First Dawn (13 page)

“There’s one good thing to be said for your move west,” Carlisle said. “It will get Macia away from Jackson Kincaid.”

Samuel covertly watched his wife. He wanted to believe she would eventually come around about his plans for a new life in the west. As her features began to soften, he felt a tiny glimmer of hope.

CHAPTER
9

Nicodemus, Kansas
•
September 1877

A
cool, gentle wind breathed across the prairie during the month of September and imbued the struggling settlers with newfound energy. There was little doubt winter’s hardships would soon besiege them, so they staunchly set aside their fears and labored with a renewed zeal.

Ezekiel and Thomas continued their arduous work with the breaking plow, knowing the precious tool must soon be returned to Jeremiah Horton. Before that time arrived, they prayed the weather and the horses would cooperate, for they must cut sod bricks for each of the dugout entrances as well as bricks enough to help insulate and support the roofs. The ongoing labor of the other men and boys had resulted in completion of at least the digging portion of a dugout that would accommodate a small family, though the fireplace and entrance both remained incomplete. Once all the sod bricks were cut and the breaking plow was returned to Mr. Horton, Ezekiel and Thomas would begin erecting the front of their new homes.

The group of settlers had agreed the first dwelling should be inhabited by the Harris family—due both to Miss Hattie’s age and ailments as well as the anticipated birth of Nellie and Calvin’s baby. An old woman and an infant would, after all, require more protection from the elements than would the rest of them.

The days melted into one other with little to distinguish time, place, or responsibilities—unless the weather was uncooperative. Yet today had dawned cool and bright, and Jarena sighed with satisfaction— her clothes would dry, but it wouldn’t be overly warm as she stood over the fire. She and the twins had filled the caldron with water the night before, and she was pleased to see the fire already burning and the water beginning to bubble. Likely her father or Thomas had started the fire well before sunup. She shaded her eyes and looked around the small camp. She could hear Miss Hattie’s scolding voice in the distance.

“Wilbur Holt, you git yerself over there and git to work!”

Jarena grinned at the sight of the old woman prodding the tall fourteen-year-old with one end of her walking stick while soundly rebuking him. She’d exchanged her parasol for the walking stick, though she vowed the parasol would be called back into use come springtime. “You’s plenty old enough to be helpin’ cut dat sod. Lazy! That’s what ya are, ’cept when it comes to eatin’.”

Wilbur yelped at Miss Hattie’s jab, which brought Caroline Holt on a run. “What’s wrong with you, Wilbur?” his mother hollered.

“Miss Hattie’s a-pokin’ me with her stick,” he wailed.

“Good for her! I tol’ you to get over there and help yo’ pappy a half hour ago. Now get to moving, or I’ll tell Miss Hattie to use dat stick on your backside ’stead of jest pokin’ at ya.”

Shoulders slumped, Wilbur mumbled his displeasure as he shuffled toward the hillside where his father was digging.

“You can move faster’n that! Straighten up dem shoulders, and don’ you be sassin’ yo’ mama, neither,” Miss Hattie reprimanded. The diatribe continued until the boy was well out of earshot.

Jarena watched Wilbur glance over his shoulder at Miss Hattie, his features forming a scowl. She knew that the boy had best do as he’d been told. If he argued, Miss Hattie wouldn’t hesitate to use her walking stick on his backside. None of the children were exempt from Miss Hattie’s correction, and none of the adults questioned the old woman’s authority to wield her justice. Miss Hattie had seen more of life than most, and they believed in her sound judgment.

To Jarena, she was also a mother figure. “Miss Hattie! Come sit and visit with me,” she called.

The old woman waved her stick in recognition of Jarena’s request but patiently waited until Wilbur reached his prescribed destination. Now certain the boy would not escape the vigilance of his father and the other men, she turned and, with a halting gait, walked toward the Harban lean-to. Jarena fetched a chair her father had fashioned from an empty nail keg and scraps of wood and placed it nearby. “I’d sure enjoy a little company while I do the washing,” she requested when Miss Hattie drew near.

Hattie dropped onto the hard wooden seat and nodded toward the caldron. “Your day to use the kettle, I see.”

“Yes. Seems as though my turn never comes often enough. I’m truly thankful it’s not raining today,” she said, remembering the storm that had come upon them the last time she’d attempted to launder clothes. “How many times has it rained since we arrived in this place? Only two! And whose turn was it to use the wash kettle both times? Mine!”

Miss Hattie leaned back and laughed heartily. “You been spendin’ too much time alone, chil’. You’s taken to answerin’ your own questions, even when you got someone to do it for ya.”

Jarena responded with a feeble smile.

“ ’Sides, I thought Mildred let you bring your wash over and throw in wid her.”

“She did.”

“Then what you so riled up about? You got your washin’ done and got to visit with Mildred while you done it. Instead of feeling sorry fer yerself, you should be thankin’ the good Lord that He gave you a reason to spend time visitin’. Ain’t a soul in this place that don’ know you’s unhappy to be here, Jarena. But it’s ’bout time you quit sulkin’ around and start offerin’ thanks for what you got.”

“Which isn’t much, as I see it. Look at this place, Miss Hattie. We’re either living under torn pieces of canvas or burrowed into the sides of these hills like animals. There’s not enough food and no way to prepare for winter. We’ll likely all be dead come spring.”

Miss Hattie thumped her stick into the thick buffalo grass. “God willing, we’ll make do. Dere’s still some rice and cornmeal Thomas bought down in Ellis—and them jackrabbits ain’t half bad.”

Jarena wanted to tell Miss Hattie the remaining supplies, along with most all the jackrabbits, would be gone come winter. Instead, she heeded Miss Hattie’s admonition and mumbled her halfhearted agreement while she stirred the boiling clothes with a long wooden paddle. The water churned and bubbled while the steamy heat drifted upward to dampen Jarena’s face. Thankful for the cooling breeze, she turned toward the south. Could her eyes be playing tricks on her, or had she truly spied a wagon in the waving expanse of prairie grass?

Hurrying around the fire, Jarena shaded her eyes with one hand and focused upon the flowing wall of grass. Had her sighting been a mirage? Nothing more than smoke and sunlight mixed with a strong desire to see old friends from Georgetown?

“Wagons!” she shouted. She reached down and gripped Hattie’s shoulder. “Look, Miss Hattie! It’s wagons, and they’re coming our way!”

“Quit dat hollerin’ and loosen your grip, chil’, else I’m gonna lose both my hearin’ and the use of my arm.”

Jarena loosened her white-knuckled grasp but feared the older woman would be bruised come morning. “I’m sorry, Miss Hattie. I didn’t realize.”

“Go on and see who’s comin’. Think it might be some of the folks from back home?”

The thump of her feet striking the hard earth pounded in Jarena’s ears as she sprinted toward the string of approaching wagons. A brief glimpse of the Francis family caused her to run even faster, and her arms flailed in giant circles as she continued onward.

“Is that Charles Francis?” Truth hollered as she and Grace came running alongside Jarena.

“I think so.” Jarena’s lungs felt as though they would explode, yet she was unable to slow the pace. Knowing the Francis family—particularly Charles—was among the group fueled her onward.

Truth and Grace bolted ahead, their lithe bodies more accustomed to the exertion. “It’s him!” Truth yelled as she waved Jarena forward.

Jarena continued running, but her gait slowed, her breathing becoming more labored. Tired and winded, she bent forward, inhaled deeply, and then straightened her body. It was then that she saw him. He was running toward her with a smile that stretched from ear to ear and waving a worn felt hat above his head.

She waved her arms in return. Before she could catch her breath, he was swooping her high into the air, all thought of propriety lost in the moment. She stared into his dark brown eyes, unable to comprehend that he was finally standing before her.

“Charles!” She could think of nothing more to say.

He touched her left cheek and then looked into the distance. She followed his gaze. “How much farther to the townsite?” he asked.

“This
is
the town.”

“You always did know how to make me laugh.” He tilted his head back, and Jarena waited until the sound of his laughter drifted off with the wind.

“I’m speaking the truth, Charles. What you see lying before you is Nicodemus—wretched as it is.”

He stared at her, his expression mirroring the same disbelief that had enveloped their small group only two months earlier. She knew what he was thinking—the denial and disbelief. The refusal to admit this place could be their Promised Land—yet the frightening realization that it was. Like a tiny root inching downward to strengthen itself in the earth, the truth had begun to take hold—the pain and horror shone in his eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered, nodding her head in final confirmation. “This
is
Nicodemus.”

Charles grasped her hand with a ferocity that caused her fingers to tingle and then grow numb. “I don’t think my folks will soon forgive me for this,” he finally said.

“But it was
their
choice to come. You didn’t force them.”

“I knew they wouldn’t remain in Kentucky if I came west—not after losing Arthur. None of us would have come had we known it was like this. Why didn’t you write?”

His accusation stung. “This isn’t Georgetown, Charles. We have no post office—we don’t even have a general store. What you see before you is the town. Nothing but eight small campsites with lean-tos our only means of protection against the elements. But I did write one letter. I sent it with some folks heading back east. They promised to mail it for me, but I doubted they would. I had no money for postage, and I suspect they were embarrassed to tell me they hadn’t the funds to spare.”

Jarena nodded toward the approaching line of wagons. “How many folks are in those wagons?”

“About three hundred of us left Kentucky, but we had an outbreak of measles down near Ellis and some of the families were forced to stay there. I reckon we have about eighty families in this wagon train. The others were planning to follow as soon as possible, though I’m guessing most will turn and head for home once they hear the truth about this place.”

“Eighty more families,” Jarena marveled.

The settlers cheered as the wagons pulled into the townsite, and Jarena thrilled at the unfolding scene. There was pure pleasure in seeing the familiar faces. And, she decided, increasing their numbers would be good for Nicodemus and certainly lift the spirits of the current residents. Jarena surveyed the wagons, praying they were stocked with supplies—that unlike their group, these settlers had come well prepared.

“This is all dere is to the town?” Mr. Francis inquired as he drew nearer Jarena and Charles.

“I’m afraid so, but there’s more than when we set foot on the town-site in late July. See the sod dugouts the men have been constructing? It was too late to plant when we arrived.”

Mr. Francis stared at her with the same disbelieving look that she’d seen on Charles’s face only moments earlier. With obvious concern, Mr. Francis and the other new arrivals listened while their friends and former neighbors recounted stories about their struggle to survive during the past two months.

Herman Kemble pushed his hat back on his head. “I cain’t say as our introduction to the West has been easy, but we’s mighty glad to have the rest of you arrive. Dere’s safety and comfort in numbers.”

Reverend Mason, who had just arrived, stepped forward. “But what ’bout Mr. Hill? Hasn’t he returned at all?”

Ivan Lovejoy frowned. “We planned to ask you folks if you’d seen ’im. Last news we had ’bout him was that he had headed back to Kentucky to sell more land. You heard or seen anything of Mr. Hill, Wilbur?”

Wilbur Rawlins swept his eyes despondently around the barren townsite. “He was back in Georgetown and told us things was grand. He told me all of you was livin’ off the fat of the land.”

As each question was answered, the anger and dissatisfaction of the new arrivals seemed to increase. In fact, most of the group continued talking until well into the night. Jarena sat beside Charles, with their only protection the lean-to that her father and Thomas had constructed when they first arrived. The canvas canopy was now no more than waving strips of fabric that had been shredded by the incessant prairie winds.

Charles glanced at the sky. “You have quite a view of the stars from your bed each night.”

She nodded. “The lean-to provides little shelter, but with the arrival of more men, surely enough dugouts can be prepared before winter.”

“More people also means that more shelter is needed. Besides, I think many of these families will depart come morning.”

Jarena startled to attention. “Why? Do they care so little for our well-being that they will run off and leave?”

“They have to do what’s best for their own families, and if they believe they should return to Kentucky, who are we to argue? To be honest, I think they would all leave if they had sufficient funds to make the return journey,” he confided.

“So those who will remain have no money? Did they purchase supplies in Ellis?”

“Not much. Most of us spent our savings to purchase the land and pay for the train fare. We thought there would be supplies available in Nicodemus.”

“Didn’t anyone in Ellis tell you about our troubles?”

“They said we should purchase our supplies from them and that there were no stores in Nicodemus where we could buy anything. We figured they were trying to frighten us off so we’d go back to Kentucky. Then the owner of the general store said a fellow named Thomas Grayson could vouch that he was telling the truth. But none of us had ever heard of anyone by that name.”