CHAPTER FOUR
Czanna glanced toward the wooden wagon wheel on her left and sighed. There were streaks of mud within its cracks, and she knew the markings should be washed off to ensure the wheel would remain strong and serviceable. Perhaps she would do the task when they reached the Missouri River. But, not tonight; it was a job best done in broad daylight.
Briefly, she looked up at the bed of the wagon and its white covering, listening for any signs of a problem with her young sister. But, there was nothing to be heard, only the sound of the deep breathing from both the babe and her maid, Liliann.
Czanna's gaze traveled then toward the four horses grazing steadily upon the spring-green, prairie grasses. She noted they were all four hobbled and that they were also easily seen by Stands Strong. Briefly, she listened to their quiet horse-talk before gazing away.
Only a few days had passed since she and her family had left Fort Benton, and, during that time, Czanna had taken to sleeping in the open unless there was bad weather. However, she always made her bed next to the wagon, and as she slept she kept her pistol primed and ready to shoot, if the need were to arise. It had become a habit to keep her gun with her as she slept, and this was especially true now, since Mr. Henrik was no longer with them.
Mr. Henrik. Where was he? Would he really come back to them soon? Or would he be confronted with problems she could not even conceive of? And, if therewereproblems—serious ones—would they be of the kind that could result in injury to him or even cause his death?
She gasped at the thought and determined to not think of it again. Instead, she would pray for Mr. Henrik's safe return, and she did so now, bowing her head and asking the Lord to keep Mr. Henrik safe.
Opening her eyes, she looked straight ahead but could only see shadowy images of her brother and Mr. Stands Strong. Oddly, they appeared to be deep in conversation.
Looking away from them, she stared out onto the prairie, it appearing endless beneath the starlight overhead. But, she had experienced so many losses within such a short period of time that these seemed to cause the night's beauty to appear a drab sight, bringing on the unpleasant feeling of being alone…and frightened.
How could shenotbe frightened? Truth was, she felt haunted by her worries, her most problematic anxiety being how to keep her family safe.
Indeed, if considered in the light of how much knowledge she possessed of this country, it was an alarming task Mr. Henrik had left upon her not-so-broad shoulders. At present, not only was she, and she alone, responsible for ensuring her family did not suffer from the elements, but she was also charged with bringing them, one and all, safe and secure, to their cousin in the Glacier Mountains. Once there, she would give her cousin the treasure entrusted to her by her brother. Her cousin would then recognize her and would help her and the rest of her family. But, until then…
Am I strong-willed enough and smart enough to accomplish this?
She had to be. She simply had to be, although if she were to be honest, she would admit to fearing the assignment given herwas beyond her. What did she know of this Western world? And, most importantly, what did she know of surviving in it?
Czanna gazed down into her lap, suppressing the inclination to cry. Briefly, she reached up to dry the single tear that had dared to escape her eyes.
If, indeed, Mr. Henrik did not return, it would be her responsibility alone to complete the task her brother had given her, though the mere thought of what would be required of her overwhelmed her. Breathing in on a sigh, she coughed once, but not because of nerves, rather, it was due to the dry air's effect on her throat.
Looking up, she gazed into the night's sky with all its twinkling stars, hoping their glittering light would dispel any doubts of her inability. But, even the beauty displayed in the heavens didn't relieve her mind.
It didn't help, either, when a strong wind blew up behind her, blowing her hair every which way, tickling her face and covering her eyes. Reaching up, she took hold of the whole of her mane and forced it to fall down over her back where its length reached almost to her waist. If only it would stay in place. But, as delicate wisps of her hair blew continuously forward, she gave up trying to tame it and let her mane go wherever it would.
No wonder the Indians commonly wear braids,she thought.
Perhaps she might make use of the American Indian hairstyle, if only to train her locks to stay put. Or maybe she might find a different manner in which to wear a hat—one that would keep her hair from becoming a nuisance.
She sighed. She should try to get some rest. Tomorrow was an important day, and, since being alert was crucial, she had best greet the first rays of the sun with a full night's sleep.
Briefly she lay down, covering herself with a blanket, but it wasn't long before she sat up again. Nervously, she glanced around the campsite; brown dried grass was surrendering in patches to the fresh green of spring. Even the hard groundbeneath her was softened by the gentler new grass sprouting up here and there.
How strange was this land. Until reaching the Mississippi River, she had traveled by coach amongst a society not too different from her own. After all, the eastern part of this country was quite civilized, its society and culture extending all the way to the town of St. Louis.
But, there it had all changed, and the trappings of civilization were more and more becoming hard to find. And, for the first time, she had been in the company of Indians.
She had known, of course, that the farther west they were to travel, the more she would see of the native population of this land. What she hadn't realized, however, was the beauty of these people and their attire, complete with tanned buckskin cloth for shirts, dresses, leggings and moccasins.
Equally startling to her was the loveliness of the women in both face and figure, as well as the utter masculinity of the men, their height and size overwhelming to her. She had been surprised and intrigued at first.
Then had come the stories of their ungodly savagery upon the "peaceful" newcomers to this land. She had gasped at the cruelty revealed in these tales. But, was it only this to blame for the negative opinion she had held of the native peoples?
How odd it had been when, recently, those first ideas had faded away, and simply because of meeting and speaking with Stands Strong. For the first time, she had realized there was, indeed, another viewpoint about the native people of this land and about the people coming newly into it.
But, she cautioned herself, she shouldn't be too quick to trust, whether it be the American Indian or the white man, alike. After all, it was no Indian who had betrayed both her and Henrik, and it was no white man who had come to her aid this day.
And yet, despite Stands Strong's offer to help, he was an American Indian, and, having no conception of his culture or whathe held to be true, could she, indeed, trust him? Or, would he, as had the scout whom Henrik had hired, betray them in the end?
Perhaps.Perhaps not.
