The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (8 page)

Luke wore the shirt I made for his birthday. Mrs. Garfield, who is a true Southern woman in her flirtatiousness (though I don’t mind, because jealousy is not in my nature), told him it was as handsome a shirt as she ever saw, and Luke puffed out his chest like a rooster, not stopping to think he was preening for the wife of a Rebel. I learned this about my husband that day: He is vain. But I suppose any man as handsome as Luke has the right to be.

Whilst the men talked after service, the women set the dinner upon the table, each putting out the tin plates she had brought with her, for no one here is expected to have enough dishes to serve guests. Utensils, too, being rare, were provided by the guests. Miss Figg says she has only two forks, and she prizes them so highly that she has given them names—Samuel and Little Pete.

Mrs. Himmel ran her hand over my good Delft plate, as if it were made of solid gold, and Mrs. Osterwald whispered she could not even touch the pillow or cigar silks that Carrie made me, for fear of snagging its delicate threads with her rough hands. I was much pleased with their kind remarks over my possessions, and I had to chide myself for pridefulness on the Sabbath. I have been repaid for it with the discovery that one of my silver spoons is missing. I cannot believe any of the Sabbath worshipers would have taken it, so I conclude it fell upon the ground and will be recovered one day.

We all joined in and ate until there was nothing left. The chocolate cake that was my contribution disappeared first and was pronounced tasty by all who partook. The Earley brothers said they had not tasted chocolate since moving to Colorado Territory. All agreed it was a splendid event and that we would set aside one Sunday of each month to worship together.

September 22, 1865. Prairie Home.

Luke and I were in the field when of a sudden we saw a rider making haste toward us. Luke recognized him as Mr. Osterwald, who, as soon as he was in shouting distance, yelled, “Indians! Indians are coming!” Luke and I ran for the portal, where our weapons are kept, intending to make our stand there. But when he had calmed himself, Mr. Osterwald told us Indians were not following behind him but had been seen, painted for war, east of here. He said we were to get out of the country at once and go to Mingo, where all the folks were gathering.

A farmer on his way to Mingo had spied the Red Men whilst taking his rest. He hid in a ditch until the brutes were gone, then made his way to a homestead. Whose farm it was, he did not know, only that the Indians had been there ahead of him and burnt the place, leaving only a dead man, whose face had been hacked away.

While Luke and Mr. Osterwald hitched the Osterwald horse and the buttermilk to the wagon, then saddled Traveler, I snatched up quilts and food, and in a moment we were ready. Luke helped me into the wagon, then turned and told Mr. Osterwald to get in beside me, for he would warn the neighbors farther south. Mr. Osterwald protested, but Luke said firmly, “You left your own people to come to us. Now it is my turn. Mrs. Spenser is good with a shotgun, and she’s not one to lose her head.” My heart swelled up with pride at this bravest and noblest of husbands, and I thought it was little wonder that with gallant soldiers like Luke Spenser, we licked the Old South.

I swore to match Luke’s steadfastness, and though I desired him to carry me to Mingo himself, I would not complain. Instead, I entreated Mr. Osterwald to climb onto the seat next to me, wished Husband Godspeed, and raised my hand in a cheery good-bye. To my surprise, Luke swung Traveler next to the wagon seat and kissed me full on the mouth—with Mr. Osterwald looking on! Then my brave boy took off like thunder across the prairie.

All was chaos in Mingo. The stage station is built of bricks made from earth and straw mixed together, then baked in the sun, making them as hard as stone. It is called adobe, and is thick enough to stop arrows and even bullets, and it was a far better place to make a stand than our portal. There was a terrible din within—women shouting, children crying, and knitting needles clacking, for nothing is so important that it keeps women’s hands from work. The rooms were very crowded, and I thought we might be in greater danger of suffocation than from the arrows of savages.

Most of our fellow worshipers were there. Mr. Osterwald joined Mr. Amidon, the Earley boys, and others (including Miss Figg), who were posted about the station as lookouts. I spied Mrs. Osterwald with her son, Brownie, who, I have learned, is simple. Mrs. Smith stood guard over the cookstove with the “stumpet,” Mrs. Connor. I guess Missus is not so particular about the company she keeps when there is food to be had, even if it was squirrel stew, which was never a favorite of mine.

Despite the excitement, I paid close attention to Mrs. Conner, so’s I could describe her to Carrie. I confess, she seemed no different from any other woman working a hot cookstove. She is plump and pretty, with bright red cheeks, due to the heat, I think, and not to rouge. Slatterns do not wear satin and lace here, not whilst they cook squirrel stew anyway, and I could not detect even a flash of the red stockings that were her trademark. She wore a dirty apron, pinned to a slimsy dress, whose sleeves were rolled up above the elbows. Her hair was untidy, falling about her face. I was much disappointed.

I found Emmie Lou, who looked pale and frightened. “Don’t worry,” said I. “There are enough men out there to whip a thousand of the savages.”

“It’s not the Indians that scare me. I think I’m going to be sick.” To my look of confusion, she explained, “My time has come. All this excitement has brought it on.”

“Lordy, here?” asked I, stupidly. “Now?”

“The baby says when. I don’t.”

“Then you have a right smart baby, for there are a dozen women here to help,” I told her, and we both laughed. Then her face twisted in pain, and not knowing what else to do, I went to Mrs. Smith for help.

“Hell’s bells, why did she pick a time like this?” asked Missus, who was indeed a cross old soul that day. She held a plate of food close to her face and ate from it, using her spoon like a pitchfork. I wanted to repeat what Emmie Lou had said about the baby picking its own time, but I did not think Missus would understand our little repartee.

“You take over the cooking, Elode. You never was much help with birthing,” said Mrs. Connor in a way that made me think they were better acquainted than Missus wanted it known. Then Mrs. Connor said to me, “It’s all right. I’ve done this before. Lots of times. We’ll put her to bed in the back room. You know anything about birthing?”

“I’ve helped with the sheep, Mrs. Connor,” I said.

Missus gave a laugh of scorn, but Mrs. Connor replied, “Not much different. Sheep have a harder time of it. And you don’t need to put on the airs with me. It ain’t Mrs. Connor. It’s just plain old Jessie.”

Jessie was right. It wasn’t much different from sheep, except that when it’s over, the ewe and kid are turned out to pasture to rest. A woman must make up for lost time.

The baby is small and squally but appears to be in good health. She is a another girl. They are all girls. Emmie Lou said she had her heart set on a boy this time and had not picked out a name for a girl. I suggested Carrie.

Since this was the first time a baby had been born in his station, Mr. Connor thought the men should celebrate. He took out a jug and handed it around until Jessie grabbed it and held it high, saying, “Those ‘at done the work gets first call.” She took a swallow, then offered the jug to me, but I declined. At home, I would have let my disapproval of such an offer be known, but the manners of the country are different, and graciousness was called for.

Jessie poured some liquor into a tin cup, which she took to Emmie Lou, who was not so particular as I. Perhaps I, too, will become intemperate ere my days in Colorado Territory are over. When she returned the jug to Mr. Connor, she warned the men to go easy because “we don’t need no drunken Indian fighters.”

“Then best you not let Mrs. Spenser there take her a swallow. You bet,” said a voice from the doorway. All turned to me as I burned from embarrassment and confusion that any chucklehead would speak ill of me. I looked to see who had made himself so bold, and caught the rheumy eye of Ben Bondurant! He is the only man I could forgive for such impertinence, and when I saw his dear misshapen face, all fear for our safety fled, as I knew we were in good hands.

“I crossed with Mrs. Spenser, and she’s game,” he explained to the others, without giving the particulars. When we had a few minutes to ourselves, he told me he’d found the gold fields a humbug and was cured of “quartz on the brain.” He had repaired to Mingo to look about, with the hope of finding a suitable homestead.

I had put the savages out of my mind while attending the birth of the babe, but when I went outside to speak with Mr. Bondurant, worry returned. I had not expected Luke to be away so long. Mr. Bondurant and others sought to calm me as the time passed, with no sign of Husband. I put up a brave front and did not let my emotions show, because I knew Luke would not like to hear that I had dissolved into womanly tears, but, O, never have I been so frightened, even when under Indian attack on the Overland Trail. I thought if something had happened to Luke, I should not want to live, either.

At last, when night had nearly fallen, a wagon appeared in the distance, someone declaring it belonged to the German couple, the Himmels. Until then, none had remembered them, for they are newer than even I am to this country and keep to themselves. As the wagon came closer, my heart leapt into my throat because I recognized Traveler tied behind. Looking closer, I saw that Luke held the reins.

There was great commotion when he drew up, the men holding the horses and helping Mrs. Himmel from the wagon. The woman tore at her face and moaned in her guttural language, which none could understand, and fearing something untoward had befallen her husband, I directed my attention to the wagon bed, as did others.

One of the men removed a quilt, revealing the corpse of Mr. Himmel, with the top of his head torn away. That brought fresh cries of anguish from the widow, and two women rushed to her aid, drawing her inside the station. Even after the door closed, we heard the sorrowful wails in her foreign gibberish, as she had forgotten how to speak the few words of English she knows.

Those near the wagon turned as one to Luke for explanation, and even in my concern, I could not help but note with pride that the women seemed to regard him as a hero. Luke said the Indians had made a loop to the east as though to throw us off, then turned back and came upon the Himmel farm. Mr. Himmel was without, but he made it safely into the house, where he shoved his wife into a hole in the soddy floor, covering it with a rug. Then that brave husband protected his loved one by facing the savages alone until, at last, he was overcome and most horribly mutilated.

His poor wife could only listen, not knowing the outcome, until all was quiet, and she emerged from her hiding place, to discover her husband mortally wounded and scalped. Luke arrived before the man died, and he told me in private that he hoped never again to hear such pitiful cries, which were even worse than those of the wounded Rebel on the trail. As the Indians had not found the Himmel horses, which were grazing some distance away, Luke hitched them to a wagon and lifted the wounded man into it, but he died before they had gone more than a few rods.

My husband was badly shaken by his experience, because when we were at last alone, he asked me, “What have I brought you to?”

I put my arms around him, which Luke did not resist, and replied, “You did not promise me an easy life when you asked me to be your wife, Luke Spenser. I can bear anything if I am at your side.”

A corpse in our midst made everyone uneasy. The men opened another jug, whilst the women and children returned to the main room of the station, staying as far as they could from the remains of Mr. Himmel. I joined Jessie, who was preparing the body, and helped her as best I could, and together, we made a shroud of an old blanket. Jessie said it was not right to keep the body in that room, where it would cause the children nightmares and turn putrid in the heat of the cookstove. Nor could we leave it outside to attract wolves. She proposed moving the remains into the bedroom with Emmie Lou. “It won’t bother her. I gave her enough whiskey so’s she’ll sleep like sixty,” said Jessie.

I sat up all night with the corpse, but I was so tired that I dozed off in my chair and did not waken until I heard Emmie Lou stir. Then I took her babe to her to nurse, and myself fed Emmie Lou a cup of the nourishing squirrel broth that Jessie had put aside. Until morning when the men came to remove the body, Emmie Lou did not know who shared her sickroom.

“There was no place else to put him,” I explained. “You were never alone with him.”

“No matter,” Emmie Lou said. “Birth and death in the same room. Now who’s the lucky one?” She laughed at that, but not entirely in mirth, I believe. She is very tired and not in her right mind. I do not envy her. She will be going home to a dugout, a hole scooped out of a hillside that is more suitable for badgers than a mother with three little ones under the age of two. It is entirely too much and will get worse, as I presume Mr. Amidon will want her to try again so’s he can have a son. I count myself fortunate that Luke will not misuse me in that manner.

In the morning, the soldiers arrived, and a “buffalo soldier,” as the Negro enlisted man is called, told us the renegades had run off to Kansas and would bother us no more. Being tired of the hurly-burly in the station, we hastily buried Mr. Himmel in the little Mingo graveyard. He is the first Christian to be laid to rest there, says Missus, the other occupants being gamblers, blackguards, and highwaymen.

We did not talk of it on the way, but I know Luke, as well as Self, wondered what sight would greet us when we reached our home. I admit my foolish but heartfelt fear was that the Red Men had smashed my Delft plate and taken my journal, though as they can barely speak our language, surely they cannot read it. We found no sign of the savages, however, for which I thank God.