Chapter Text
I believe I had the Great Spirit to thank for helping me find the strength to do what needed to be done that day, and for sparing the ones I love from the fire the evening before. The loss of our home seemed almost inconsequential in the wake of all the rest that had happened, and I knew it would be some time before life was actually back to normal. However, having my family and friends safe once again was what mattered most, and I was filled with gratitude.
Janey Carter threw an impromptu celebration party at the boardinghouse when we returned Saturday afternoon, but I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. Emily encouraged me to eat something, though, and I also drank a whole pitcher of water in one long gulp, belching loudly afterward, which my twins and the younger Yen children found endlessly amusing. Nevertheless, knowing what I needed most was rest, Emily and Max soon helped me climb the stairs to our room where I fell into bed fully clothed and essentially passed out.
I slept what felt like the sleep of the dead, completely dreamless, for more than fourteen hours and woke just past eight on Sunday morning with what felt like the worst hangover of my life. Every muscle in my body ached, right down to the bone; my broken nose throbbed, and I could barely breathe through it. It had been many, many years since I rode for the Pony Express, and it was apparent that my older, slightly heavier body was paying the price for yesterday’s wild ride.
When I threw the light blanket off, I found myself dressed only in my under garment and figured Emily must have removed my dusty clothes while I slumbered. I saw no sign that she had slept in the bed with me that night, but it was just like her to have allowed me full rest with no disturbances, and I deduced that she probably slept in another room with the twins instead.
After looking around blearily, I spied my trousers on the back of the chair along with the filthy, bloody shirt I had been wearing since Friday. I was surprised my wife hadn’t already taken the shirt somewhere to be laundered, but I figured she had more pressing things on her mind, like taking care of our children. Besides, it was now the only shirt I owned, a fact of which I am sure she was fully aware.
I managed to get to my feet slowly, groaning like an old man, and attempted to beat some of the dust off my trousers. Whether I had had clean clothes or not, I decided wearing the dirty clothes would be best anyway, since I intended to go to what was left of our house and sift through the rubble for anything that might be salvageable; there would be no sense in ruining clean clothes with soot. While I dressed in the still-filthy clothes as quickly as I was able, I reckoned Emily and/or Janey had something in mind that I could wear later on.
Once I was dressed, I washed my bruised face with the water in the basin on the dry sink, peering critically in the mirror at the stubble around my mouth and chin as well as my disheveled hair, which was half pulled out of the braids in several places. Having no shaving gear or a brush, I settled for tamping down the worst of my bushy hair with some water and my fingers, but knew I would need to make a point of availing myself of Avery Carter’s bathhouse later on if I could persuade him to open it for me on a Sunday. I hoped he would have a razor I could borrow until I could retrieve a new one from the mercantile.
After making my way gingerly downstairs, I found Emily and the twins in the dining room along with Janey, Spencer, Avery, Max, Seth, and a tall, blond-haired young man I assumed must be Ben Chase, and greeted them all with a weak smile. Although I was elated to see everyone, I was still weary and needed coffee to get my blood pumping again. Still, Takoda and Wachiwi were determined to make sure I was awake by throwing themselves at me and insisting that I pick them up. I obliged with a loud groan, not quite certain my back was going to withstand the strain; but I needed to hold them close for a moment, so I gritted my teeth, bent to scoop them into my arms, and stood up slowly. Emily moved in and encircled my waist with her arms and pressed her cheek against my chest in between the children who hugged my neck and didn’t seem to want to let go. I don’t know how long we stood like that, but having my family safe and close to me was the best feeling in the world.
The beautiful moment ended, however, when my stomach growled loudly and everyone started laughing, and it embarrassed me as usual. Emily grinned up at me and winked, whispering, “Good morning, Man With Growling Stomach.” I couldn’t help smiling back at her mischievous grin, and I gently put the twins down and joined the group at the dining table.
I found that I was ravenous having had little to eat for nearly two days, so I indulged in a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, flapjacks and toast, and I drank at least three cups of coffee. Finally, I felt a little more human and announced my intention to go to the house to retrieve the buckboard and anything else usable I could find. Max volunteered to go with me, and I accepted because I figured I could use the help since I was still in pretty rough shape. I also had an inkling that the young fellow might need to unburden himself to me, plus I hadn’t had a proper chance to thank him for saving my family from the fire and Calvin Jones.
George Johnson saddled Zonta for Max since he hadn’t had an opportunity yet to pick up Arrow’s new saddle, and I managed to mount Molly with George’s assistance and more loud groaning. I rode her bareback with only a blanket for cushion, since I planned to hook her up to the buckboard, and we set out at a leisurely pace south down Main Street. Sunka followed along in our wake, apparently thinking he could help in some way instead of staying behind with the twins. Knowing he was no ordinary wolf-dog, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and thought he might, indeed, be helpful.
“Max, I don’t know what to say, because words seem so inadequate,” I hesitantly began as we meandered slowly down the street.
“You don’t have to say anything, Abe,” Max responded with a slow shake of his head. “I did what I had to do, because I care about your family.”
“I will be forever in your debt because of it. Killing a man is no small thing, Max, not even when he might deserve it. I’ve come close a few times in my life, but I’m fortunate to have been spared that particular agony.”
“Bill Collins said Jones had a brain tumor. He showed it to me. He said it was likely what caused his strange behavior and drove him to kill Ginny Doyle and do all the rest of the things he did. I found myself feeling sorry for the scoundrel.”
“That’s because you’re a caring and compassionate young man, Max. That does explain a lot of things, though. I couldn’t understand why he would wait so many years to exact his revenge on me, or really why he felt the need for revenge at all. I wasn’t entirely responsible for the loss of his eye; Doc Stone told me Jones probably didn’t take proper care of the burn I inflicted, and the resulting infection was the ultimate cause of it. The sheriff couldn’t hold him on any charges, even after we captured the Jenkins brothers, because he couldn’t prove Jones had committed any crimes here; so, he was free to go. Coming after me and my family now didn’t make much sense.”
“Well, my theory is, it ate at him over time and when the tumor started to grow, he began to focus his blame on you for all of the bad things in his life. Bill Collins said a tumor can press up against the inside of your brain and cause things like uncontrollable rage. He likely would have had poor impulse control, too; and if he also suffered from delusions, he probably didn’t realize what he was even doing, or wasn’t able to stop himself from doing them.”
“Then it sounds like you put the man out of his misery, Max.”
“That’s what Bill said, that I was doing Jones a favor. Maybe I prevented him from killing anyone else, but I still don’t feel good about it. People are coming up to me and shaking my hand and calling me a hero, but I don’t see how killing someone makes me a hero. You’re the hero, Abe, for saving Chow-Ping’s life the way you did.”
“Max, I think we both did what we had to do out of love, and we would do it again if necessary. Whether or not that makes us heroes, I don’t know, but I do believe it makes us both decent and honorable men.”
We rode the rest of the way in silence, and when we reached my burned-out home, I brought Molly up short, the full realization of our loss causing my heart to constrict in my chest. A lump formed in my throat as I thought of everything Emily and I had worked for, including all of the good times we had had in the home we had made together in this house, which was now reduced to ashes. Sorrow gripped me momentarily, and I could only stare wordlessly until Max dropped down from Zonta and came over to help me slide from Molly’s back. Finally, with grim determination, I plodded over to the pile of burned boards and ashes with Max and Sunka at my side, and we began sifting and digging through what remained of our lives.
After mucking about for a few hours, we found only a handful of items worth saving, such as cast-iron pots and pans which only needed to be cleaned of soot. Inexplicably, the wooden toy box full of my animal carvings stood unscathed on the back porch, and Max and I looked at each other incredulously. Sunka barked twice as we gazed upon it.
“The twins will be happy to see this,” I remarked as Max hoisted the box and carried it to the buckboard where we had placed the other salvaged items. “But it’s certainly strange that it survived the fire.” A shiver passed through me as I wondered if my son Jacob somehow had had a hand in saving the toy box for his siblings.
Suddenly a noise from behind the stable caught our attention, and Sunka yipped once and rushed to investigate its source. I hadn’t brought my gun, but I unsnapped the sheath of my buck knife and withdrew it as Max and I quietly approached the structure. All I could think about was the wild boar which had charged at me less than a month ago; yet Sunka didn’t seem to be engaged in a fight, so I hoped it was something more mundane. As we reached the back of the stable, I chanced a peek around it and was stunned by the sight of Sunka sitting next to a large black horse which was tied to one of the corral posts. We hadn’t seen the horse, for it was secured in such a way that its movement was restricted, and the stable had blocked our view.
“It must be Calvin Jones’ horse,” Max concluded as we carefully advanced toward the seemingly docile animal. “He must’ve hidden him back here while he set fire to the house.”
I nodded in agreement, then began speaking softly to the horse in Lakota while stroking his nose. He seemed to be a fine stallion, and I lamented that such an evil man had been his master. Realizing he must be very hungry and thirsty after having been tied up for close to forty-eight hours, I untied the reins and led the horse over to the water pump, filled the bucket, and let him drink until he was satiated.
Max retrieved some hay from the stable, and the horse grazed eagerly while we went through Jones’ saddlebags. In one saddlebag we found what looked to be about three pounds worth of wrapped cinnamon candy in a burlap sack emblazoned with the logo of a store in Sacramento. In the other saddlebag we found money – lots of it. Most of it was still bundled with bank bands from various banks all over the Northern California territory. It seemed that Jones had not stopped his thieving ways when he left Carson City nearly six years before. If there had been any doubt that Jones was the perpetrator of the rash of crimes these past few weeks, including Ginny Doyle’s murder, or that he had been the one spying on me and my family, the candy was certainly proof.
Not wanting to keep them any longer than necessary, I turned over the horse and saddlebags, along with their contents, to Sheriff Swift the next day. After sending telegrams to the various sheriff’s offices in Northern California, he eventually discovered that a rash of bank and stage robberies had been conducted by a lone gunman who had been dubbed the Cinnamon Bandit. Apparently, the robberies had been going on for quite some time; the only real lead they had was that the bandit had been described as a man dressed all in black, riding a black horse and smelling curiously of cinnamon.
The sheriff was soon notified that a substantial reward was available for the capture and/or killing of this bandit upon return of the stolen funds. After wiring the funds to the U.S. Marshal’s office in Sacramento for proper distribution along with a description of Jones and the circumstances of his death, a five-thousand-dollar reward was wired in return, which Sheriff Swift tried handing over to Max Langston. Not wishing to be rewarded for having killed a man, Max attempted to refuse.
However, it put me in mind of the reward that the sheriff had insisted I take upon the capture of the Jenkins brothers, and I suggested to Max that he might do something charitable with the money if he didn’t want it for himself. So, he took my advice and, after keeping only a small amount for his savings, he reimbursed Marvin Green, Avery Carter, the Crandalls, the Murphys, and the Stones for the vandalism and loss of property and livestock which they had suffered. Afterwards, there was still a substantial amount of money left, so he wired it to Ginny Doyle’s family in Boston.
The Monday after the fire and my wild ride ended up being a busy day in more ways than one – some bad, some good. Eliot Sinclair and Charlie Smith were met with a nasty surprise that morning when they arrived at Eliot’s office above The Gold Nugget Saloon. Upon opening the door to the office, their senses were assaulted with the smell of rotting flesh and they could hear loud buzzing through the thin wall. Having been a former marshal, Charlie knew immediately what it was, but he cautiously went to the room next door to investigate and found Caleb McDonald’s body stuffed under the old bunk in the room, his throat slashed from ear-to-ear. Flies were feasting on the coagulated blood on the floor and maggots crawled all over Caleb’s bloated body. Cinnamon candy wrappers were strewn about the room, so it was obvious that his death was also the handiwork of Calvin Jones. We could only guess that Jones had double-crossed McDonald and instead of paying him for his help, killed Hank’s cousin for his trouble instead.
That horrific discovery (which Allen Gentry was called upon to investigate and later spared no detail in relating it to me as I’ve described it here), was thankfully offset by the small wedding ceremony held later that evening. Janey Carter looked radiant in a flowing ivory dress, adorned with small blue flowers which she had apparently been saving for the occasion. My beautiful Butterfly stood next to her in a pink silk dress Janey had given to her and which she had spent part of Sunday hemming. I could see the slight curve of her stomach through the soft material, and the thought of the little life inside made me smile; love for them both filled me with joy.
Knowing that, in the end, Spencer had tried his best to help Chow-Ping in the only way he was able, I had gladly accepted his invitation to be his best man, and I was proud to stand up with my friend. Marvin Green sent over a suit for me to wear for the occasion, and I squirmed inside the jacket which was probably at least one size too small, but I couldn’t say no to my lovely wife when she insisted I wear it anyway. Fortunately, I had been able to avail myself of the services of the bathhouse the previous evening since the proprietor was Janey’s brother, so I was more presentable for the ceremony, which also pleased my wife.
Not desiring a large church wedding, Janey had invited only a small handful of people: Seth O’Leary, Max Langston, George Johnson, Maisey Washington, Emily and myself, and of course, her brother Avery. The wedding was held in the drawing room of the boardinghouse with Pastor Tobias Michaels presiding, and the twins sat nearby on the divan with Sunka on the floor between them. Janey allowed the dog to be present only if my children promised to remain quiet throughout the short service, and they were true to their word. However, when the vows ended and the pastor prompted Spencer to kiss his bride, the twins squealed and covered their eyes, causing Sunka to let out a long, wolfly howl in response. I was instantly mortified, but fortunately my embarrassment was unwarranted when Janey and Spencer both started laughing and everyone in attendance applauded. I had never seen Janey so happy, and it made my heart glad that she had finally found the love I felt she so richly deserved.
Since we knew Seth’s departure was imminent, I was glad when Emily had taken an instant liking to young Ben Chase during breakfast on Sunday morning. She hired him on the spot when he stopped by the store to speak with her on Monday, and he spent the next two days learning all he could from Seth and Max. Emily and I both thought he would do quite well under Max’s supervision, and we were also pleased when he proved to be a friendly fellow whom the customers took to instantly.
Although his absence would be difficult to bear, Emily and I appreciated that Seth was determined to follow through with his mission to meet Ginny Doyle’s family and deliver the dreadful news of her demise in person, so we escorted him to the train station early Wednesday morning. It was a tearful farewell all around, but I was proud of the man Seth had become and wished him well on his journey. We agreed to keep Galahad with us until he returned, and he promised he would stay in touch as often as possible.
Over the next several months, we heard from Seth a few times via letter and telegram, and we were gratified to learn he had found Ginny’s family, who had welcomed him with open arms in spite of the horrific news he bore. The tone of his missives, however, became increasingly more joyous but simultaneously apologetic for his extended absence from us. Therefore, it was no surprise when we received a letter just before Christmas announcing that he had fallen in love with Brigid O’Halloran, she had agreed to be his wife, and he would be staying in Boston permanently. We couldn’t have been happier for the young man we thought of as a brother, but we would sorely miss him. Seth insisted we keep Galahad but refused when we offered to pay for the horse; still, we were glad to give him a permanent home, especially since Blackjack was becoming too old to pull the buckboard, and Molly would soon be assuming that duty.
Wednesday afternoon I helped Spencer Ryan move the remainder of his personal items to the boardinghouse, and he helped me move our few possessions to his house which, fortunately, wasn’t far away. There was only a tiny corral behind the house, so we decided to keep our horses in the corral at the store until our new home could be built, where Max and Ben took on the additional responsibility of feeding and caring for them.
Spencer’s house was, indeed, small, but it did have a bathroom complete with a tub, sink, and even a flush toilet which was still a rarity in homes; but the accommodations had become necessary for him when he was unable to traverse to the outhouse in his wheelchair. Emily became so enamored of the toilet that I had to promise to have one installed in our new home, and I was happy to oblige, finding it rather convenient myself.
The house only had one bedroom, which was definitely not convenient when my wife and I wished to have private time together. Yet somehow, we managed to make do until Chow-Ping built a set of bunk beds for the twins to use, which we placed in a corner of the tiny drawing room. The only other furnishings were a small divan (which my wife calls a settee), and a side table which Spencer left behind, since there wasn’t room for anything more. He also left us his dining table and four chairs along with a functioning stove and ice box which were all located in the kitchen because there wasn’t a separate dining room. Not having many possessions actually ended up being ideal during the time we spent living in Spencer’s house, as there simply wasn’t space and, quite honestly, we didn’t miss much of it. All we needed to make that house our home was our love, and there was plenty of that to fill it and any other house ten times its size.
Over the course of the next several weeks, Chow-Ping and some of the townsfolk banded together to rebuild our house, bigger and better than it was before. I was pleased to see Chow-Ping and the townsfolk working together once again, especially after hearing about the deplorable behavior of many of them immediately prior to the thwarted hanging. I was gratified that they now seemed contrite and apologetic, and several people had not only been quite generous to my family and me, but to the Yens as well. Clothing, bed linens, and kitchen dishes and utensils had been donated to us – mostly anonymously, so I had no idea who I should thank for much of it – and Yen’s laundry was also booming. All previous customers had returned, and new ones showed up daily, which helped Chow-Ping and his family forgive the townsfolk for their temporary lack of judgment. It seemed a shame that it took something so awful to ultimately unite people, and I just hoped it would last.
Sheriff Swift ended up enforcing a week’s “suspension” on me at the behest of Sheriff Riley, who sent a long tirade via post (precipitated by an angry telegram announcing the letter’s impending arrival) of my supposed transgressions against him. Sheriff Swift responded to the old bastard that he was suspending me without pay for assaulting another officer of the law, but in reality, he just laughed and gave me a vacation at half my usual pay in order to allow my family and me to settle into our temporary home. It was wonderful to have the time to spend with my wife and children, and I honestly think it was one of the happiest times I can remember in spite of the tragedy of losing our house.
Since there was no garden or animals to attend to, and few chores to do in such a small abode, we had more time to just enjoy each other’s company than ever before. Although we had lost so much, it thrilled me that my guitar had survived the blaze, thanks to my daughter’s quick thinking; especially since playing music ended up being a major comfort to us all in the aftermath of our ordeal. When Takoda and Wachiwi eventually reminded me to finish the song about Sunka – whose bravado the night of the fire I hadn’t forgotten – it didn’t take me long to compose the final verse in my head. So, one evening after supper I picked up my guitar and sang it with gusto:
Like a spirit on the wind, he came
Strong and stout, wild yet tame
A lone wolf by any other name
We call him Sunka.
Friend by day, protector by night
He knows what is wrong, and what is right
Like the moon and stars, he shines bright
No other dog is like Sunka.
Sunka the wolf-dog, light of our lives
Sent by someone we love
From a place of dreams where buffalo roam
Perhaps from heaven above.
Four legs, a tail, but knowing eyes
He sees the truth, deciphers lies
He’s fearless, bold, and never shies
No man is smarter than Sunka.
The night we needed him most
He was there without fail, like a ghost
From out of the darkness, he rose
Our warrior, our hero – Sunka the brave.
When I was through, the children laughed and clapped and made me sing it three more times until they, too, had memorized the words to “Sunka the Brave.” Sunka sat nearby smiling his wolfly grin and appeared to revel in the attention of having a song of his very own. Iggy lay on the windowsill of the drawing room and, as cats are wont to do, ignored us all with silent disdain.
Life returned to some semblance of normalcy while we waited for our house to be built, with me going back to work after my “suspension,” and the mercantile running smoothly with Max at the helm. Emily resumed her usual routine of attending to store business on Mondays while I helped with the rebuild. Maisey, Janey, and Martha Stone took turns watching the twins on those days, and we often spent time in the evenings at the Yens when I wasn’t on duty.
Something in my relationship with Allen Gentry shifted over the next few months as well, and instead of being just friendly coworkers, we became friends. I’m not sure what changed in his mind, but perhaps he finally realized my sincerity in offering to help in any way I could, and that maybe with my assistance his son didn’t have to grow up quite so quickly. When I wasn’t needed elsewhere, I spent some time helping him chop wood and performing other chores so that David could have a reprieve and be just a little boy for awhile. Allen was still unwilling to invite me and my family over for supper or any other type of get together, though, explaining that it would be too much stress on his wife, Della, but he began allowing David to come to our house from time to time. I only laid eyes on Della a few times when I was at their house, and she seemed to be a fragile, distracted woman with very little to say, so I understood his reticence and honored his wishes.
Although he was six years older than the twins, David seemed happy to have other children to play with since he wasn’t often able to attend school and interact with them there. Wanting to help in any way she could as well, Emily took him under her wing on occasion and gave him some lessons, and she discovered he was a very bright boy. True to my word, I fashioned a bow out of a sturdy maple branch and strung it with catgut, and even whittled a couple of arrows and affixed them with blunt stone tips. One afternoon, I taught David how to use the bow to shoot arrows at a bale of hay, and he became proficient at it in a short amount of time. Not wishing to be left out, my son and daughter demanded to learn as well, but Emily insisted they only observe because they were too young; so, I promised them I would teach them when they were a little older. Much pouting and stomping about ensued, but they eventually relented and became enthralled with their friend’s skill.
Chow-Ping made short work of building our new home, and it was a grand one indeed. We were able to move in just before Thanksgiving and, although the furnishings were sparse at first, it didn’t take long to fill it up with more generous donations, as well as hand-made items such as new bed frames courtesy of Chow-Ping. Emily had ordered bathroom fixtures from a catalog, including a sink, tub, and a flush toilet, and Chow-Ping employed a man familiar enough with plumbing and sewage to install everything properly. We felt very blessed to have the luxury of such items in our home, and I suspect we were the envy of many.
Every room in the new house was larger than the one in the last, with two bedrooms upstairs for the children, and a larger bedroom and nursery beyond the downstairs bathroom for Emily and myself. Although Takoda and Wachiwi were offered the option of having separate rooms, they chose to remain in the same one. I knew my strong-willed and independent daughter would eventually want her own space away from her brother; but during that time the bond between the twins still remained strong, so Emily and I thought it best to let them decide when they were ready to sleep apart. They did decide to keep the bunk beds, however, and each of them graciously took turns sleeping in the top bunk while the other slept on the bottom with Sunka on the rug within arm’s reach.
Chow-Ping was able to salvage the original stone from the previous fireplace, which saved considerable time and money. He rebuilt it in the same place in the drawing room, and it was a little like having a piece of our old home with us, which was quite a comfort to us all. The only thing missing was the bear skin rug, and Emily and I both mourned its loss even though it had played an important role in helping Max save her and the twins from the fire. The new drawing room was much more spacious with ample room for entertaining, though, and both Thanksgiving and Christmas were celebrated in our new home with all of our friends in attendance. We laughed, talked, and sang into the wee hours on both days, and it was then that I knew that this house was now our happy home.
On Christmas morning, Emily surprised me with a new bear skin rug for the hearth, and I whispered to her that I couldn’t wait to try it out when we were alone. It tickled me that such comments could still make her blush, and she kissed me chastely on the cheek in front of our friends; though, later, she kissed me with passionate abandon in front of a blazing fire after everyone had gone.
My gift to her that Christmas was a hand-carved frame for the sketch that Ginny Doyle had made for us, and we hung it over the fireplace mantle in a place of honor. Emily had been very glad that the sketch was still at the store the night of the fire, and we both felt it would have been a terrible loss if it hadn’t been. We still look at the drawing every day and remember Ginny fondly.
Emily’s condition became more and more apparent over the course of the winter, with the girth of her belly expanding substantially. I don’t think she grew quite so large as she had with the twins, but she seemed to be weaker again this time around, and it made me anxious. I remembered how hard her pregnancy with Jacob had been, and I prayed to the Great Spirit to give her strength with this baby like He had with Takoda and Wachiwi.
My anxiety was compounded since that winter was exceptionally harsh with gale-force winds and frequent snowstorms. It was more difficult to maintain warmth in the larger house than I anticipated, and I think the resulting chill added to my wife’s growing debilitation. We managed to install a small cast-iron wood stove in the bedroom which helped, but it meant Emily was confined to that room more often than not, which caused her endless aggravation. However, it satisfied Doc Stone who had pleaded with her to remain in bed and limit her responsibilities as much as possible during the final weeks of her pregnancy. When she was thus restricted by Doc Stone, with the weather annoying her further since she could no longer safely travel to and from the store, I did my best to console her. I frequently reminded her that Max and Ben had proved perfectly capable of handling the mercantile on their own, with me stopping in now and then to check at Emily’s insistence; but she remained stubbornly agitated as usual.
On February 12, 1876, a particularly brutal storm hit Carson City, and the skies dumped snow on the valley in torrents, the likes of which we had never seen. Main Street was all but impassable and almost every business was closed for several days while the townsfolk tried to dig themselves out. Knowing that the birth of our baby was imminent, Doc Stone had been vigilant, stopping by the house daily for the past two weeks to check on Emily, and he continued to do so even while battling the blowing and drifting snow. Sheriff Swift had given me extra time off so I could remain nearby myself, which irritated my wife, of course, but this time I was taking no chances. I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want to worry her, but I had had more dreams about this baby than any other, and they had left me with a vague sense of foreboding.
In the early hours of the morning of February 14th, Emily awakened screaming in our bed. Realizing that her water had broken, I panicked at first, not knowing what I should do. I had been present during the last two births, but stayed on the periphery, only helping when needed, so I was confounded when faced with the possibility of delivering this child on my own. My only coherent thought was to attempt to get to Doc Stone’s house and bring him back, but I was afraid to leave my wife by herself. Her contractions were fairly infrequent, though, so Emily eventually insisted that I stop pacing and get the doctor before I wore a hole through the floorboards.
Parts of Main Street had been shoveled so there were meandering paths here and there, and where it wasn’t shoveled, I managed to struggle through the drifts in my boots and sheepskin coat until I reached the Stones’ house. Martha opened the door to my insistent knocks wearing only her thin nightdress, and I apologized profusely for disturbing her sleep. When I told her that Emily’s water had broken and the contractions had started, she pulled me inside and I waited while she disappeared into the bedroom. After a few moments, she came out fully dressed, including her coat, and carrying her black satchel, briefly explaining that Doc had been delayed at the north end of town after a wagon accident the previous evening and hadn’t yet returned home.
Knowing I had no choice unless I wanted to deliver the baby by myself, I led Martha out into the raging wind, and we slogged back through the snow drifts at a slow pace. The visibility was so bad that a few times I thought we were going to get lost even on the short trek, but we managed to make it in fairly brief order, only to be met with loud screaming once we reached the house. Emily’s contractions were evidently occurring more frequently, and her hysterical cries tore at my heart.
The noise had awakened the twins, of course, and they sat huddled together under a blanket on the bear skin rug with Sunka, frightened and confused because of their mama’s shrieks and my absence. After quickly shrugging out of our snow-covered coats and pulling off our boots, Martha went immediately to the bedroom to attend to Emily. I stayed behind to comfort the twins while adding wood to the dwindling fire in the fireplace and hanging our coats nearby to dry.
Martha came out momentarily and asked me to put water on to boil and to show her where to find clean towels, and I complied with a lump in my throat. Her demeanor was all business, and although I knew she had helped Doc deliver many, many babies, her brusque manner was disturbing. It caused me to think something was wrong, and it reminded me of my ominous dreams.
A few hours went by with Emily alternating between shrieking, crying, and long periods of silence, and I did my best to console the twins while struggling not to break into tears myself. I couldn’t understand what was taking so long since the twins’ birth had seemed relatively quick and easy. When Martha returned once more with a grim look on her face, I felt my heart drop to my toes.
“Come quickly, Abe. I’m going to need your help,” she commanded in a hushed tone. The twins had fallen asleep next to me on the divan, so I slipped gently out from under them, hoping they would remain asleep. I rushed after Martha, stopping her just outside the bedroom doorway with a hand on her shoulder.
“Martha, please tell me what’s wrong.”
“The baby is breech, Abe, coming out bottom first. It’s next to impossible for any woman to give birth that way, and with Emily being so small, it’s doubly hard on her. Plus, it can put undue stress on the baby and most don’t survive. I’m going to have to reach inside and turn the baby manually, but it’s going to be painful for Emily and I need you to hold her hands and keep her still. Oh, I will also need a tub of lard if you have it.”
I must have looked at Martha with sheer horror because her eyes and her voice softened as she gave me a brief hug and continued, “It’s going to be all right, Abe. But we need to get this done now, so the baby doesn’t remain in distress.”
I nodded dumbly and, after grabbing the tub of lard from the kitchen, followed her into the bedroom and handed it to Martha with shaking hands. I then rushed to the bed and gathered Emily into an embrace until she began squirming away from me while yelling that it hurt. Taking a cloth from the bedside table I soaked it in water, then wrung it out and twirled it over my head to cool it off, and placed it on my wife’s perspiring forehead. She seemed to be burning up, with sweat pouring off of her beet red face, and her obvious distress shook me to my core. Holding the cloth down with one hand, I grabbed one of her hands in my other and told her to squeeze as hard as she could and not let go while another contraction wracked her body.
After washing thoroughly with soap and warm water, Martha slathered her hands and forearms with the lard and squatted down between my wife’s bent knees, looking up at me with a determined expression. “I’m going in now, Abe. Please keep her still.” To Emily she commanded, “Do not push until I tell you!”
I gritted my teeth and nodded, then lay across Emily’s body on my side but facing her. Not knowing what more I could do to keep her from thrashing about, I began whispering softly in Lakota while I stroked her cheek with my fingers. I don’t even remember what I said, but somehow the words got through, or perhaps it was the soothing tone of my voice, but my beautiful Emily finally lay still while we gazed into each other’s eyes.
“I love you, Butterfly,” I whispered as I felt her shudder once, then she gasped but didn’t cry out as Martha managed to maneuver the baby to a proper head-first birthing position.
“I love you, too, Abraham High Wolf,” Emily replied with a soft groan as she grabbed my hand again and squeezed so hard my fingers went numb.
“Push now, Emily!” Martha Stone cried, and Emily gulped a lung full of air then expelled it noisily as she pushed with all her might. I sat up next to her, keeping one hand on the side of her face and neck, and she didn’t take her eyes off of me as she pulled in another lungful of air and pushed it out with a loud, almost primal scream.
Suddenly I became aware of a soft whimper that wasn’t coming from Emily, and I turned around to see Martha holding a tiny bundle in her arms which she began wrapping in a towel.
“I’ve sterilized that scalpel Abe,” Martha pointed to a small sharp object next to the wash basin. “Would you please do the honors and cut the cord?”
I looked at Emily and she weakly smiled and nodded, then let go of my hand. Shaking the circulation back into it, I grasped the scalpel and unsteadily placed it against the cord where Martha indicated. Not wanting to cause the baby harm, I willed my heart to stop racing and hand to stop quaking, and I paused briefly to ask a question to help get myself under control.
“It is a girl, isn’t it?” I hoarsely inquired. “And she’s all right?”
“Yes, Abe, it is a girl,” Martha Stone quietly responded. “She appears healthy, but she will be faced with a challenge since I did notice a birth defect.”
Somewhat dismayed, I gazed down at the small, pinched pink face framed with dark curls and wondered what could possibly be wrong with such a beautiful baby girl. Holding up the child’s left hand Martha said, “Mitchell says it’s a condition called ‘ectrodactyly’ which is somewhat rare, but isn’t painful and will cause no lasting physical harm other than the deformity.”
Peering at the baby’s tiny hand, I saw that two fingers were missing, the middle and the little finger. A quick inspection of her other limbs showed the anomaly only affected the one hand, though, and for that I was grateful. I kissed the tiny afflicted hand and vowed to not let it cause my little daughter any grief if I could help it.
“What is it, Abe?” Emily frightfully asked as she struggled to sit up in the bed. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, my love, she is perfect,” I responded as I quickly cut the cord and brought the bundle to my wife who welcomed her with open arms. “The Great Spirit has found cause to make her unique, though, and we must be strong for her.” I knew then what my son Jacob had tried to impart in my dream several months ago, as well as what my more recent dreams meant to communicate to me.
Emily’s eyes widened momentarily when she saw the tiny malformed hand, but she gently kissed it the same as I had. “You’re right, she is perfect. I’ve been thinking about this for awhile, and I would like to call her Ginny.”
“I think Ginny would have loved that,” I wholeheartedly agreed, “and I’m sure Seth and Ginny’s family would be honored. I believe her Indian name should be Ojinjintka, which means ‘Rose’ in Lakota. Ginny sounds very much like a nickname for that longer word.”
“Ginny Rose,” Emily whispered and beamed up at me with an inner light glowing from her beautiful blue eyes. “A perfect name for our perfect little girl.”
I will be forever thankful to both Martha Stone and the Great Spirit for bringing precious Ginny Rose into the world that day, but I knew there would be many challenges to come. Not everyone would view a birth defect as being nothing more than a uniqueness, an individuality, but we would be there to stand with her to face it, always.
*******
Seven-year-old Ginny Rose Wheeler smiled as she shut her papa’s journal, then made her way quietly downstairs through the drawing room, dining room, kitchen, and bathroom. After placing the lantern she carried on the bathroom counter, she tiptoed silently through the slightly open door of her parent’s bedroom. Blindly feeling her way to the wardrobe, she stowed the journal under her papa’s shirts with the other volumes, then quickly left the room.
When questioned about what he was doing one evening, Ginny Rose’s papa explained that he was writing down events that he thought were important in his life and that someday he planned to share them with his children. However, he told her that he felt they should be a little older and wiser in order to better understand some of the things that had transpired prior to their births and when they were small. Therefore, he had been keeping the journals hidden until he thought his children were ready, but he hadn’t hidden them well enough.
Ginny Rose, being inquisitive, curious, and impatient, wasn’t willing to wait; so, she had searched until she found them, sneaking a different journal every few nights for the past several weeks and reading them in her room. She had especially liked this one, which provided more details of her birth than her parents had thus far revealed, and it gave her a somewhat better insight into her perplexing deformity. Feeling a little better about herself, at least for the moment, she retraced her steps to her bedroom, climbing quietly into the top bunk of the bed she shared with her older sister, Betsy, and settled in to sleep.
Downstairs, after he was certain his precocious little girl had returned to her room, Abe opened his eyes, chuckling while also releasing a long, weary sigh.
“How long has she been doing that?” Emily whispered in his ear as she hugged him from behind. “Do you think she’s capable of understanding all that you’ve written?”
“A few weeks now, I think,” Abe responded and rolled over to gather Emily into his arms. “I only noticed the journals were out of order yesterday, though. I believe if anyone is capable of comprehending most of what I’ve written, it’s our stubborn, rebellious, but very intelligent younger daughter.”
“There’s never been a dull moment with her around,” Emily giggled as she snuggled into Abe’s bare chest. “I picture her being a lot like you at that age.”
Abe kissed the top of his wife’s head and murmured, “I fear you may be right, my love. But we wouldn’t want it any other way, would we?”
THE END BOOK 2
