26 
He was nearly too tired to care. If someone wanted to shoot him, so be it. His feet were half frozen anyway. Moon Song was not going to survive unless they got her shelter and a doctor.
The others barely twitched at the repeat of the rifle. They merely stood, like cattle. Dumb from exhaustion and cold. They had pushed so hard for so long. A trip that should have taken three or four days had turned into an eight-day trial of endurance and hardship and near starvation.
Now someone was shooting at them. The only weapon Skypilot carried was his axe, and it was strapped to the mule. He forced himself to try to reach for it.
“Stop!” a voice said.
Skypilot stopped.
A strange sight emerged from the woods—a man with wild hair and beard, dressed in ragged buckskin and rabbit fur badly sewn into a rough cape.
“I’ve been following you,” the man said, keeping his rifle trained on Skypilot. “You’re trespassing.”
“I apologize,” Skypilot said. “I thought we were in the right place.”
“You’re a white man. Why are you walking around with this band of Chippewa?”
“Trying to help them.”
“Looks like you’ve been doing a poor job of it.”
“True.” Skypilot staggered but managed to right himself. “We meant no harm.”
“What’s wrong with that Indian girl?” The man motioned at her with his gun.
“She’s sick. I think it’s pneumonia.”
“Are you her husband?”
“Not yet,” Skypilot said. “Probably not ever unless we can get her into some sort of shelter. Either shoot me and be done with it or help me get her under a roof somewhere. Don’t keep us standing here. These people have been through enough.”
The man lowered the rifle and jerked his head to the east.
“I got a cabin over there a ways. You and her and the old woman can stay with me. Those people over there can make whatever use they can from the barn.”
His spirits lifted slightly. “We’re grateful for whatever help you can give us.”
The barn, when they got to it, was tight, well built, filled with hay, and compared to where they had been, downright cozy with the body heat of several farm animals. The rest of the tribe fell into the barn and sat there in a daze. The wild-looking man seemed troubled.
“I’ll come out later and tend to them. Let’s get the girl and the old woman inside.”
It took every last bit of strength he had, but he lifted Moon Song, who was unconscious now, into his arms and carried her into the man’s home.
The log cabin, when they entered it, was more spacious than he’d expected. It was not a one-room affair but had two bedrooms, one to each side, plus a loft.
“In here,” the wild man said. “She can have my bed.”
Skypilot gently laid her on the man’s rope bed, and then he sat down on the floor at her side.
Fallen Arrow had collapsed onto a thick rug that was in front of the fireplace. It was humbling to Skypilot how completely at this stranger’s mercy they were. He wished he’d been better at reading Moon Song’s property title, but perhaps this was the Lord taking care of them. Instead of finding their way to Moon Song’s land, they had found this man who might actually save their lives.
The first thing the man did was set a huge kettle of water to boiling on the fireplace, out of which he made cups of tea sweetened with real sugar. Skypilot sat with his back against Moon Song’s bed, sipping the tea, trying to get his strength back while the man walked back and forth looking out at the weather.
They had barely made it here in time. The wind picked up once again and began to whistle around the corners of the cabin. The man appeared to make a decision. He left and came back from the barn with the rest of the tribe.
“It was getting too cold out there,” the man said.
The people said little. Instead, they huddled around the pot while he poured more cups of tea. Although his cups were limited and they had to share, no one seemed to mind.
After everyone had warmed up with the hot liquid, the man added more water to the pot and then poured several pounds of beans into it along with some cut-up fatback and set it back to boiling.
“Kisinaa,” Moon Song said through chattering teeth.
“She says she’s cold,” Skypilot explained. “Although I don’t know how she could be. With that fire going, even I’m starting to sweat.”
The man placed the palm of his hand on her forehead, and in so doing, brushed the tangled hair out of her face.
Skypilot heard a strangled gasp as the man got a full look at her face. He didn’t understand. Moon Song was beautiful, but not to the point of making a man gasp in surprise.
“Dear God,” the man said as though uttering a prayer. “Who have you brought to my door?”
“Her name is Moon Song.” Skypilot said.
“Of course it is.” The wild man’s comment made no sense to Skypilot, but then nothing made a whole lot of sense right now.
He knew more about curing a fever than Skypilot did. He brought in snow from the outside, rolled it in oilcloth, and placed it under her neck and shoulders and beneath her arms and behind her knees. This he changed every few minutes until the fever cooled enough that he was able to bring a special drink to her.
“What is that?” Skypilot asked.
“The inner bark of the willow,” the man said. “It’s good for fevers and headaches.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“From an old friend.”
Suddenly Skypilot realized that in his haze of fatigue, he’d lost track of little Standing Bear. “Where is the baby?”
“One of the other Indian mothers is feeding him.”
The man’s answers were short and to the point but not unkind. As Skypilot watched him dribbling the willow bark water into Moon Song’s mouth, he realized that he did not have to be strong for her any longer. He dragged himself off into a corner and fell into an exhausted sleep.
He slept deep and hard and when he awoke, it was to quiet laughter and the liquid sound of the Chippewa language. He stood up and saw that Moon Song was still unconscious but her teeth were no longer chattering. He walked over, felt her head, and found it cool to the touch. He almost panicked, thinking she had died, until he saw that she was breathing regularly. Then he opened the door and walked out to where the others were crowded together, eating beans out of a pot.
“I saved you some,” Snowbird said in Chippewa as she handed him a bowl of beans with a large piece of fatback in the middle of it.
He realized he was ravenous, and downed it in a few gulps. Then he saw what the laughter was all about. Standing Bear was doing a little stomp and dance step for the group.
“Where is Fallen Arrow?” he asked.
Snowbird nodded toward the fireplace. “She ate well and is now sleeping again. I think she will regain her strength.”
“Where is the stranger who saved us?”
“He and my husband went out to tend to the livestock.”
“Moon Song’s fever has broken,” he said. “She sleeps without coughing.”
“Ah, that is what the white stranger said.” She turned her attention back toward the enjoyment of watching Moon Song’s son revel in all the attention.
The cabin was very crowded, and it was growing very warm. Even though it was still snowing, he stepped outside to breathe the fresh air.
“Do you love her?” He heard the wild man’s voice behind him. It was a strange question to come from the lips of a virtual stranger, but then again, it had been a strange journey.
Startled, he turned around and realized that once again he was staring down the muzzle of the man’s rifle.
“I’m getting very tired of this,” Skypilot said wearily. “Either kill me or put that thing away.”
“Do you love her?” the man once again asked.
“Life would be a whole lot less complicated if I didn’t, but yes, I love her. I love her more than my own life. Who are you anyway?”
“I’m the caretaker of this place,” the man said.
“Then who’s the owner?”
“From what I can tell,” the man said, “it’s that girl lying in there.” He shook his head. “She sure does look like her mother.”
Skypilot got cold chills down his back. “How do you know her mother?”
“Because I’m the one who killed her.”
To Skypilot’s utter astonishment, the man dropped his gun in the snow, fell to his knees, and covered his face.