “Please stay with him while I go and comfort Susan.”
Jane did not consider that a burdensome task.
Several hours later, when the injured man was resting peacefully, not having ever fully regained consciousness, things returned as close to normal as possible in the cabin. Susan was cooking their supper, and little Petey was crawling around his play area.
Outside, the wind had picked up, blowing the fresh snow across the yard in sheets. It would be a blizzard before nightfall. Peter prayed that the Blackfoot would not come looking for the Shoshone brave. Generally, the Indians stayed away from white settlers, knowing that any raids on settlers led to brutal retaliation by the troops stationed at Fort Laramie.
Peter had heard tales about the Blackfoot. Ten years earlier, they had routinely raided settlers’ homesteads, stealing goods, and killing whites. The soldiers from Fort Laramie had responded in force and put an end to that horrifying practice.
“I’ll go outside and keep watch. Just in case the Blackfoot return,” Peter said. He didn’t want to shoot anyone, but if he had to, he would. He looked to Jane. “Keep him warm. Keep him alive. I’ll take my rifle and guard the cabin.”
Susan’s gaze narrowed, her concern obvious. “Don’t do anything foolish, Peter,” she said, her voice filled with pleading.
Peter nodded, though he knew that sometimes there was no choice but to do what needed to be done, regardless of the cost.
He stepped through the cabin door into the biting cold of the late winter afternoon. His breath came out in clouds, mixing with the swirling snow. The cabin was now merely a shadow in the storm, and the only sound was the howling wind. He paused for a moment, feeling the weight of the rifle in his hands.
He surveyed the land with practiced eyes, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. Peter’s heart pounded in his chest, and he tightened his grip on the rifle. If they came, he would protect his family, no matter what it cost him.
Inside, Jane kept vigil by the Shoshone brave’s side, her hand resting lightly on his forehead. His breath came slower and deeper now. He was holding on. She had seen men die before, both on the sea journey to America and on the wagon train ride here. She prayed that he would survive. She had never encountered a man like him before.
Susan stood nearby, her face pale, her hands trembling. She was courageous, but the horror of the situation was too much for her. “Do you think they’ll come looking for him?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jane stared into her sister’s eyes. “I’m positive that they didn’t see where he went. They rode off into the forest. I’m sure they won’t come here looking for him. They almost always stay away from the settlers,” she said.
“But what if…” Susan stuttered.
“In the unlikely case they do come, we’ll be ready, no matter what happens.”
Susan shook her head. “We must give him up to them if they come here! Why risk our lives for this unknown man?”
“Because he’s a human being,” Jane responded.
“We know nothing about him!” Susan insisted. “What if they were after him because he killed one of their tribe members, or raped a woman of their tribe, or kidnapped— ”
Jane cut her off. “We will ask him when he awakes. But it’s most likely they attacked him simply because the Shoshone and the Blackfoot are fighting over territory right now.”
“But you don’t know that for sure!” Susan insisted. “He could be dangerous!”
“Settle down,” Jane said, trying to calm her sister. “Everything will be fine.” She got to her feet and hugged her sister. Susan seemed to relax somewhat in her arms, but not completely. Jane hoped and prayed she would remain calm.
The minutes dragged on like hours. Peter had not returned, and the storm outside continued to intensify. Snow was now piling high around the cabin, and the howling wind seemed to press in from every direction. Jane kept the fire stoked, hoping it would give them enough warmth through the night.
But to Susan, the silence outside felt like a ticking clock, counting down the moments until disaster reached their doorstep.