Walks the Fire (2 page)

Whitman retreated to his tent to get his surgical instruments. Returning to the trader’s campfire, he began. The arrowhead was covered with a thick layer of scar tissue, and Whitman apologized as he hacked away at the wound, intent upon success. At last, he pulled the point out. The trader gasped only once. Otherwise he sat immovable while the doctor performed his crude surgery. The operation complete, Whitman stepped away and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Yer all right by me, Doc. What can I trade ya fer the chop job?”

“I was glad to be of service, sir,” was all the missionary could say. He watched in amazement as the trader donned his shirt, wincing only a little, stood up and turned his head slowly from side to side, then shrugged his shoulders as if nothing had happened.

The trader retreated to his tent and came out again with two beaver pelts, which he handed to Whitman. “Heard ya got a missus’. These’ll make her a right nice lap robe… tell ’er I’m beholdin’ to ’er husband.”

It was said gruffly, but sincerity shone in the trader’s eyes. With a few brief instructions on keeping the wound clean, Whitman picked up the beaver pelts and returned to his own campfire, ignorant of the fact that his surgical skills were fast being told throughout the camp. He was soon the center of attention, and a long line of patients formed outside his tent to have the doctor treat various wounds and complaints.

It was late before Whitman could retire. As he lay back wearily on his bedroll, his tent flap was pulled back soundlessly. Almost before he could look up, an Indian’s imposing form filled the doorway. The brave wore a necklace of bear claws. Silently he sat before Whitman and began to unwrap one leg that was tightly bound with strips of leather from ankle to knee. Whitman recognized the Indian from Fort Laramie.

He moved to help unwrap the leg, but the brave waved him away. Perspiration formed on his forehead. He grunted under his breath and his hands trembled, but he persisted. The skins nearest the leg were crusted with dried blood. At last, he pulled them away, and Whitman drew in a sharp breath as the putrid smell of the wound filled the tent. Gasping with the effort, the Indian straightened the leg out before the doctor and leaned back on his hands, waiting. The dark eyes met Whitman’s in a wordless plea.

The doctor saw that infection had set in. He moved quickly to cleanse the wound. His patient gasped, but somehow controlled the urge to cry out

“With daylight, I can do more,” Whitman explained, despairing of the language barrier. He had done all he could by the light of the fire. But words weren’t needed to keep the Indian in his tent. With the last ministrations of the doctor, he gave one small agonized cry and passed out

At dawn Whitman had the Indian carried outside where he began the process of removing dead tissue. The man refused the whiskey offered as an anesthetic, pressing his lips together and turning a stony face away from the flask.

“Tell him I have to break his leg again,” Whitman said. The trader who had been summoned to interpret shared the bad news. The Indian looked long into Whitman’s face. The missionary’s gaze did not waver.

Asking a question, he waited as the trader interpreted. “Why d’ya have to break what has already been broken and healed?”

Whitman explained. “The break hasn’t healed correctly. The bone is still jutting out too far, and that has caused the swelling and infection. I must break it, set it correctly, and then stitch the skin together so it will heal properly.”

The interpreter repeated the information to the Indian, who interrupted with a question. “He wants to know if what you do will make him able to walk straight again. Says he walks like a wounded buffalo now.” The trader turned abruptly to Whitman and offered his own comment. “This here feller’s name is Rides the Wind. I seen ’im at the last rendezvous. He’s a dancin’ fool when he’s in shape. Got his wife by dancin’ to impress her. He ain’t too quick to have you breakin’ that leg again unless it’ll help him dance again.”

The trader winked at the doctor. “Even the redskins like to impress the ladies, Doc.”

Whitman cleared his throat and moistened his dry lips before responding. “Rides the Wind,” he said, looking directly at the warrior. “I am Dr. Marcus Whitman. I have come to this land to tell your people of the God who created us all. I tell you by that One that I do not know if you will dance again. But I do know that if I do not do this, you will lose this leg. You may die.”

Whitman’s honest gaze never left the eyes of the Indian as he spoke. His voice was gentle, filled with compassion.

The trader interpreted, and when he had finished there was a long silence. Rides the Wind pondered the doctor’s advice. He looked away for a moment and then back again at Whitman and gravely nodded his assent.

Several Lakota men were summoned to hold the warrior down while Whitman grasped the injured leg and twisted it. The sickening sound of the bone snapping caused a murmur to rise from the crowd of men. Rides the Wind bit the stick he gripped between his teeth in two and fainted. Whitman welcomed the chance to thoroughly clean away infected tissue and stitch up the leg.

One of the traders contributed the clean cloth that Whitman used to bind the leg. He worked quickly and efficiently, and when consciousness returned, Rides the Wind saw that his leg, which hurt worse than it ever had, was bound in clean cloth between two straight tree branches. He was carried away to his tepee where his wife and the tribal medicine man took over his care.

On the day Whitman began packing to leave for the West, the trader who had served as interpreter called on him, summoning him to Rides the Wind’s tepee. Stooping low, the doctor went inside where Rides the Wind lay on his buffalo robe. He was alone in the tepee, and as the doctor settled onto another buffalo robe, the Indian looked steadily into his face and said slowly, “You have medicine.”

Whitman stared, dumbfounded, as the English words were pronounced.

The trader grinned. “He’s been comin’ to the rendezvous a long time, Doc. He understands more’n he lets on. Too smart fer his own good, prob’ly. Fer some reason, he’s decided it’s all right to let you know he can talk a little of the white man’s talk.”

Whitman smiled warmly and turned to Rides the Wind. “Yes, I have medicine.”

The Indian pointed to his leg. “Make strong.”

“It will take much time, but it will be strong again. However, I fear you will always walk with a limp.” The Indian frowned and turned to the trader, who interpreted what Rides the Wind could not decipher.

Impatient with the primitive speech, Rides the Wind returned to his own language, speaking rapidly. Finally, the trader raised his hands to interrupt the long speech.

“Well, Doc,” he began. “It seems you’ve made quite an impression on this Injun. He’s sayin’ you’ve got good medicine. He wants you to make sure his leg heals right. Says he’ll travel with you ‘til yer sure it’ll be okay.”

Whitman interrupted, “But he can’t ride.”

Understanding, Rides the Wind interjected angrily. The Trader grinned and shook his head. “He says even with a broken leg, he can outride a white man any day. He rode here from Fort Laramie.”

Whitman turned to look at the warrior and saw the challenge in his dark eyes. The Indian reached out to grasp Whitman’s arm. His huge hand completely encircled the doctor’s thin forearm as he said, “I ride. You talk.” Then, Rides the Wind again spoke rapidly to the trader and motioned for him to translate.

“He wants you to take care of his leg, Doc.” As Rides the Wind talked on, the trader stopped and shoved his hat back on this head. “Well, I’ll be…”

“What is it?” Whitman urged.

“He says he wants to learn more white man’s talk. And he wants t’ hear more about that God you talked about the night you set his leg. The one you said created all things.”

The trader smiled broadly at Whitman. “Looks like you got yerself a prospective convert, Doc.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Just make sure he don’t scalp ya’ when he finds out that your God says he’s supposed to love the Pawnee that butchered his pa last winter.”

Whitman rose to the challenge. “It is my God who died for even his enemies, sir.”

The trader was unimpressed. “Save it, Doc. I ain’t buyin’. Anyhow, this Injun says he’s goin’ along. So you can practice your sermons on him.” The trader abruptly left Whitman alone with Rides the Wind.

With a prayer for wisdom, Whitman spoke slowly. “You come. I will care for your leg.” Rides the Wind nodded his agreement. Whitman added, “I will talk of God.” Again, the Indian agreed. As Rides the Wind struggled to rise, Whitman reached out to help him, but the Lakota brave shook his head and pushed the doctor away. With great effort he managed to stand, bearing all his weight on his uninjured left leg.

As Whitman watched, he reached up for the knife and arrow sheath that hung from a nearby pole. Strapping them on, he grabbed a recently cut stick that leaned against the pole. Using it as a cane, Rides the Wind hobbled to the entrance of the tepee. Motioning for Whitman to precede him, he bent awkwardly and lunged outside, nearly falling and gasping with the effort to stand straight. His wife approached. Rides the Wind spoke rapidly to her, and she obediently trotted away to fulfill his demands.

“Go. I come,” was all he said to Whitman. The missionary started toward his own campfire to pack, looking back over his shoulder to see Rides the Wind re-enter his tepee.

When the fur train pulled out of camp later that morning, Whitman’s mule was followed by an Indian pony carrying a wounded Sioux hunter.

Rides the Wind stayed with the train until his broken leg was completely healed. The fur train had long since entered territory inhabited by enemies of the Sioux. Rides the Wind seemed unconcerned. With fierce determination he learned to speak the “white man’s talk.” With equal determination, he listened and questioned as Whitman talked night after night of the God who had sent him to the Indians.

When at last they parted, Whitman placed a Bible in the hands of the warrior.

“This book tells of God, Rides the Wind. I give it to you in friendship.” It was an odd gift, Whitman knew. Rides the Wind couldn’t read. Still, the missionary felt impressed to give it.

Rides the Wind took the bear claw necklace from around his own neck and handed it to the missionary. He held the Bible to his chest and watched as Whitman rode away. When at last the missionary was lost from view, Rides the Wind wrapped the book carefully in deerskin.

Upon his return to his band, he stored “the book about the God who created all things” in his parfleche. Often, he unwrapped it, turning the gilt-edged pages carefully, staring at the strange designs on each page, wishing he could know their meaning.

His leg had healed, but it remained crooked. Rides the Wind could no longer dance about the fire. His lovely wife insisted that it didn’t matter. But Rides the Wind saw into her soul, and the fire that had burned there for him grew dim.

When Dancing Waters dared to mock the strange things he told her he had heard from the missionary, Rides the Wind reacted in uncharacteristic anger and demanded that she show more respect. Often, he pondered the images Whitman had shared—a man and a woman in a beautiful place… the eating of forbidden fruit… a God-man dying on a kind of tree… that same man living again. He longed for someone to come and tell him the mystery of the missionary’s gift, but he did not speak of it

From hundreds of miles away, a faithful missionary prayed,
Somehow, Lord, send someone—so that Rides the Wind will one day know you.

Two

Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.
—
Proverbs 16:18

Jesse King stood
at the counter of the general store in Independence, Missouri, preparing to order provisions for the trek west. She waited patiently behind a tall, slim woman in the long line. The woman’s thick dark hair was piled high atop her head. A huge yellow bonnet hung about her shoulders, and it shook as the woman energetically barked out her order. She examined every item carefully and then directed a young boy to deliver her things to the wagon parked just ahead of the King rig outside the door of the store. Jesse held back until the woman finished.

Turning briskly, the woman bumped into Jesse and exclaimed, “Goodness me, I’m sorry! Oh, I didn’t waken that darling baby, I hope! My name’s Lavinia Wood. Are you on the trail too?” The words tumbled out as Jesse adjusted her sleeping child to extract her own list from her pocket.

Jesse replied, “No, no—that is, you didn’t bother Jacob, here. He can sleep through thunder and lightning, thank the Lord.” As she uncrumpled her carefully written list, she answered the rest of Lavinia’s questions, “Yes, we are going west—I’m Jesse King.”

“King,” Lavinia repeated. “That your rig outside? Fine horses…” When Jesse nodded yes she added, “Well, them’s our yoke of oxen and our wagon just ahead of you. Maybe we can see one another on the trail… unless you’ve already got another wagon picked to buddy up with?”

Jesse shook her head, “No, we just got into town… and Homer’s not one for talk. He’s been busy helping me write this list of provisions…”