Page 14 of Shoshone Sun

“That we will,” Paul agreed, a quiet smile on his face.

Chapter Eight: An Unbidden Visitor

- 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.

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