Page 19 of Shoshone Sun

Peter set a steady pace, though every few hundred yards, his gaze would flicker over his shoulder to the figure of the Shoshone man, barely moving, clinging to life. The longer they took, the more Peter feared they might not make it. He had done everything he could to remove the arrow, stop the bleeding, clean the wound, stabilize the man—but nature had its own rhythm, and time was running out. And the cold wasn’t helping.

The horses walked for about an hour before Peter could take the strain no longer and urged them into a jog. He was freezing cold, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and though he tried to keep his thoughts focused on the task at hand, his mind kept wandering back to Susan’s words, to the sudden and terrifying rift between him and his wife. He had known she was frightened, but he hadn’t realized just how deeply that fear had taken root. Her words, her threat to leave him and return to England, kept ringing in his mind. Was there a chance she’d leave him while they were taking the Indian to his uncle’s? Should he go back to his cabin and make sure she hadn’t?

He shook the thoughts away. Susan wouldn’t head out with Petey through all this snow. No, that would be insane! They couldn’t stop, not yet. The man in the back of the wagon needed him more than anything right now. He’d return to his wife as soon as he could.

“How is he?” Peter asked his sister-in-law.

“He’s still hanging on, barely,” Jane replied. “He’s freezing. We need to move faster.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “We’ll go faster. We’ll get him there.” He urged the horses on a notch faster. Peter looked around, scanning the horizon through the snow. The tracks behind them were already half-covered, fading in the swirling snow. His heart sank. Even at a faster pace, it would be almost another hour before they reached Paul’s place. Would the wounded man still be alive when they got there? Had Peter done the right thing bringing him to Paul’s? Or had he as good as sentenced the man to death?

They continued, their pace hindered by the snow, but as fast as they could manage under the conditions. The silence between them hung heavily. Peter wondered if Jane was blaming him as much as he was blaming himself.

Finally, the silhouette of a cabin appeared on the horizon. Peter felt a surge of relief, though it was tempered by the uncertainty of the man’s fate.

“There it is,” he cried, his voice rough with the strain of the journey. “Paul’s homestead.”

Jane glanced up, her eyes brightening as she saw the familiar shape of the cabin—a tiny beacon in the white expanse. But as they approached the cabin, Peter’s heart sank again. He’d hoped that his uncle would be happy to help, but how could he be sure? What if he was burdening his uncle with a burden he didn’t want to bear?

Peter pulled the horses to a halt in front of the cabin. Steam rolled off their backs. “Let’s get him inside,” he said. “I’ll explain the situation to Paul and Mary while you get all the horses into the barn, rubbed down, and fed.”

Jane nodded, and together they carried the injured man, taking slow, careful steps through the snow toward the warmth of the cabin. As they reached the door, Peter knocked once, the sound of his knuckles against the wood sharp in the silence.

The door creaked open almost immediately, and there stood Paul—broad-shouldered and rugged, his face weathered by years of hard labor and the harsh winters. His eyes widened when he saw the injured man, but he stepped aside quickly to let them in.

“What happened?” Paul asked, his voice thick with concern as he scanned the trio.

“He took an arrow in his side,” Peter said, catching his breath. “We need to get him inside, keep him warm, and keep him alive.”

Paul nodded quickly, stepping forward to help. “Let’s get him in here, quick.”

Inside, the warmth of the cabin hit Peter like a wave of comfort, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he laid the injured Shoshone man on a bed of blankets Mary had quickly laid down in front of the fire.

Once they had covered him with more blankets, Jane rushed back outside to tend to the horses, her mind a turmoil of wondering if the man would live.

When Jane finished with the horses and returned to the cabin, she saw that Paul was kneeling beside the injured man, beside him a bag of his medical supplies and herbs.

“Will he survive?” Jane asked him, watching anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Paul said quietly as he worked on the man, massaging his limbs and body to warm him. “But we’ll do what we can.”

Jane sighed in relief. Like Peter, she had also wondered if Paul would be willing to help the stranger. Apparently, he was.

“Come here,” Mary beckoned, and Jane collapsed onto a bench beside the kindly older woman. As Mary enfolded Jane in her arms, Jane finally felt hopeful that things were taking a turn for the better. Paul’s cabin, with its flickering fire, provided a small island of warmth, offered a respite from the cold, from the chaos, and a buffer against Jane’s bitter quarrel with her sister.

Chapter Eleven: The Language of Healing

- Paul Jacobs Homestead, 1866

Eighty miles west of Fort Laramie –

Paul’s homestead was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace and the occasional shift of the wounded man on the makeshift bed. Jane sat by his side, her hands busy with the task of tending to his injuries, her mind adrift in a haze of conflicting thoughts. The man had survived the night—barely—but it was still unclear whether he would make it through the next day. She watched him now, his breathing shallow, his skin pale, his body wrapped in layers of blankets to stave off the cold.

The stillness of the cabin was interrupted only by the distant howls of wolves, an eerie reminder of the untamed world beyond the walls. Despite the warmth of the fire and the comfort of being indoors, a sense of unease lingered in the air, heavier now than before.

Jane’s thoughts drifted to her sister, Susan. She remembered seeing her as they left Peter’s cabin, standing near the far corner of the main room, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on the fire. She had not spoken a word of farewell nor had she bidden Jane good luck. Her face had been drawn, pale, her lips set in a tight line. The anger she felt for Jane had been palpable—thick and suffocating—like a dark cloud that neither of them seemed able to dismiss.

Jane tried to listen as Peter spoke to his uncle, his voice so low that she couldn’t make out his words. Jane didn’t envy her brother-in-law’s position. He had chosen to help the injured brave over Susan’s demands that the man be turned out into the cold, by agreeing to bring him to Paul’s homestead. But at what cost? Would Susan be satisfied with the arrangements? Or would she be gone when Peter arrived back home? Jane could feel the struggle within Peter, sense his uncertainty growing with every passing hour.

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