Francis Hamit Presents Epic Historical Novel--STARMEN! A Personal Favorite for 2024 - Who Are the Starmen?!

 

McLean heard the middle stair creak and felt Frazer come cautiously in the door. He turned, smiled at him reassuringly, and then said, “This is Mr. Frazer. Jim, meet William Pinkerton, the President of our company. William, Mister Frazer is a scholar from England with the Ethnographic Survey.” He raised his eyebrows significantly, but William did not catch the meaning behind those words. “Really?” William stood up and offered his hand. “And where do you study?” Frazer looked from one to the other, slightly confused. “Well, for the moment, here. I’m collecting tales of native cultures. But I read at Trinity. Cambridge.” William looked suitably impressed. “I’m a Notre Dame man myself.” 

McLean decided to jump in. “Jim needed a connection to someone in a local tribe. We have a young lad helping us who was able to help, and settled on a price for that service. It’s a per diem.” William Pinkerton, who was stout, with a big square head crowned with black hair, accented by a small mustache, and bright blue eyes, nodded. “How much are you paying the boy?” “Yet to be determined,” McLean said. “It depends on the client’s satisfaction.” Pinkerton nodded. Was it worth asking further? He decided not. Harry McLean was already irritated enough. And could simply take his pension and retire to a comfortable life in Denver if pushed too far. Fortunately, William knew, he loved the work too much to do that. “Well, I’ll leave that to you. Are you satisfied so far, Mister Frazer?” 

“Jim, please. Yes. It’s going very well. Harry has also been very helpful.” William Pinkerton smiled. “Glad to hear it.” McLean nodded. He cleared his throat. “Uh, Jim, I think we will have to pick this up later. William and I have agency business to discuss.” Frazer looked slightly surprised. “Of course,” he murmured. “Perhaps tonight?” “I will find you,” McLean promised. Frazer was quickly gone. 

The two detectives stared at each other. “What the Hell are you playing at, William?” McLean finally exploded. “This is one diabolical liberty, just showing up like this!” “Why are you surprised?” Pinkerton leaned back. “I do the same with other branches now. It keeps people on their toes. And with the current political and economic situation, we need to be sharp. Got the big Centennial celebration next year, and the election.” McLean stared at him, and then sighed. “Working as hard as I can, Boss. You don’t like it, then send me back to Denver and my wife and kids. Run this yourself.” 

Pinkerton held out both hands before him as if pushing back an invisible wall. “Now, Harry, I meant nothing by it. You know that we miss you in Chicago, and we need someone we can trust here. This is a great location. It gets us into Mexico.” McLean began to make a pot of coffee. “Not sure we want to go there, myself. Different system of law. Napoleonic Code. Different language, and, by the way, about a hundred thousand Indians in various tribes that don’t recognize that border or any White Man’s authority.” “We go where the business is.” Pinkerton looked at the journal again. “Explain this bit of correspondence. Why are you writing Elmer Washburn about a balloon?” McLean’s face relaxed into a smile. He chuckled. “Now that is a mystery. You’ve not been over to the Mercado? The big square near the cathedral?” Pinkerton shook his head no. McLean set the coffee pot on top of the pot bellied stove, lit the fire and sat down in the chair at the next desk. 

“Yesterday, a big hot air balloon appears there and lands. Bigger than you have ever seen. Now young Frazer and me, we’d struck up an acquaintance the day before, and he’s told me about Mademoiselles Pompadour and her traveling show. I thought he was having me on until I saw this prodigious balloon appear, and this very attractive blonde lower herself over the side, wearing pink tights that did nothing to conceal her figure. Quite an entrance.” 

Pinkerton stared at him, and then nodded. “Young Frazer has been hired by them as an advance man, and there is a big greeting with a band, and he introduces me to the lady. She sees my badge and wants to know, right away, if I’m from the Government. I explain that we are and always have been a private enterprise. She says you must come to dinner. So I do that.” The coffee was ready and McLean got up and poured two cups. “Be careful not to burn your hand,” he cautioned. Pinkerton took his cup and set it on the desk to cool. “And?” “They are staying at the Excelsior. Best hotel in town. And the name of the lady is actually Rose Green, and she’s from Liverpool. And the pilot is Sir Percy Wyndham, who does not have his trademark mustaches that he wore when he commanded the First New Jersey during the War. The others are a mixed lot, Italian and French scientists. The crew are dressed like French sailors, but King Victor Emmanuel is the sponsor.” Pinkerton nodded slowly. “I am going to have to read up on this, because I’m understanding only about half of what you are saying. Cut to the chase, Harry. Why write Washburn about this?” McLean shook his head. 

“Come on, William. Ethnographic Survey? That’s a British Secret Service cover most of the time. Jim Frazer’s research may be on the up-and-up, but the rest of it stinks like fish that’s been left out too long. And why the big show to cover what they are really doing? Rose Green’s real name is Rose Greenhow.” Pinkerton was startled. “Like the famous Confederate spy?” “Her daughter. And reputedly the bastard child of her and Jose Limantour, the current Minister of Finance for Mexico. As crooked as they come, and Rose’s paterfamilias in England is Judah P. Benjamin. She was a little drunk and feeling sorry for herself, and just babbled on. Or so it seemed.” “You think it was an act?” 

“They were trying to recruit me, William. Pull me back in. I came here for them before the War. Your Dad knows all about it. He worked for them, too.” “What?” McLean sighed. “You ever talk politics with Allan? Back then, we were Chartists, rebels against the Queen. We got caught. Given a choice between a rather grisly traitor’s death and working here for Percy Anderson at the British Legation helping the Abolitionists. Well, that suited us just fine, and we joined the Chicago Police and became detectives, and then Allan set up the agency, and then found another lost cause, the Presidential campaign of a railroad lawyer by the name of Lincoln. 

Railroads made us what we are today, but Lincoln, and Judah Benjamin, who was, back then, one of his law partners, got us started.” William Pinkerton shook his head. “Dad is writing his memoirs, but he’s left that part out.” He took a sip of his coffee. “So, how did you get out of it?” “Helping run the Underground Railroad helped, and then we spied against the South. Had to take the Oath of Allegiance, and become American citizens. With Judah Benjamin running the other spy service, the, as we called it, ‘adversary party’, we had to make a choice. In 1862 you were either a patriot or a traitor. Traitors got hung. It helped that we suddenly had money, lots of money. Our fortune was here and we cannot go back, on pain of death. I’m sure that warrant is still valid. And we saw how England was trying to break up the country and wanted no part of that. So we’re Americans now. And you and your brother and sister were born here. Natives. So I never considered it for a moment.” Pinkerton nodded. “You are right, of course. What else bothers you about the balloon?” McLean looked upwards, trying to remember something. “Ah! Something Frazer said. They are armed. Gatling guns. In case they set down and have to defend themselves from unfriendly natives. They don’t display them, but they are there. And the crew has the new Winchester rifles.” 

“That is troublesome. You might call it ‘overkill’.” McLean laughed and nodded. “Think about it, William. It’s a massive craft for what it is, and, aside from having a 21-year-old woman in charge, seems to be very military. Or maybe naval. Sir Percy Wyndham is a star soldier, a mercenary, which means while his title comes from King Victor Emmanuel, he’s also British Secret Service. He said he was on ‘detached service’.” “And if it traveled on the water instead of through the air as some kind of amusement, it would cause alarms to be sent up. Have we been invaded?” McLean shook his head. “I think it’s more in the nature of a reconnaissance. They say they are searching for minerals and land to buy. But the Confederate government angle troubles me. The Confederate Treasury had four million in gold that’s never been found. Judah Benjamin burned all the Secret Service records in Richmond as they evacuated the government. There’s a whole network of traitors in the North that’s never been found out.” “And an amnesty in ‘72. They can’t be prosecuted.” 

“That don’t matter. Exposure would bring social and financial ruin. They can be blackmailed. James Buchanan was.” “The President?” William looked shocked. “How?” “He liked men, not women. This was well known before the war, and tolerated because he was a very able politician. Yet he sat on his hands and did nothing as the nation came apart, and we had the worst war in history. Rose Greenhow was his beard. He visited her at night so everyone drew an obvious and wrong conclusion. She worked for the French and the British and anyone else who’d help finance those elaborate balls she put on. Senator Judah Benjamin was one of them. Seems the Confederate Secret Service was operating before there was a Confederate government. The Brits again. Ol’ La Fayette Baker was right, the treason was years in the making. ‘The South will rise again?’ Reconstruction has not really pacified the South. 

Imagine those balloons coming against what’s left of the Union Army now, invading Texas and rallying all those poor bastards who saved their Confederate money to the cause. Throwing down grenades and Greek fire in bottles? Percy Wyndham was a Brigade Commander during the Italian War. Just the man to make it happen. He could be making military maps with that crew of his. Planning a march in from Mexico of a mercenary army.” William looked very grave. “So this is why you are writing to Washburn?” “Yes. If we are Americans, then I think we have a duty. It’s not a pitch for business. He has his own detectives. Leave it to them.” William smiled. “Write the letter and I will sign it. It will have more weight coming from me.” “How do you make that out?” “I’m the President of this agency.” 

McLean smiled kindly. “And he remembers you in short pants, getting caught stealing apples from a neighbor’s tree when he was a beat cop in Dundee. You’re new, and haven’t proven yourself in his eyes.” Pinkerton blushed and looked offended. He looked away and murmured, “Have it your way. We both can sign.” “Whatever you like, Boss,” McLean said, twisting the knife a little.

~~~

The only way to describe this book is to quickly say, that it must be experienced! This multi-genre novel is awesome in breadth and scope of the storyline. It blends historical reality with bits of whimsy and sorcery/witchcraft and pulls it off wonderfully. It moves back in history much further than the 1800s and makes a clear statement about how history can be destroyed intentionally, as well as routinely. It throws in the sexual trade historically as well as a romance or two. More importantly, I don't know whether on purpose or not; but, it shares much about the actual background of what happened in America which has led, in my opinion, to the situation we now face.

What d0 I mean by that? Well Hamit has done much research for this and his other historical book. When you read a novel that uses dialogue that might be a problem, you suddenly realize that this is what was happening then...and what has led to our present life in America... We have been too quick to try to "whitewash" that history...

The primary character--Harry Elliott McLean--called McLean--moves from beginning to the end and is one of the Pinkerton Detectives. He has been sent by the home office to work in the creation of a new office near the Mexican border in a city called El Paso. He was not thrilled to be sent there, but with his experience, he had been the logical choice, especially since the son of the original man who had started the company, has now taken over and is still quite inexperienced. We meet him and you'll see the difference in the two men.

You will also meet another primary character by the name of Jesus--pronounced Hey-seuss... He is an Apache and young as the book started; however, at one point he asked "How old do you want me to be?" when he was asked to take on a new role in the office. Watch this character closely or you might miss some of his activities!

With those two characters highlighted, let's start at the beginning... when a hot air balloon arrived in town--with passengers! One of those individuals was a passenger who was an Ethnographer, which is the study of native cultures. He had traveled from England and had also agreed to assist the remaining members on the balloon in getting to know the area... Now, these individuals were looking for riches that could be found... And, indeed, they do find something that was extraordinary... only to become lost.. Yes, the entire balloon and its occupants had dropped of Frazier and was (almost) never seen again... 

Frazier had arranged to meet with the Apache tribe, and would be led and introduced by Jesus. This part of the book was fascinating. It was Frazier's hope that he would be permitted to live with the local tribe and learn their stories. Not only did he succeed, but after some period of time, he was asked to leave the tribe, as if he had graduated. He came back to El Paso a completely different man in looks... Can you guess why? I loved this, what you might call, a subplot, as Frazier soon leaves and goes back to England...

In any event, we do catch up with the balloon's occupants as they cry, "Where the devil are we?" And one of the occupants looked around for Jesus...and another timidly said, "he flew away..." do...do... do...do... no scary movie music...this is in the 1800s when real Apache magic was alive and well...

But it gets even spookier... By the way, a reminder, the author said he decided to have fun with his book! Well... I had lots of fun reading it...even if with just a hint of what's really happening???

A new case has been assigned to McLean. The family has asked them to find their son who had last been seen in the El Paso area... Another agent, Blake Talman, has been assigned to the office and they plan to start out, not knowing where they will wind up. These two have completely different personalities, so the trip should prove interesting... But not as interesting as it really turned out to be... Oh, yeah, it was discovered that the local postmaster was a thief, so they'd be looking for him along the way... And, by the way, McLean's wife and daughters have shown up and the two daughters have already been trained and accepted as Pinkerton Agents... Now, it is really going to get complicated... Especially when William Pinkerton shows up and plans on staying awhile... And, wait for it, they have been notified that one of the gunmen McLean had formerly captured and had been convicted, was now free and heading...for... him...

So, folks, we got a posse being put together to go out into the wilds of the area... With a group of the Apaches as guides and a few Mexican police and a few caballeros who wanted to make sure if the posse may need to cross the border (which, of course, was not clearly marked those days!) And maybe a few that they picked up along the way... Because they were soon hearing about a new town and as they got closer, they began to hear loud noises that they couldn't place...

Until they came to the first body... The smell told them what the noise had been. The man was recognized as a criminal on their wanted list... As they moved on, now carrying the dead body, the horses were getting restless as another loud bang came... Soon, they saw another body. The man was still alive, but managed to say "they're not actually human!" Jesus later pointed out at one point that if they were not human, then it may not be a sin or a crime... if...

Finally they reached the town and located the sheriff's office. Jesus was in charge of the jail (yes, the same man--he get's around a lot) and they had found Derek Seaton, the missing son... In Jail... for murdering a guest of Jake Martin, the mayor, and owner of just about everything in the town. By the way, one of those guests was "Sheriff for the Day." Think the Ok Corral...

Yes, the town had been turned into an old west town where gun fights occurred daily, there were saloon girls available, and even a card shark came to town..

Thing is, all of the "new residents" had been invited by the Mayor... most of them were criminals now out of jail, or high-priced call girls from big cities who were now branded... Only, the girls wound up being mostly matched up with those criminal-type that wasn't like the gentlemen criminals of the real early west like, say, Doc Holliday...LOL, at least in our movies... Frankly the stranger guests really weren't interested in that type of participation. 

They were interested in the gun fights, and they normally occurred about once a day... probably about the time when their spaceship came and hovered to see how the guests were doing... or to pick up the first group of guests and drop off the new guests...

So, who exactly were the STARMEN? Well, you're going to have to read the book to find out...  Because even I am not sure just which were the ones for which the book was named... So, let me know your opinion after you read this fabulous, extraordinary and, yes, fun book! Don't miss it!

By the way, finally, one word was used in this book that was prominently used during the time period.  The authenticity of Hamit's history is very clear and confirming of what those of us who have accepted what really happened already knew... And, it is no wonder that many came to disdain white men in general. At that time, it was white men who were murdering our indigenous americans... and our non-white americans as well... See Hamit's earlier post on this issue.

GABixlerReviews

Gothic Romance - My Favorite Read!

"He took a step toward her.
"Go away." she shouted and waved at him.
"Go back where you belong."
He grinned, though barely, and advanced
another step toward her. "I belong here.
This is my room and that is my bed."
Soon, she would want him
there with her...
http://www.ehow.com/info_8079805_bedrooms-1900s.html

Whispers on the
  Wind


By Donna Fletcher











There's a flavor I can't describe for Gothic Romance/suspense. I can't define it either, I just experience it with pleasure when I come across it. Of course, the location, Cornwall, England, the time period, 1808, and the first sentence might have been a clue... "Only the most dangerous ghosts haunt on a stormy night..." I loved it, of course!


Belinda (Billie) Latham traveled from Nantucket on the skin of her teeth. She had little money and, if she had not received the surprising message, she would have been destitute soon, or forced to marry. "She shivered at the repulsive thought and recalled that Jeremy always smelled of day-old fish and ale which he consumed in equal amounts and was the reason for his big belly."


Was it fate that had resulted in her, a step-daughter, formally being adopted so that she was now the sole heir to Radbourne Manor...located in the small town of St. Clair?


Maximilian Radborne had been the last lord of the manor, with his father being killed recently. It was said that Maximilian haunted the manor. and even the driver had refused to deliver Billie to her new home. Later the townsfolk were quite willing to share the story of what had happened to Lord Radborne.


"The driver shook his cap-covered head and waved his hand in front of her. 'I don't go there. Nobody does, especially on a night like this when the banshees are having a fine time for themselves."
"Lord, not ghosts, Billie thought. The last thing she needed at this very moment was to hear about ghosts. Her legs began to tremble...
"The driver shook his head, crossed himself and spoke in a fearfut tone. 'It's haunted."


Dropped at the local inn, Billie entered and introduced herself. Everybody was surprised that she was a woman, not what the lawyer had been expecting. Fortunately, the innkeeper, Bessie, immediately responded, getting food for her in welcome and, later, forcing her husband to take her on to the manor.

"George banged his near-empty tankard of ale on the table. 'She's the new owner. She should be told. What if she runs into the likes of him tonight?"


Once again Billie was dumped, this time at the gate, so that by the time she finally reached the manor, she was ready only for sleep. After convincing Pembrooke, apparently the butler, that she indeed was the new owner, she was soon preparing for bed.


Billie soon learns that she indeed must contend with Max, as she immediately began to call him, as he appeared and disappeared through the Manor. And then she met his father, who was haunting the caves below. Between the two, plus the town people, including the vicar, she soon began to piece together the story that had resulted in her now being the owner of Radbourne Manor...and that now placed her in extreme danger as the new owner. She had already discovered that Max's father had probably been killed by smugglers that had used the caves for storage...Foolishly she began to investigate... 


Yes, there is plenty of suspense, but readers will probably be having too much fun watching the exchanges between Billie and Max. And when the vicar starts courting Billie; Max fumes! A delightful, somewhat surprising ending resulted in total contentment for this reader! You won't want to miss his one! Enjoy!




GABixlerReviews

"Some say he had the look of a madman that night and others say he acted
like one. He ordered the boats drawn as the first desperate cry of a struggling
survivor sounded. More cries followed. Anguished cries. Fearful cries that
mingled with the road of the brutal sea...
"It was then it was heard. A lone pitiful cry sounding like that of a lost,
helpless child. It drifted in on a wave and crashed upon a jagged rock. The
lord threw his coat off him and marched to the boat. Taking the oars in his
powerful hands and with a shove from some still able men, he rowed out alone,
into the darkness, into the mouth of the rampaging sea."
"The cry soon died away and the villagers waited and waited. Morning brought
with it a calming of the storm...The sea spewed forth remnants of its rampage--barrels
pieces of the wrecked ship, trunks and, near the outcropping of rocks at the far end
of the beach, the rough waves deposited the remains of the broken and battered
rowboat of Lord Maximillian Radborne. The sea had swallowed him, burying him
in a watery grave."
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bobjagendorf/2787414327/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Welcome Jan Marquart, Author of Voices from the Land!

Voices from the Land...

is a historical novel that tells the story of a small group of people and their incomparable ability to form a new town in the Southwest after President Lincoln freed the slaves in 1860. The story exposes the vicious hate of a lawless land juxtaposed against the generous compassion of the American people to attend to one another’s wounds. Despite the violence and mayhem in this vulnerable town, the indefatigable spirit of its inhabitants assures their survival.

Jan Marquart is a licensed Clinical Social Worker who specializes in family counseling.  She has a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy from the University of California/ Santa Cruz and a master’s degree in Social Work from San Jose State University. A member of the New Mexico Book Association, National Writers Union, and the National Association of Social Workers, Jan has authored eight books, two booklets, and numerous articles for newspapers and journals. Visit with the author at www.awareliving.net

Jan shares...


In 2005, I moved to Lamy, NM and bought an adobe home that sat on five acres. I had become sick from mold and chemical poisoning and needed a place away from people in order to heal--a clean and natural environment away from toxins. The area was quite beautiful everywhere I looked.  In one direction I could see the Santa Fe Mountains and in another direction I could see the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Walking around the hundred-year-old pinon and juniper trees, this property exuded such a strong energy that it felt as if the trees were speaking. In all the places I’ve ever lived, this land was not only a completely different experience, but I could feel myself connecting to the oneness of the planet that I’ve heard others speak about in the past. I felt myself starting to heal and the stillness in the land allowed me to go deeper within than I’d ever thought possible.

The next year, I was explaining to an intuitive the feelings I had living amidst such high-energy land and trees, and how I thought this was what I needed for my healing. He then proceeded to tell me to sit near the trees with pen and paper because spirits living there wanted me to record their stories. I didn’t know what to think. This instruction frightened me and I don’t frighten easily when it comes to spirits, but letting spirits enter my writing was another matter.

One hot fall day in October 2008, when I was looking for something interesting to write, I decided to take the intuitive up on the task. I traipsed out to the section of hundred year old pinon and juniper trees at the end of my property with a camping chair, pen, journal and a cup of hot tea. In the Introduction to Voices From the Land, I explain the details about how the stories came through me, the energy that kept me in place even though I wanted to go into the house and the unique characters that kept moving through me until I wrote everything they needed to say. Eleven days later, I had 97 pages of stories. Together these stories made up Voices From the Land which speaks to a small town in the mid-west in 1860. These voices opened my heart. They speak to the hardships during times of great strife in our country. They tell about how people pulled together and how they had a belief in something bigger to keep them going until they conquered their needs for survival.

When I asked four friends and neighbors to review the manuscript, not one of them would return it. Each described the power the voices had in giving them inspiration and direction and they felt they had become close to the power of the voices so much so that they had to keep the manuscript. One of my friends felt so strongly about Voices that she offered to write the foreword for the book and encouraged me to get it published. I hear from many who read it that it has shifted their thinking and I just love that.

HOW THE PREACHER

CAME TO TOWN

(Excerpt)

I was born in the small town of Ohio. My father was a guide for pioneer travelers. When I was five, my mother and grandparents headed out to live farther west because my mother was hoping to see my father more often. My mother and grandmother landed out west where I was raised. All of fifty people set up their homes in this town, which is near a small wooded area close to a river and with enough land around that everyone could have a piece. I must say it was a tough survival to live out on the plains when I was a small child, but it was quite an amazing thing to have grown up there. Luckily, my father led them out west. My father was a fearless man. You couldn't keep him in one place for too long.

Story goes he met my mother at some kind of dance party. He told her he was too wild for any woman. No woman could confine him to one house, one town, even one part of the country, he said. My mother had fallen in love with him, so she had decided he could do what he wanted as long as he came back to her when his job was completed. She said she was fine with that, and he agreed.

But my mother wasn’t going to live out in the wild country alone. When she decided to live in this small town, she did so for two reasons: my father seemed to be in that neck of the woods more and her parents agreed to move with her. My grandparents were against all this, but being strong believers in the Lord, they told themselves that there must be a reason why their daughter had fallen in love with this man. Because of that line of thinking, they couldn't let their little girl, whom they loved more than anything in the world, live alone with her husband on the trails most of the year.

They all hoped more than anything that my father would settle down. But no man settles down because of love when something bigger inside him wants to keep him on the move. Luckily, my father had befriended many Indian from different tribes, which meant that he had friends along his passages. He learned their languages and customs. He spent time finding the right gifts for the various Indian tribes he passed on his trips. That was how he kept himself and his customers alive. One time, as one of the Indians ran toward my father to greet him, an unsuspecting customer got frightened, raced toward the Indian, and began shooting. Luckily, my father was close enough to his customer that he was able to hit the man in the head with his own rifle to distract him from shooting the Indian, who was my father’s friend. The Indian asked my father in his own language why his friend was shooting at him. My father could only say, “Stupid white man,” because he couldn't find the words fast enough to explain that the man’s fear had overtaken him after he saw the Indian racing toward him.

My father left the stunned customer sitting on his horse holding his bloody head while my father and the Indian shook hands and, in a small matter of time, caught up with all that had gone on since the last time they had seen each other. My father brought the Indian a finely made wool blanket as a gift and for the Indian’s wife, a crocheted scarf made by my grandmother.

My father had told his customer about his good relations with the Indians, but there is no figuring out what a man will do when he’s scared for his life and has a gun close by. That’s how my father made his money. Then, when he came home, he and I would sit around a fire, and from the day I was born, I heard about his wild adventures that usually kept him away for as little time as a few months to as long as a couple years.

My mother cried upon hearing the stories that my father thought would fascinate her, because she hated thinking of him facing death so many times. She feared the Indians as much as she did his encounters with bears, the weather, and his lack of food or water. Once he had been bitten by a snake. It wasn't a rattler, and although he was fine, his leg was swollen for quite a long time.

One time my father was crossing the plains and heard the pounding beat of a stampede. He quickly climbed some rocks, pulling his horse behind him. His horse, alarmed by the stampede, wanted to run to and fro, and as my father yanked on the harness, my father’s foot lodged in between two rocks, pinning his leg in place. He let go of his horse, fearful that if he tried to pull the harness harder he would break his leg but even more fearful that his horse would be lost from him and he’d die out on the rocks by himself. He had been alone on that trip because he was scouting an easier way to bring a caravan of wagon trains to California. Everyone wanted to go to California. It was as if everyone came down with a fever, thinking that California held a new and easier life free from struggles.

Every day my father was gone, my mother prayed for his safety. My grandmother and grandfather would light a candle, and before we had our stew and bread, they would ask the Lord for his protection and well-being and would ask that whatever trials and tribulations he had to face that the Lord would help him.

I knew their prayers were important, and I bowed my head and prayed too, although mostly I just listened. Sometimes it was too sad because my heart never got used to his absence even though I didn't see him too much until I got older. But I’ll get to that.

So my days were spent with my mother, preparing every minute for his unexpected return, and my grandparents did what they could to take care of us and keep my mother believing in the power of the Lord, because they said the Lord’s power would keep everything blessed.

I never knew quite how to take such a way of thinking. Should I feel calm because the Lord was going to keep my father safe or should I worry because the Lord could make things go even worst if he wanted?

I wanted hope and I wanted peace that my father was safe so we could be happy, but despite all their praying, they seemed to worry constantly.

My grandparents were getting frail even though they tried to keep helping my mother. My father had chopped enough firewood before he left, but sometimes, our food would start to run out, and we had to cut down on how much we used. A stagecoach came through town every spring bringing food, rice, potatoes, and other supplies we needed for the year. We learned to manage, and I know my grandparents missed Ohio and the people they knew there.

My mother wouldn’t hear of any complaints because she said she had enough on her mind with worrying about my father and all, so we had to cope with our fears alone. My grandfather told me to give my fears and complaints to the Lord. I tried to do that, but I didn't know how.

Once I asked who told them about the Lord. How did they learn about him? I didn't understand how they could believe in something they couldn't see.My grandmother had more patience to explain this to me than either my mother or my grandfather.

“Can you see the wind?” she asked.

“No,” I’d say, “but I can see the stuff the wind blows.”

“Can you see hope?” she asked.

“No, but I can see things you hope for,” I told her in return.

My grandfather got annoyed with me. “Don’t question the presence of the Lord, boy,” he said, scolding me. “You never know when you’ll need the Lord to be with you.” My mother and grandmother nodded.

I still didn’t understand. “You’re old enough now to believe,” said my grandfather. His way of talking to you let you know that you had no other choice but to do what he said just because he said it, even though there was no reason for it.

I could hear my mother beating our wool rug that she and grandmother had thrown over the fence my father built just before he left. A colt was born last week, and Mama showed me how to help until Jeremiah Samuel came down the road to help. I have never seen a colt actually being born before. Usually I got to see the colt the next day. But this time, I saw it being born. I was leaning down, helping the horse we called Lily, when I looked up to see my grandmother.

“Thank the Lord,” she said.

The colt tried to stand right away. My knees became just as wobbly after watching such an event, and for a minute, the colt got to its feet faster than I did to mine. My heart felt so warm watching this new life stand and breathe. I looked at Grandmother. My face still showed the sense of wonder coming up from my heart.

“If that doesn’t make you believe in the Lord, boy, I don’t know what will. The creation of life only looks like our doing,” she said, shaking her head with humility.

As soon as she was sure the colt was okay, she left to attend my grandfather, who was sitting on our small porch shivering. It was early fall and not as cold as he made out to be. It was in that moment that I realized how sick Grandfather was. Each night, Grandfather ate in bed because he got too sick to sit at the table. Mama and I could hear Grandmother and Grandfather praying together before he fell asleep. Sometimes I’d have to head down to the creek for some fresh water because his fever was getting worst and Mama didn't know what to do.

Some of the families came to help, but none of them was a doc, so they only knew to put a cold rag on his head and feed him broth from some of the bones left over from their dinner. He couldn't keep any food in his stomach, so we watched him get thinner until one Saturday morning, the last week of November, we buried him out under an oak tree. An Indian friend of my father’s came to check on us and told Grandmother that Grandfather should be buried near the tree so the tree’s spirit could keep his spirit strong. At first, the Indian told us to burn the body so his soul could be sent to be with the Great Spirit, but we were horrified to think of Grandfather on fire. One night, I awoke screaming until Mama and Grandmother assured me they would not set grandfather on fire.

Mama and Grandmother sat me down before dinner. “You’re the man now. We need you to help more around here,” my grandmother said.

I wanted to please her because I knew she knew the Lord was powerful, and I thought I needed him as my friend. Grandmother believed more than anyone that the Lord was good, and yet, I still wasn't sure how there could be a Lord if he took Grandfather when we needed him so much.

“You can’t question the Lord,” my grandmother told me. “I keep telling you the good Lord has his reasons.”

My mother never spoke her mind about the Lord, but Grandmother spoke of him daily. After my father asked him to, the Indian who visited us—we called Wind Eagle—said he talked to the Lord too, but he called it the Great Spirit. It made me more confused than ever. I think I was twelve by then, although Mama said she was sorry she lost count of the years. In her worry for my father, she had forgotten to count. Mama and  Grandmother knew how to read because they had been taught, and read the Bible every night before going to sleep. Then they would pray for Father, for food, and for good health, and then would give thanks for another day of surviving with blessings.

Grandmother said that just because the Lord took someone you loved didn't mean he was mad at you. At Grandfather’s funeral, everyone said a prayer aloud for Grandfather. Some took no time at all. Others took forever. I was restless, but Mama told me that it was okay, that I should really learn about the Lord through everyone’s faith, and that the Lord did right by Grandfather, taking him when he did because Grandfather didn't like getting sick and not being able to carry his weight.

I cried when Grandmother spoke of how much she was going to miss her husband, who so loved his family, and of how he gave of himself to let his family know how much he loved them. The Indian, Wind Eagle, made a huge wooden cross for Grandfather’s grave, knowing that a cross was what Grandmother wanted. He put a string of beads around it and added an eagle feather, saying that the eagle feather would allow his spirit to be free now.

I asked Mama if the Great Spirit was the same as the Lord, and she said yes. She said that it was a different name, that’s all, and then began cutting up some potatoes to add to the buffalo meat Wind Eagle had brought us as a gift. I wanted Father to come home, but Mama always got tears in her eyes when Father was mentioned, so I kept my feelings to myself. Thank goodness Grandmother was in good health because I couldn't help Mama with all the chores myself...

Wind Eagle brought us buffalo meat every time his tribe killed one. For that we were all grateful. It was a cold winter, and I think Father should have been home by now. One night, after they thought I was asleep, I heard Mother and Grandmother talking about how they had expected Father by now. They were sad that he hadn't gotten to say good-bye to Grandfather, but what could they do?

In the snow, I’d visit the river and watch the water flow downstream while wondering where it came from. The bears were nowhere to be seen once it got cold. For that I was grateful because I could get water without fearing for my life...