Jan contentedly sat with the men and told them stories from the Good Book. It pleased him that the Indians asked questions about the great God who cared for all people. He referred to what Paul said in Acts about the Unknown God, stressing that even if God were unknown to a tribe, that did not mean He did not exist.
In the evening, the people of the village gathered around the fire, and he preached to the women and children as well as the men. The custom of the Indians was to relate their stories with a rhythm. There was a cadence of speech reserved just for the great stories of old. Jan, while living with the Indians, had cultivated this method of delivery into his own style. Now he spoke not only in their native tongue, but with the same inflection and flow of their traditional stories.
Jan talked with the medicine man who had been hostile to his words on previous visits. In their legends, the Arapaho people revered a being called Creator who made earth. The old man showed interest in the Bible stories as he had never done before. Jan prayed that his Indian friend would truly hear the Gospel message.
“Tell me if the creator of my people will die if I turn to your God,” said the old man as he sat with the missionary in the evening.
“I don’t believe that is the way it is.” Jan replied earnestly. “You are a man who has always sought the truth. You have spoken to the one you call Creator whom you believe to have power over man and the world. I say that you have talked to God but did not know His name or the things He has revealed to us through His Son.
“When you spoke to the Creator of Rain, you were speaking to Jehovah, because He is the God of Rain. When you spoke to the Creator of Light, you were speaking to Jehovah, because He not only is the God of Light, but He created light, and the Book says He is Light. You have often spoken to the Creator, but now He has sent me to tell you that there is but one God, the one and only, true and living Jehovah.”
“And the evil spirits?”
“There is no God but the good and just Jehovah. Evil spirits would like us to believe that they have the power of God, but they do not. They have the power of fear. In God there is no darkness at all. God does not give us a spirit of fear, but of love, truth, and a sound mind. God casts out all fear.”
“I will think on these things, Jan Borjesson,” the man promised. Jan prayed that he would also remember what he had told him about the purpose of God’s Son’s journey to the people of the earth.
Another time he told the man, “God is fair. He does not want His people to be ignorant of Him. He sends someone to tell what He has revealed to others. If you were to walk for a hundred years, you would come near the land where His Son visited the earth.” He drew a small circle in the dirt and pointed to it as he spoke. “God did not want just these people so far away to possess the great knowledge of Him. He sent people out, here and here and here.” Jan drew more rings around the first circle. “These people were told about God. Then, more people went out at God’s command to tell of His greatness.”
Jan drew more rings around the original.
“You see the Truth of God is spreading.” He drew the circles farther and farther away from the center. “Now, I am here,” he said, pointing to the outermost circle. “It is because God wants the Arapaho to know.”
“It is like a pebble dropped in the pond,” said the old medicine man solemnly.
“Yes,” said Jan, knowing that it was often best to let the Indian think rather than to continue talking. After a few moments, the old man nodded, rose to his feet, and left Jan to wonder how much the man believed.
Three days after Jan had walked into the village, he left with his newly acquired “family.” They had little to carry as they set out on foot. Rolled blankets held meager supplies. Each carried a bundle and the Indian equivalent to a canteen. Gladys had her saddlebag pouches packed.
Jan explained that the Arapaho expected Tildie to bear the bulk of their burden. Women and dogs traditionally carried all as the semi-nomadic tribe moved around. He chortled. “The women particularly like when I tell how Jesus often honored women and sought to make their burdens less onerous. They are in favor of following our God in this area.”
Jan provided each of his fellow travelers with a walking stick. The girls’ had animal heads carved at the top knob. Little Evie soon found herself carried by the big Swede in a sling much like the Indians used to carry their smallest children.
They marched toward the mountains for several hours, then Jan called a halt under a shade tree next to a brook. They ate the bread Older One had given them and settled in for a nap. While the hot September sun beat down on the dry land and the winds flowed down off the mountainside, they would rest.
In the tepee of Older One, Jan slept with the little family group. He had nestled between Mari and Boister. Next to Mari had been Evie with Tildie near the outside wall. Now, as they prepared to sleep in the shade of the elm, Mari plopped down beside Jan. Evie and Tildie took up the other blanket.
Tildie watched Boister stand undecided. Obviously, he didn’t want to lie on a blanket with the girls nor settle beside Jan Borjesson. Finally, he sat between the two blankets with his back against the tree trunk.
When Tildie awoke hours later, he was a crumpled figure, alone at the base of the tree. Her heart stirred with helplessness. Nothing she did seemed to bring Boister back to his childhood. He never fully interacted with anyone. She had thought that in the Indian village, he was showing some signs of attachment to the men and boys who included him in their daily lives.
He must feel sad over parting from his Indian friends. He had found something there with the other boys, despite their cultural differences. He’d been accepted. Even though he seldom spoke, or maybe, because he was such a little stoic, the Indian boys had included him in their games as well as their forages out into the countryside. Boister had brought with him a bow and set of arrows, a knife, and several other things Indian boys valued. Tildie didn’t know exactly how he had acquired them. Perhaps the Indian men had given them to him as he learned alongside their sons.
Now Boister slept and he looked vulnerable like any other little six-year-old boy. The hard lines of his face were relaxed. He didn’t look tough. Tildie knew he must grow up to be a man in this harsh world, but she regretted his loss of childish delight. She had never seen him giggle with abandon like the girls. She closed her eyes to pray and drifted from the comfort of the Father’s presence into a peaceful sleep.
She awoke to the smell of dinner. Jan Borjesson grinned at her as she stretched and sat up. He crouched by a small fire, sitting on his heels and stirring the pot Boister had carried.
“Hmm, that’s smells good.”
“It’s jerky and wild onions. Boister and I found a patch there by the stream. It still isn’t cool enough to travel comfortably, so I figured we’d eat a bite first.”
The breeze rustled the leaves above and played with the wisps of curly blond hair that framed Tildie’s face. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were red from the sun. Tildie reached up and pulled out the braid that hung down her back. With her fingers, she combed through the tangles and proceeded to redo the braid in a more orderly fashion.
The girls busily constructed a house out of sticks and leaves. Boister sat on a rock by the stream.
“There’s a trading post two days west,” said Jan, watching her as he stirred. “I have some credit there. We’ll get a horse and some supplies. Think you can fashion a bonnet out of whatever material old Jake has available?”
“I’ll certainly try.” She looked down at her deerskin dress. “I don’t look like an Indian or a white woman. Much longer in the sun and I’ll be red and blistering.”
“I was just thinking how nice it was to have company,” Jan said with an admiring glance. His next words ruined any illusion Tildie had of her attractive appearance. “I guess I’m not too particular on what my company looks like, whether you’re burnt or not. I’ve lived out here now for six years, and in that time, I’ve seen two white women. One was old Jake’s wife. She died four winters ago. The other was a Frenchwoman traveling with a trapper. She didn’t speak any English, Swedish, or Indian. Her trapper friend didn’t want her talking to anyone, anyway. Jealous type.”
Tildie smiled, thinking how the trapper had cause to be jealous. Jan Borjesson was a man who would turn any woman’s head.
“So you’re Swedish. I thought so. We had a Swedish community in Lafayette.”
“My grandparents came from Sweden and lived in Ohio. My parents live in the same farmhouse my grandpa built. I’m the oldest of thirteen children.”
“The Indian women only have three or four children each. I thought that odd.”
“Not when you consider that a man might have three wives. Then he is supporting nine to twelve children.”
Tildie’s eyes grew big. “I hadn’t noticed that.” She thought for a moment. “The Indian who wanted me, did he have other wives?”
Jan laughed. “You would’ve been wife number four. The elders weren’t too happy with his greed.”
Tildie blushed. Jan continued, ignoring her discomfort. “He also had a passel of kids. He must have admired you quite a bit to be willing to take on three more.”
He laughed again, but the thought sobered Tildie. She looked over to where the children sat happily engaged in their own activities.
“That’s going to be a problem.” She sighed. “They’re good children, but I can’t imagine how I’m going to provide for them. The homestead was profitable when Uncle Henry was alive, but John Masters pretty much ruined it. I’ll have to depend on the foreman to turn it back into a working ranch.”
“There’s a foreman taking care of things?”
“Yes, George Taylor. He’s probably getting more done without John Masters underfoot.”
“Tell me about the ranch.”
Tildie began with what she knew from the letters they had received from her aunt and uncle after the two headed west to settle. Boister came over to sit beside her, soaking up the information about his parents’ early life.
“Uncle Henry had a way about him,” said Tildie. “He was a friend to everyone. He was strong and ready to lend a helping hand to anyone. There were just a handful of settlers in their group, and he became their leader.
“He was helping with a load of rock. They were gathering the stones from a streambed to make a chimney in a neighbor’s house. The load tipped, and he and the wagon went down the bank in a landslide.”
Boister took hold of her hand. “I got to him first,” he said. “Everyone was yelling, ‘stay back,’ but I didn’t mind ’em. Pa was dead.”
Tildie gave him a squeeze with the arm she draped across his back. His scrawny frame tensed as he leaned against her. It was the first time she’d ever heard him say anything about the accident. She knew it was a monumental step for the little boy but wasn’t sure how to respond. He probably didn’t want her to make a fuss, so she plunged on with the story.
“Aunt Matilda had never been without someone to guide her. First it was her father, my grandpa. Then when he died, it was her brother. She married Uncle Henry when she was eighteen. They lived in Lafayette for two years before he decided to move west.
“After he died, she needed someone to help her. Unfortunately, John Masters came along and sweet-talked her into believing he was the answer to her prayers. He wanted the house Uncle Henry had already built, fields that were already plowed and sown, and the thriving cattle spread Henry already started.
“Once they were married, John showed his true colors and browbeat my aunt and the children. He got drunk regularly and drove off most of the hands.
“When I came, there was no help in the house anymore. Aunt Matilda had Evelyn, who was almost a year old. Aunt Matilda had given up, just quit.”
Tildie stared off into the distance remembering the woman who came to the door when she knocked. Thin, aged, with vacant eyes, she stood there, not recognizing her favorite niece. Her face and demeanor were so altered, Tildie thought she had come to the wrong house. With dawning horror, she realized this pathetic woman was the aunt who had played with her when she was young. This was the vibrant young woman whose earlier kindness had won a place in Tildie’s heart forever.
She had reached out and taken the thin, rough hands of her aunt. “Aunt Matilda, it’s Tildie….”
The guide she’d hired to bring her from the nearest settlement realized something was wrong. “Miss, this is the right place. Weren’t you expected?”
“I wrote a letter…”
The door opened wider and John Masters pushed Matilda aside to stand in the doorway. His feet apart, his arms crossed over his chest, he looked at the uninvited guest with barefaced contempt. “We wrote back, ‘don’t come,’” he growled. “I got enough mouths to feed. I took on two brats when I married your aunt, and we have a gal of our own. You’re not needed here. If you could ride a horse and work the cattle, that’d be different. Can’t keep decent help out here.” He turned, pushing Matilda out of the way again, and stomped back into the dark house.
“You want me to take you back to the way station? A stage will be coming through next week. Take you back East,” offered the guide.
“No.”
The word was but a whisper. It didn’t come from his passenger, but from the woman in the door. Aunt Matilda took hold of Tildie’s arm and looked her full in the face. Her eyes filled with tears and the grip on Tildie’s arm tightened. “Stay. Please stay.”
“Yes, Aunt Matilda, I’ll stay.”