Gone West (12 page)

Maggie would not be budged as the little boy shivered in her embrace. An ominous silence descended in the grove as the children remaining beneath the waterfall ceased their game and stared with fright.

“
What
has caused your just fury, Reverend Winslow? The children are only bathing, refreshing themselves from the heat of the trail.”

His stick remained raised. “My sons have their travelling orders. They have disobeyed their father, thus broken one of the Ten Commandments.”

“Aren’t you interpreting `Honor Thy Father’ too harshly?”

“You’ll not be telling me how to interpret scripture! But if the Commandments are not enough to satisfy you, we may move on to
Isaiah
: `When you see the naked, cloth them.”’

Maggie still held on to the youngest. “But the Bible also says, `Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart’. There is nothing wicked in nakedness, certainly not among innocent children. Were it not better `to clothe yourself with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience’?”

“You misconstrue and misquote the Lord’s word. Such defilement makes you no better than the Mormons who attempt to force new scriptural
revelations
on the world. Get thee from me, Satan!”

Winslow, brimstone in his eyes, hauled the youngest from Maggie’s grasp and lowered his switch. The smallest boy hadn’t yet learned the stoicism of his elder brothers. He let out howls of anguish on each strike. The stick came down five times, then an added sixth. “To chase out the devil,” Winslow explained briefly to Maggie before stalking off.

Maggie stared after the departing figure before turning to the little boy. She gathered him into her arms once more and let him finish crying in comfort against her bosom. She wiped the blazing welts on his bottom with icy water and helped him into his britches. When she sent Jeremiah Winslow off she found Jamie by her side, already pulling on his own pants.

“Don’t you want to finish playing, son?”

Jamie gave her a wet hug. “It’s kind of spoiled now, Ma. You understand?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

Jamie gazed through the trees at the wagons beyond, then gave her another hug.

Maggie smiled. “And what was that one for?”

“He could of ‘dopted me, instead of you and Pa.”

Maggie saw the seriousness in her son’s eyes. “But he didn’t. Now get into the rest of your clothes and find some more wood for the campfire. It’s almost time to eat.”

Word of the confrontation between Maggie and Winslow had spread quickly through the camp. Maggie saw a few awed looks directed toward her as she walked back. Johnny just gave her a very firm kiss and continued to empty the stale water from their barrels preparatory to refilling them with cool, fresh water from the spring.

Less than half a mile from the spring they came to the Independence Crossing of the Big Blue. It was still high from the rains. It would be an unpredictable fording. The emigrants studied the stream’s rapid current and gravelly bottom for some minutes. Finally, Sam walked up to the Stuarts.

“Gonna have to raise the wagon beds some to get over dry.”

Johnny gave Sam his full attention. “What do you think’s the best way?”

“Have to place some blocks between the beds and the bolsters, then lower the wagons down with ropes like at the Kansas Crossing.”

Johnny turned from the water. “Let’s get started, then, Sam.”

Maggie estimated they averaged about five wagons an hour in the crossing. They got over dry, but that was all they managed to do for the rest of that day. It was far into the night before the final wagon had made it.

They’d pulled lots for the crossing order, Chandler reasoning it was the most democratic way to get the job done. Everyone had to remember their numbers, too, and each family would move up to the front of the line one wagon come the next crossing, leaving the first wagon of the group to move to the rear. The Stuarts had pulled number fifteen, almost dead center, so it would be a while before they made it to the head of the line.

Chandler also decided that they’d travel in their lot orders between crossings for the present. It wouldn’t make that much difference now, while the prairie was still moist, but it could make a big difference come dryness and dust on the trail. Then they’d move up one wagon each day. This rotation would keep the slower of them from coughing up all the dust made by the leading white tops.

Fine weather brought the emigrants outdoors at night, too, rolled up in blankets or beneath tents which began to spring up within the circled corral of wagons.

The night of the Big Blue crossing Johnny and Maggie bunked the children down in the book wagon and took to the open air themselves, beneath a little tent that Johnny had raised for privacy. Mosquitoes hadn’t yet appeared, and they lay next to each other, relishing the quiet and the rare chance to be together, alone.

Johnny finally got around to the nooning incident. “What did you do to Winslow today? He’s been giving all of us the blackest looks. Especially since his youngest wandered over here during supper to moon over you.”

“Little Jeremiah? Poor thing. He had to do some wandering. I doubt he’ll be able to sit for a week with the thrashing his father gave him.”

“You’re evading the point, my love.”

Maggie snuggled closer to her husband. “I just gave him a taste of his own medicine. I quoted the Bible back at him after he half killed three of his sons. I was trying to save the little one, but only made it worse. Winslow called me `Satan’, and `worse than the Mormons’, thrashed the boy harder, and stomped off.”

Johnny gently ran his hands over her face, mulling over her words.

“What is this hatred Winslow has of the Mormons, Johnny? He’s like Bacon chewing at a bone . . . And those instructions he’s given his family not to talk to any of the rest of the party? It’s unnatural, as if he’s trying to hide some awful secret.”

“What were you telling me about that little talk you had with his wife the other day?”

“She was skittish . . . frightened . . . She mentioned something about Illinois~”

“There was another word you mentioned, Meg. I think it’s the key.
Mormons
.
Mormons
and
Illinois
.” Johnny flopped over on his back to concentrate.

Suddenly, he shot upright in the low tent, almost knocking it down. His words came out intensely, in his Eureka! voice. “That’s it, Meg! I’ll bet you anything the family’s originally from Illinois, and probably one of the towns near Nauvoo, too. Carthage or Quincy. Nice little towns they were. Remember going through them after Charley was born?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “No, you wouldn’t. You were far too exhausted from the birthing. Wasn’t it in Carthage that the Mormon’s leader, Joseph Smith, was shot?”

Johnny slowly settled back down again to face her. “If that’s the case, and he’s still got Mormons on his mind . . . I wonder what Winslow was really up to back there?”

“Why don’t you ask the man, Johnny?”

“After your experience today?” He laughed, but quickly turned sober. “Winslow’s a hard enemy to have. Already he’s drumming up opposition to Chandler’s leadership.”

“Why? Chandler seems to be doing the best possible under the circumstances. He hasn’t led us wrong yet.”

“Life is a search after power, Meg. Some men can’t seem to live without it. Winslow’s one of them. It’s not enough for him to feel absolutely correct. He needs to know that others follow in his compunctions. He wants to lead the train by his own rules. He’s been agitating to lay over each Sunday for prayer.”

“It would be nice to have a regular day of rest, and some time to give the Lord his due.”

“It would also be nice to make it to the mountains before the snows fall and our provisions give out. I’ve nothing against giving the Lord his due, but He keeps the days and weeks and seasons turning. We can’t stop that. If we don’t make our crossing in the time allotted we stand a chance of dying in the mountains. I can’t see how that would be a help to anyone.”

Johnny eased Maggie into his arms and slid his fingers down her back. “Enough of the villain. If Winslow comes near you again, yell for me. I’ll always drop everything for you, Meg. You know that. You are dearer to me than all that I possess.”

“Even your precious printing press?” she teased, her own hands working down her husband’s face, to his chest.

“You’re the inspiration for the words which shall come forth from that press.”

“Maggie!”

She bolted from her blankets at Johnny’s rough shake.

“What is it? Morning already?”

“Indians again. They ran off with half a dozen horses last night~one of them Max’s prize stallion, and two of Chandler’s blooded Morgan mares.”

A hand reached for her skirt. “But we had sentries posted!”

Johnny was grim. “One. Hal Richman pulled the lot. And came back for his jug after the camp was quiet. They found him dead drunk in the grass just outside the wagons, and the horses carefully picked out. Got to hand it to them, Indians know their horseflesh, even in the dark!”

Maggie was already fastening her buttons. “Do you think it was the Caws we met?”

“Nobody’s sure. But we’re getting closer to the Platte. Pawnee country. And Pawnees wander farther afield than most tribes.”

“They’re not even half civilized, are they?” worried Maggie.

“Not the last I heard.”

“At least they spared Dickens and Miss Sally.”

Johnny gave a harsh laugh. “Those two are not precisely prime horseflesh. They’re dray animals. Indians look for good breeders, fast ones. But if they’re allowed to pick off the others, even Miss Sally may become tempting.”

“What will we do?”

“For starters, post two sentries from now on, and maybe split shifts halfway through the night with another two. Chandler can’t miss the wisdom of that. And maybe if we’re very lucky the thieves will bring the horses back for trade.” He slowly inched out of the small tent.

“Where are you going, Johnny?” Maggie was getting that prickly Indian feeling again. She was loath to have her husband out of her sight.

“To have a powwow with Chandler. Something’s got to be done about that Richman anyway. The man’s incompetent enough without the drink!”

“Try to be charitable, Johnny. He’s still mourning his wife.”

“A real man doesn’t mourn with a jug of rum! My own father swallowed enough of it in his day, but he never let it incapacitate him!”

They were several hours on the trail when a low buzz moved through the train. Maggie made out riders coming at them from the South. It was a band of Indians, what tribe she couldn’t even guess. And trailing behind them was a string of horses! Was it possible? Could they be returning the stolen stock?

The lead wagon came to a halt and obediently the others followed. There was going to be a negotiation session. Johnny halted his wagon in front of Maggie and dashed to its back to pull out his rifle. He’d stopped keeping it in the book wagon after the first Indian incident.

Maggie, her back already aching from Charlotte’s weight, pulled the baby out of her harness and caught her husband before he disappeared.

She nodded toward the Indians closing in on them. “What do you think?”

“I’m thinking thieving Pawnee. They’ve got feathers in their hair, different from the Caw. The one at the front~he’s got a full headdress of them~looks a lot like that lithograph of Petalesharo who went to visit “The Great White Father” in Washington back in the ‘twenties. Stick close to both wagons, Meg. They’ll be swarming over us in a minute, and there’s no telling what else they’ll try to steal.”

Jamie ran up, already begging. “May I go with you Pa, please?”

For once, Johnny was stern. “Absolutely not. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. You help your mother. Shoo away anyone who comes near.” Johnny cracked his rifle to load it. “Close work like this, I almost wish I had a brace of pistols.”

“You wouldn’t actually shoot at them, would you Johnny?”

He sighed. “I know they’re human beings, Meg, more than most here. I know they figure we’re trespassing on their property, using up their grass and water. They’re more than half right. I’d surely hate to injure any man, Indian or not. But it’s my job to protect my family~and if it comes to that, by God I’ll do it!”

Jamie was gaping at his father in adulation. Maggie only shuddered as she watched her husband stride purposefully away. Unthinking, she voiced her thoughts aloud.

“Why must we be in conflict with the Indians? Can’t we just pass through and leave each other undisturbed?”

“Awful hard to keep the Injuns undisturbed, Ma. Seems like we’ve been disturbing them farther West since white folks first got to America.”

She shot a sharp glance at her son. She sometimes forgot the wisdom a seven-year-old could have. “Where have you found such thoughts, Jamie?”

He shrugged. “Just paging through my
McGuffey’s
and some of Pa’s other books. Did you know that Squanto, the one who helped the Pilgrims, was kidnapped off to England two or three times? And Pocahantas~”

“Those are long dead Indians, son. Don’t these real, live ones frighten you?”

“Nope. They’re kind of interesting, though. Before we left Independence thought I’d never see an untamed kind. Straight Arrow and Running Bear and their ma, well, they were pretty close to civilized by the time we left. These wild ones dress pretty, don’t they? Kind of like birds or animals.” He waved off to the grouping in the distance. “Take that one getting off his horse, ma. His leather pants are all painted with decorations. Wouldn’t it be nice to own a pair of britches like that!”

Maggie followed her son’s gaze. Jamie was right about the Pawnee’s dress and bearing. These Indians had a natural grace and beauty. They also had an insolence rarely seen in the Indians parading the streets of Independence. These braves had not been dispossessed. Maggie shook her head. She also suspected that all those horizontal stripes on the leggings stood for something dreadful, like the number of scalps taken in battle.