A Whisper of Peace (2 page)

She turned toward the cabin to retrieve her skinning knife, but her gaze drifted to the pen where the dogs lined the fence, their tongues lolling, mouths smiling, tails wagging. Lizzie chuckled softly. The carcass could wait a few minutes while she greeted her companions. As she neared the enclosure, they leapt, bouncing off the wire fence and springing over one another’s backs in eagerness.

Lizzie reached for her favorites first. George and Martha served as the lead dogs for her sled. The two worked in accord with each other. And with her. The pair had been her father’s, which made her love them all the more. Surely there were no two finer dogs in all of the Yukon. She wove her fingers in their thick ruffs, and they wriggled around, their identical black-and-white snouts nuzzling her palms. She scratched them beneath their chins, laughing when they tipped their heads for more.

The other dogs swarmed her, nudging George and Martha out of the way. Lizzie tried to pet each one by turn, but slowly they drifted away, sniffing the air and panting. They whined again, but from deep in their throats, and Lizzie knew the breeze had carried the moose’s scent to their keen noses. She hoped her dogs were the only animals that had picked up the scent of the kill. She had no desire to fight a grizzly for her moose. But she’d do it if she had to—she needed the meat as well as the hide. If she had to fight, the dogs would help. Their faithfulness to her knew no end.

“I must go to work now,” she told the dogs. “Be good, and you will have fresh meat for your dinner today.”

The dogs, as if able to understand, leapt in circles, their white teeth biting at the air in happiness. Still laughing softly, Lizzie hurried to the cabin to retrieve her skinning knife. Just before slicing the blade through the moose’s thick shoulder, she paused and allowed herself a moment to admire the smooth, flawless hide—the biggest miracle of all. Gratitude filled her. If everything went well, the gift of this moose’s hide might make reconciliation with her grandparents possible.

And once peace existed between
Vitsiy
and
Vitse
and herself, she’d finally have the freedom to leave this place and join Voss Dawson.
Thank you, moose.

Clay Selby strapped the wooden accordion case onto his back, shrugging to adjust the bulky weight on his spine. He turned to his stepsister, Vivian. The weeks of travel had taken their toll. She looked ready to wilt. He’d tried to convince her to stay behind with their parents—if she found the Kiowa reservation on the Oklahoma plains formidable, living in a village in the Alaskan wilderness would certainly be difficult for her to endure. But she’d insisted she could be of use in opening the mission school.

Now she sagged against the railing that lined the paddleboat’s deck, bedraggled and with dark circles under her eyes. She caught him looking at her. With a jolt, she stood upright and curved her lips into a weary smile. “Almost there.” Despite her brave posture, her voice wavered.

Clay hoped she’d make it. He’d have more than enough to do, getting the school started. If he had to mollycoddle Vivian, too . . .
“Give her a chance, son,”
his father had said.
“She’s an intelligent girl, and you will need a partner for this ministry. You can’t do it all yourself.”
Clay offered Vivian a smile and echoed, “Almost there.”

Other passengers pushed past them, nearly sending Clay onto his nose. He planted the soles of his boots and held his footing, curling a protective arm around Vivian’s waist. He waited until everyone else reached the paddleboat’s gangplank before grabbing the handle of their large carpetbag. “Let’s go.”

Vivian lifted the smaller valise, and together they fell behind the line of rowdy men whose eager voices proclaimed their intentions to get rich in the goldfields. Clay also hoped for riches, but of a completely different kind.

Holding Vivian’s elbow, he stepped off the paddleboat. His gaze searched up and down the riverbank. He’d been told he’d have no trouble hiring a canoe to take them upriver past Fort Yukon. But with so many people milling in impatient confusion, he wasn’t able to determine which men were hiring canoes and which were offering them for use.

He contemplated elbowing his way through the crowd to the riverbank, where he would be able to secure a canoe. The sooner he and Vivian reached their destination, the sooner he could begin God’s work. But after having witnessed several skirmishes between rough travelers on the paddleboat—one of which resulted in a knife fight—he decided a little patience might be warranted. No sense in scaring Vivian out of her wits—or in putting her in harm’s way. The Gwich’in village wasn’t going anywhere.

As if reading his mind, Vivian said, “Let’s sit and give things a chance to calm.”

He followed her to the end of the dock. She sank onto the rough wood, placed the valise near her feet, and began smoothing the wrinkled skirt of her traveling dress. Clay thought it a fruitless pastime, but he wouldn’t say so. He plopped beside her, the accordion case making him clumsy. She shot him a little smile of amusement and he shrugged, then turned his attention to his surroundings.

Clouds had rolled in with the afternoon, painting the ramshackle town a dismal gray. A cool, damp breeze whisked across the water and chilled him. Back home, mid-May brought occasional rain showers, but the sun shone brightly, warming the land and those who occupied it. Looking up at the nickel-plated sky, Clay experienced a jolt of homesickness for Oklahoma’s endless canopy of clear blue. Yet at the same time, excitement filled him.

Finally, after years of dreaming, he had the chance to begin his own ministry. Vivian would handle the housekeeping and teaching the native children to read and write, and he would preach. Thanks to his father’s diligent training, he felt confident he’d be able to win the souls of the villagers. As a wave of impatience filled him, he twitched on his perch, willing the crowd to clear so he could locate a canoe and complete his monthlong journey. He craned his neck, searching the shoreline for an available vessel.

“Hey, mister . . . lady.”

Clay turned at the voice. A scruffy boy, perhaps ten years old, stood so close his dirty bare toes bumped against Clay’s boots.

“You need totin’?”

Clay looked the boy up and down. He couldn’t imagine this scrawny child possessing the strength to paddle a canoe loaded with both passengers and belongings upriver. But maybe, if the boy gave him the use of a vessel, Clay could paddle it himself. He posed a question of his own. “You have a canoe available?”

The boy pointed. “My pa does. He’ll tote you, if you need it. Dollar apiece.”

Clay had been warned prices were high in Alaska, thanks to successful gold hunters, but he wasn’t a miner. He was just a missionary, and he couldn’t spare two dollars for a canoe ride. “I can pay two bits apiece.”

A frown furrowed the boy’s forehead. He inched backward, shaking his head. “Won’t do it for less’n six bits apiece. I’m sure o’ that.”

Clay sighed. He heaved to his feet, angling his shoulders to center the squeeze box on his back. “All right, then. Six bits each.”

The boy held out his hand. Clay removed the coin purse he wore on a cord beneath his shirt and withdrew a round silver dollar and two twenty-five-cent pieces. With a grin, the boy curled his fist around the coins. He spun and darted through the crowd.

Vivian bounced up. “We’d better hurry, Clay.”

With the bulky box on his back, a heavy carpetbag in one hand and Vivian’s elbow in the other—he didn’t dare let loose of her or she might get swallowed by the crowd—Clay wasn’t able to move as quickly as the wiry, unfettered youngster. He lost sight of the boy when a group of miners surged around them, blocking their pathway. Just when he’d decided he’d been bilked out of a dollar and fifty cents, he heard a shout.

“Mister! Mister, over here!”

Clay pulled Vivian close to his side and wriggled his way past the men. He spotted the boy about ten yards upriver. A short, heavily whiskered man with his fists on his hips stood beside the boy. Clay took in the man’s untucked flannel shirt, baggy dungarees jammed into laceless boots, and low-tugged, misshapen hat. He didn’t seem the savory sort. Clay hesitated. Pa had always told him to trust his instincts. Even though it meant forfeiting the money he’d given the boy, he wondered if he should turn around and look for another canoe owner.

Before he could move, the man clumped toward him, his bootheels dragging through the mud. The youngster scuttled along behind his pa. “Boy says you an’ your woman need totin’. Where to?”

A foul odor emanated from the man, making it difficult for Clay to draw a breath. He pretended to cough into his fist, then kept his hand in place to protect his nose. “I need to reach Gwichyaa Saa. Are you familiar with the village?”

“Yup, done some tradin’ with the siwashes.”

Vivian sucked in a disapproving breath, but Clay took care not to bristle at the man’s use of the derogatory term—no sense in alienating the man. He’d let his work with the native Alaskans prove his lack of scorn.

“You here for tradin’?” The man’s curious gaze swept from their feet to their faces. “You don’t look like no traders.”

Vivian tucked a stray strand of red-gold hair behind her ear, lifting her chin in a regal manner. Clay smoothed his hand over his jacket’s front. Over their weeks of travel, his father’s hand-me-down wool suit and Vivian’s dark green muslin dress had become rumpled and dusty, but their attire didn’t compare to the clothes worn by the canoe owner. Clay wondered if the man’s clothes—or the man himself—had seen soap and water since last spring. “We aren’t traders.”

The man shrugged. “So . . . ya want totin’ or not?”

Clay glanced along the shoreline. No other empty canoes waited. If they didn’t take this one, they might not be able to leave until tomorrow. Which meant they’d need to pay for a night’s lodging. He turned back to the man. “If you’re willing.”

“Can get there an’ back in about four hours, so it’ll only cost ya a dollar—the lady’s free.” The man’s grimy hand shot out, palm up.

“I already paid your boy a dollar and four bits for the both of us.”

Fury filled the man’s face. He whirled around, his fist raised.

The boy cowered. “I’m sorry, Pa! Just tryin’ to get a good deal for ya!”

The man shook the boy by the neck of his scruffy shirt. “Gimme the money.” Whimpering, the boy obeyed. The man cuffed the boy’s ear, and the youngster slinked away. Shaking his head, the man pressed the two smaller coins into Clay’s hand. “Never let it be said Chauncy Burke cheated a white woman.” He took the valise from Vivian and scuffed toward the canoe. “Let’s get movin’.”

Clay’s boots stuck in the soggy ground as he crossed to the craft, which appeared to be constructed of wooden ribs framed with animal hide. Burke tossed Vivian’s valise into the canoe and then grabbed Clay’s carpetbag and did the same. Clay held his breath as the bags smacked into the canoe’s bottom. But they didn’t break through, so Clay took comfort that the canoe could support them.

Chauncy Burke reached to pluck the box from Clay’s back, but Clay pulled away. “I’ll get it.” The man frowned, and Clay added, “It’s fragile.”

Burke offered a brusque nod. He turned to the boy, who hunkered on the bank. “Get on home.” He flipped the remaining coin through the air, and the boy caught it. “Buy a hambone to flavor the beans—I expect a good meal when I get back.”

Without a word, the boy dashed away. Burke faced Clay and Vivian again. He appeared surprised to see them standing on the bank. “Git yourself an’ your woman in, mister.” A grin climbed his cheek, his gaze grazing over Vivian. “’Less you’re needin’ a hand.”

Clay quickly lowered his accordion box into the canoe, wincing as the boat sank several inches with the weight.
Lord, grant us safe passage, please.
He’d offered the same prayer before boarding each train, stagecoach, and riverboat between here and Oklahoma, but it had never been as heartfelt as in that moment. He took Vivian’s hand and helped her settle in the canoe’s belly. Then, gingerly, he stepped in. The vessel sank another few inches, but water didn’t pour over the sides. Relieved, Clay sat next to Vivian and leaned against the accordion box.

Burke clambered in, causing the canoe to rock, and Clay grabbed the edge with one hand and Vivian with the other. Burke grinned as he plopped down, seeming to take delight in making the narrow boat shift to and fro. Then he swung a long wooden paddle into position. “All right, here we go—to Gwichyaa Saa.” He stroked the paddle through the green-blue water and the canoe glided away from the bank.

Chapter Two