A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Two





So if you ain’t tradin’, what’cha carryin’ around that big wooden box for?”

They had ridden in silence for nearly half an hour. Vivian dozed, her head bobbing on Clay’s shoulder, but Clay had used the time to scrutinize the landscape of their new home. Rugged beauty greeted him from every angle, but he’d seen little that reminded him of Oklahoma—not that he’d expected to. But he’d searched anyway. Even one field bearing stalks of tassled corn would ease some of his homesickness and perhaps help put Vivian at ease.

He shifted his gaze from the grassy bank lined with spindly pine trees to Chauncy Burke. “The box holds my accordion.”

Burke puckered his brow. He sliced the water with the paddle and flipped it to the opposite side of the canoe, sprinkling Vivian and Clay in the process. “Accordy-what?”

Clay tugged Vivian closer to his side and leaned more fully against the box as more water spritzed from the paddle’s blade when Burke traded sides again. “Accordion—a musical instrument.” When the man’s expression didn’t clear, he added, “It has a piano keyboard and a squeezebox, and when you pump air through it and press the keys, it makes musical sounds. Like an organ.”

Burke’s eyes widened, his hands pausing midswipe. “That so? An organ you carry around on your back?”

Clay nodded.

“Ain’t that somethin’ . . .”

Clay agreed. He loved playing his accordion. The children on the reservation where Clay’s father and stepmother served had loved listening to it. He hoped the Gwich’in children would be as fascinated as the Kiowa children in Oklahoma had been. It would give him a means of befriending them.

“But what’cha doin’ way out here with an organ? Need to stay in town, where there’s saloons. Lotta music-playin’ goes on there day an’ night—oughtta keep ya good an’ busy.”

A saloon? To prevent the man from seeing distaste in his eyes, Clay tilted his head and admired the dark green tips of the trees against the gray background of sky. “I’ve got use for it in the Gwich’in village—playing hymns. I plan to hold church services.”

A derisive snort blasted from Burke’s nose. He gave the water a vicious swipe with the paddle. “Church? For the siwashes? Mister, that’s a plumb waste o’ good time. They ain’t gonna be interested in no church service. I’m for certain-sure those poker-faced heathens don’t even have souls.” He looked Clay up and down. “’Pears to me you an’ yer woman’re folks o’ quality. Folks such as you shouldn’t waller low enough to spend time with the likes o’ them.”

Clay had encountered this negative mindset toward natives many times before. Even though it irritated him, his father had taught him to overcome evil with good. “Mr. Burke, have you considered how much Jesus lowered Himself to leave Heaven and spend time with us on earth? Should we do any less than He did?”

Burke set his jaw in a stubborn angle and didn’t answer.

Clay continued, “I believe all men—white, yellow, red, or black—are precious in the sight of God. And I intend to tell the Gwich’in people how much He loves them.”

Burke grunted, but to Clay’s relief, he dropped the argument. They coasted along, the swish of the paddle in the water and the wind’s whisper through the pines the only intrusions. As they rounded a bend in the river, a thrashing sound along the bank stirred Vivian from her nap. She sat up and craned her neck, seeking the source of the sound. Clay looked, too, and spotted a shaggy, hump-backed animal with enormous antlers sloshing through the shallow water. Vivian gasped as the creature lowered its nose to some green, stringy plants floating on the surface. The great animal lifted a string of the green and stared back at the canoe while munching.

Vivian spun her wide-eyed look on Clay. “Is that a deer?”

Clay whistled softly through his teeth. “If so, Alaska has the biggest deer I’ve ever seen.”

Burke coughed out a laugh. “Deer? Lady, that’s a moose.” He gave the paddle a few brisk strokes, carrying them away from the oversized creature. “Ornery things. Look clumsy, but they can move faster’n you’d think. Might wanna steer clear of ’em. ’Specially the mamas when they’re nursin’ a calf. More cantankerous than a woman who’s—” His face flooded with color. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. Mostly men in Alaska, ya know, so a fella forgets how to act when a white lady’s present.”

Clay assumed the man found no reason to mind his tongue when in the presence of the native women.

Burke flicked a glance at Clay. “Didn’t mean to offend your woman, mister.”

During their weeks of travel, most of the people they had encountered assumed he and Vivian were husband and wife. Although it had twinged his conscience to allow the misconception to go unchallenged, he’d decided silence was wiser. The shortage of white women made Vivian a target for unwanted attention. His stepmother would never forgive him if he allowed unpleasantness to befall her only child.

Vivian continued to peer back over her shoulder, even though the animal was now hidden from sight. “A moose.” Her tone held amazement. “I’ve heard about moose, of course, but hearing about them doesn’t hold a candle to seeing one so close.”

Clay nodded, imagining the damage the rack of antlers might cause a man. He told Burke, “We’ll steer clear. Thanks for the warning.”

“Also wanna be careful ’bout approachin’ a bear. Got lots of ’em around here.”

Vivian clamped her hand over Clay’s knee.

Clay gave her cold fingers a reassuring pat. “We have bears in Oklahoma Territory, too.” Although he’d never seen a live one, he’d seen their hides displayed at a trading post near their reservation.

“That so?” Burke raised his brows, as if he didn’t believe Clay; then his forehead crinkled. “Well, then, you know they’re more dangerous than the moose. A feller shouldn’t never catch one by surprise.”

Vivian leaned forward slightly. “And how do you avoid surprising a bear?”

“Make sure he knows you’re there.” Burke’s tone took on a wise edge. “Crunch some leaves under your feet, whistle . . . talk to yerself.” The man continued a steady stroke-stroke with the paddle as he talked. “Thing is, them critters ain’t gonna want to come face-to-face with you. They’ll hide if they know you’re there. But if you come upon ’em an’ take ’em by surprise, their instinct is to attack.” Burke chuckled. “Seein’ as how most bears outweigh a stout man by a good two hunnerd pounds, even a fool can figure out it won’t be much of a contest.”

Clay’s mouth went dry. “Yes . . . yes, I see your point.”

“But you oughtta be all right, mister.” A smirk climbed the man’s grizzled cheek. “One of ’em snarlin’ monsters comes after you, just hold yer ground an’ whack ’em with that big ol’ wooden box.” He laughed and sliced the water with a firm stroke. “Then run.”

An hour later, Burke ran the canoe’s nose onto another mossy bank. Plopping the paddle on the floor of the canoe, he grinned at Clay. “Well, here’s where we part ways.”

Vivian stared at the man. “Here? But . . . there’s no village.”

Pine trees stretched skyward behind a curving riverbank lined with thick brush. There were no signs of human life anywhere. Burke obviously hadn’t approved of Clay’s reason for coming to the Alaska Territory, but was the man contrary enough to leave him and Vivian stranded in the woods miles from any town?

Burke laughed. “You think them siwashes’re gonna make it easy for ya? No, sir. They build their log houses in clearings with lots o’ trees surroundin’ ’em. But you can find ’em—’bout a two-mile walk northeast o’ here.”

Worry created a tingle of awareness across Clay’s scalp. On the Oklahoma prairie, he possessed a sense of direction, but in this land of woods, mountains, and sunshine that lasted far into the night, he had no way of determining direction. “Um . . . which way is northeast?”

Burke grunted low in his throat. He pointed. “Thataway. You can keep yourself on track by lookin’ at where the moss grows on the trees—always on the north.”

Clay tucked the bit of information away for future use. “All right, then.” He shouldered his accordion and grabbed the carpetbag. Balancing his belongings, he stepped onto the soggy riverbank. Vivian clambered out behind him without assistance. Her skirt dipped into the water, and she released a little huff of irritation as she shook water from the heavy folds of fabric.

Clay lifted the valise from the canoe’s bottom and handed it to Vivian. “Mr. Burke, do you hire your canoe regularly?”

The man scratched his head. “Onliest way I make a livin’. Give up on gold huntin’—too many others stickin’ their pans in the creeks, an’ less’n half of ’em findin’ color. Ruther earn my keep in more certain ways.”

Praying he wouldn’t regret his request, Clay said, “Within the next few days, we should receive several crates of supplies from home. We had them shipped, but they didn’t reach Alaska at the same time we did.” Clay hoped their precious belongings hadn’t been lost. Or stolen. “Would you watch for them and then transport them to this location when they’ve arrived?”

Burke’s eyes flew wide. “Bring ’em here? You gonna just sit an’ wait for ’em?”

Clay hadn’t yet processed how he’d retrieve their items. Maybe he could enlist a couple of young Athabascans from the village to come check the bank on a daily basis.

Burke added, “Don’t mind committin’ to bringin’ ’em. It’ll cost you the fare of one passenger, an’ I can’t make no guarantees they’ll still be a-sittin’ here when you come lookin’. Once I drop ’em off, my part’s done—I won’t be held accountable for no losses.”

Even though all the assurances were on Burke’s side rather than his, Clay had little choice but to agree. He reached for his coin purse and withdrew another silver dollar. “Thank you. And thank you for the ride.”

Burke quickly pocketed the coin and then gave Clay’s hand a firm shake. “Good luck to ya, mister. You too, lady.” He hunkered into the canoe and took up the paddle again, chuckling the whole time. “I’m thinkin’ you’re gonna need it.” With a push of the paddle’s blade against the bank, he returned the canoe to the middle of the river. He glided away, leaving Clay and Vivian standing in the wilderness alone.





Lizzie crossed to the smokehouse, pulling the small travois bearing the last of the moose’s meat behind her. Her body ached from the long hours of work, but every sore muscle was well worth it. The meat would feed her and the dogs for weeks. She glanced into the dogs’ pen and couldn’t stop a smile from growing. They lay in small groups, sound asleep, their bellies distended from their hearty meal of fresh meat. Her father would no doubt berate her for indulging them so extravagantly—it wasn’t winter when they would work off the extra fat by pulling her sled—but her father wasn’t here and she could do as she pleased. And it pleased her to give her companions a treat.

After hanging the last of the cuts of meat from the sturdy log rafters, she banked the fire, then closed the door securely and leaned the travois against the smokehouse wall. That task completed, she set her attention to the moose’s hide. As much as she’d wanted to work on it immediately after removing it from the animal, she’d understood the importance of preparing the meat first. So she’d sprinkled the flesh side heavily with salt, folded it gently in half, and left it lying beneath the bushes where the sun wouldn’t be able to reach it.

She pulled it from its shaded shelter and shook it out. Two shiny, black-shelled beetles fell from the fold, and she hissed in displeasure. Flopping the hide flat, she examined it closely. She found no places where the insects had chewed—the salt had served its purpose in discouraging them. Releasing a breath of relief, she carried the hide to the rear of her cabin, where a canvas canopy protected her father’s stretching frame from even the tiniest ray of sunlight.

While lacing the hide into the willow frame, the image of another pair of hands haunted her memories. Broad hands, the pointer finger on the left one bent at the second knuckle from a childhood accident, blunt fingernails cut so short no dirt could gather underneath. Her father’s hands. She shook her head hard, dispelling the image. But even then, other memories nibbled at the corners of her mind, all snippets of time during the carefree years when Pa was here and Mama was alive. When Pa left, the happiness drained from this place, which must mean Pa had been their source of happiness.

So why did remembering him never make her happy?

Lizzie’s vision clouded. Clicking her tongue against her teeth in irritation, she swept the distorting tears away. Hadn’t she learned long ago dwelling on the past only made her melancholy? Yet she relied on lessons from the past as she laced the hide onto the frame and stretched it as tightly as the skin would allow. She’d removed most of the meat already, but she retrieved a scraping tool made from bone and used it to carefully carve away all remnants of fat and tissue.

As she worked, her father’s voice echoed in her head: “Don’t press too hard, Lizzie, or you’ll poke holes and ruin the hide. Firm pressure, back and forth, like buttering a slice of bread—that’s the proper way to flesh a hide.” Her head tilted slightly, she examined the clean-scraped area. Would her father be proud of how well she’d learned to follow his teachings?

In her cabin’s small loft, piles of furs—beaver, otter, badger, fox, wolf, and caribou—gave mute evidence of her ability to hunt, trap, and prepare hides. The stacks rose high enough to brush against the rafters, the accumulation of several years’ work. Although the furs would fetch a tidy sum at the trading post, she didn’t intend to sell all of them. A few—the finest ones—would be used to adorn Vitse’s moose-hide coat. She’d thought of it so often, she could picture the coat embellished with foxtail fringing, a thick badger ruff, and delicate forget-me-nots formed of dyed porcupine quill beads circling the hem.

Her hands began to tremble, and she stepped away from the hide lest an errant slice of the bone cut too deep. Pressing one hand to her chest, she willed herself to calm. But her heart pounded fast and hard beneath her palm. How long had she dreamed of the day she would present this very special peace gift to her grandmother? The idea had sprung to life the day she’d put Mama in the ground—four long years ago.

Lizzie experienced a sharp pang of grief. Despite the passage of time, she thought of her mother every day. And she continued to mourn. Clenching her fists, she drew in deep breaths that cleared her tumbled thoughts and slowed her racing pulse. Determinedly, she lifted the bone scraper, her plan unfolding without effort: Complete preparation on the moose’s hide; construct the coat; offer it to her grandmother and fulfill Mama’s dying request; sell the accumulated furs; take the money and—

Raucous barking brought her thoughts to an abrupt halt. She dropped the bone and spun toward the dog pen, her senses alert for danger. But no bear or two-legged predator lurked in her yard. She crossed to the pen and whistled, bringing the dogs under control. Martha propped her front feet on the wire fence and nosed Lizzie’s hand, a soft whine escaping her throat. The other dogs all looked toward the trees, their fur bristling, some of them baring their teeth.

Lizzie angled her ear toward the woods, listening intently. What had caused their unrest? A sound—an enchanting one—carried from the thick stand of trees east of her cabin and delighted her ears. In a way it reminded her of wind in the pine trees, rising and falling in a lovely melody, yet the sound was deeper. Richer.

Martha whined again, and Lizzie hushed her with a hand on the dog’s ruff. “Down.” She stepped away from the pen, inexplicably drawn toward the alluring music. But her feet stopped, her body tense. She needed to finish the hide so she could construct Grandmother’s coat. With a sigh, she turned toward the frame.

The music rose in volume, the tune turning light and cheerful.

She’d waited four years—she could wait another few minutes. Curiosity sent her skipping toward the sound. She would discover the source of the music, and then she would return to work.