Maggie’s hands shook as she aimed at a warrior who had ridden up next to her wagon, but instead of hitting him, she shot the horse of a second Indian.
“Good shot,” Mary told her.
Maggie wished she had Mary’s calmness, as Mary leveled her gun at a warrior and pulled the trigger, clipping his arm. He screamed and, holding his wounded arm against his side, made for Mary. He managed to shoot an arrow, but his aim was off, and the arrow struck the wagon cover. The man let go of his bow and came toward Mary, a hatchet in his hand. Maggie, her hands shaking, shot at him and missed. Penn dropped him.
The war party was small, made up of little more than twenty men. Still, they were not only ferocious but fearless. Maggie was stunned by their bravery. One Indian headed his horse toward the opening between two wagons and made it into the enclosure, using a war club to strike one of the women. He would have killed her if Edwin had not shot him.
Two of the Indians were dead then, but that did not stop the others. One came toward the wagons at a full gallop. Screaming, he raised a war club and knocked a teamster senseless. William shot at the Indian, wounding him, and the warrior fell from his horse.
At first, the Indians fought by themselves, each man attacking where he saw a weakness. But now, the warriors gathered a short distance from the wagons, then came toward the train as a group, yelling their war cries as if making a final assault.
“Get that God-damned bastard who is wearing my bandana,” William called.
Ignoring the profanity that would have shocked him at another time, Joseph aimed for the big Indian. So did the others.
“Now!” William shouted, and there was a volley of shots. The Indian in the bandana dropped his bow and slumped over on his horse. He tried to straighten up, and Maggie watched him, mesmerized. The fear of Clara being murdered or kidnapped made her raise her gun and sight it on the man. She would not regret this killing. Joseph, too, raised his rifle and fired, just as another shot rang out. The warrior slid off his horse and was trampled. A second Indian came to the man’s aid. He reached down and attempted to scoop up the body, but he, too, was hit and rode off, his shattered leg bleeding red against his white horse. The remaining Indians hurried after him.
There were no shouts of victory from the women, no cries of relief as the Indians disappeared. Several of those with guns stayed under the wagons, fearing the warriors would return, while the women in the center of the enclosure attended to the wounded. One built a fire and set a kettle of water on it to boil. Bessie took off her petticoat and tore it into strips to be used as bandages. William crawled out from under his wagon to assess the damage. A teamster was dead and two more injured, although their wounds would heal. One woman was mortally wounded, and a second was badly bruised where she had been hit with a war club, while Dora’s broken arm hung loose. A warrior had struck her with a hatchet.
Two of the three cows had been killed. An ox lay dead. Another had been struck by an arrow and was kneeling and bellowing in pain from a broken leg. It would have to be shot. The train had already lost two oxen, and two others had been poisoned by toxic weeds after leaving Fort Kearny. William had filled a bottle with melted lard and poured it down their throats, then forced them to swallow fatty bacon, but he was not sure they would recover. If they did not, the train would have to abandon a wagon.
Edwin turned over the warrior who had been shot dead when he breached the enclosure. “He looks like a white man,” Maggie said.
“He is. I believe there are white men who have joined this band of renegades. Such whites are more savage than the red men. They are responsible for many depredations blamed on Indian tribes. It is rare for a small group of Indian warriors to attack a well-fortified train such as ours. Perhaps these outlaws did so because we have a preponderance of women. They did not expect them to be fighters.”
“We will not worry about that now,” William told Joseph as the two went to the severely wounded woman, who had an arrow in her breast. She lay on a quilt, Caroline and Bessie attending her. Maggie had rushed to Clara as soon as the fighting was done, but Evaline had kept the child from being frightened, and now the two were drawing pictures in the dirt with a broken arrow. Evaline offered to look after Clara.
“She will not make it,” Edwin said, when Maggie joined those gathered around the wounded woman.
“Should we remove the arrow?” Joseph asked.
Edwin shook his head. “Sometimes the points are barbed. We do not know about this one because the arrow did not go all the way through her. If it had, we could cut off the arrowhead, then pull out the shaft. If the point is barbed, however, it would cause her more pain to remove it. She does not have long.”
William said a prayer over the woman, then went to Dora. Joseph stayed behind.
“Am I dying?” the woman asked. Her name was Adela, and she was a widow. She had made a meager living in Chicago teaching singing and had a beautiful voice that stirred Maggie on the Sabbath when they sang hymns. She was older, older even than Mary, but she had been among the first to sign up for the trip, telling the ministers she thought God didn’t intend for her to be alone the rest of her life. “You can tell me,” she said.
Joseph took the woman’s hand, as if not knowing how to reply. Maggie hoped he would not lie. It seemed dishonest to give her false hope. As she sponged the woman’s brow with a strip of cloth, Maggie grieved for her. Adela had come west with such hopes for a new life. Would she have stayed behind if she had known what would happen to her?
“I believe our Lord will welcome you before the day is out,” Joseph said. “You will be with Christ in heaven.”
The woman gave a small gasp. Her breath was labored. “I had hoped to meet Him one day, but not so soon.” She gave a little smile. “I shall tell Him of our adventure and ask Him to keep you safe. I believe He will be proud of us.”
“I hope so,” Joseph told her. “I am sorry it will end for you here.”
“Do not be sorry. I am glad I came. How glorious to have had a little adventure at the end. I always feared freezing to death alone in my room in Chicago. Now I can see heaven above me.” The words came slowly. “I shall be watching over you.” She raised her hand and tried to take Joseph’s. A moment later, she was dead.
Joseph grasped Caroline’s hand then, and together they said a prayer. When he was finished, he asked, “What have I brought her to? She believed she would come west for a better life, and now it has been taken from her.”
“She did not blame you. You gave her hope,” Caroline said.
Joseph shook his head. “How many more will we lose before we reach California? How many will I kill?”
“Her death is not your fault.”
“Perhaps not, but I feel responsible all the same.” He turned away and wiped his eyes. “I killed a man, Caroline. I took the life of another human. The Bible says thou shalt not kill, and I did so.”
“As you once told Mary, the killing was done only to protect the women. The Lord will forgive you.”
“I am not so sure. It is different. My responsibility is greater. I am a minister of the gospel, charged with defending it. I know I cannot forgive myself. I broke the commandment.” He covered his face with his hands to hide the tears.
“You did not kill that Indian. I did.”
The minister looked up into the face of Mary, who towered over him. He shook his head. “I delivered the final blow.”
“No, I did. I fired just a little before you. Your shot went wild. It was mine that took the Indian’s life.”
Joseph thought a moment. “How can you be so sure which bullet hit him?” he asked.
“I heard your shot a second after I fired. Perhaps yours was true, but if that is so, your bullet struck a dead man. Besides, Reverend, I am the better shootist.”
“Then I did not kill him?”
Mary shook her head.
“You saved us, then,” Caroline said. “We owe our lives to you, Mary.”
The praise
seemed to make Mary uncomfortable, and she said she would go to see about the other wounded.
“You have nursed?” Caroline asked.
“No, I treated the animals on the farm. Wounds and broken bones in a human cannot be so much different.” She motioned for Maggie to join her.
When the two of them were out of earshot, Maggie asked, “Is it so, Mary? Did you truly kill the man?”
Mary smiled a little. “I am already responsible for one death. What matter that I should claim credit for a second? The Bible does not say you may kill once but not twice. Besides, the killing will not bring me the despair it would to Reverend Swain. We both know the guilt that comes from taking a life. I would save the minister from that.”
“I am the one responsible for Adela’s death,” Maggie said, looking down and twisting her hands. “If I had not slapped that Indian, he would not have come after us.” Two deaths now hung over her.
“Do not believe that!” Mary said fiercely. “You did what was necessary to protect Clara. She is worth breaking every commandment in the Bible.”
* * *
OTHERS HAD ALREADY seen to the wounds, which were serious but not life threatening. The two injured teamsters would have to ride in the wagons until they were healed. The woman who had been hit by the war club was weak and in pain, but William said no bones were broken, and she would recover.
Dora was the most severely injured. Her forearm was broken, and bones protruded through the flesh. She was conscious, her face racked with pain. William knelt beside her, examining the wound while women brought camphor, brandy, and ammonia from their wagons, not sure what would be needed.
“Perhaps the arm should come off,” Edwin suggested. “I have never seen a break so bad, and she would not want gangrene to set in.”
“No!” Dora screamed through her pain.
“I have set bones before,” Mary said. “It will hurt, and maybe her arm will be crooked, but I believe we can save it.” She held up the brandy bottle that someone had placed on the ground. “This will help, but laudanum would be better. Who has got laudanum?”
“I threw it out before Fort Kearny,” one woman told her.
When none of the others answered, Mary said, “Then we shall proceed without it. The brandy will have to do.” She held the bottle to Dora’s lips and forced her to drink, waiting a few minutes for the liquor to take effect. She ordered Maggie and Sadie to hold Dora still while she and Reverend Parnell pushed the bones together.
The bone-setting was a painful procedure. Dora screamed. Perspiration ran down the faces of the two “surgeons,” and they gritted their teeth as they set the arm. When Mary was satisfied the bones were in place, she laid a spoke from the back of Bessie’s rocking chair against the broken forearm to keep it straight, then bound it with strips of cloth. “I think she will be all right,” she said, as she sat back in the dirt. Dora had passed out, and Mary studied her for a moment. Dora’s breathing was ragged, but she no longer moaned. Mary touched Dora’s belly gently, then nodded. “I think she will be all right,” she repeated, then said, “and she will not lose the baby.”
It was then that Maggie realized that her own arm had been gashed during the fighting. The wound was long and jagged and soaked with blood, and it would have to be attended to. She might have asked Mary to care for it, but her friend was exhausted. And Reverend Parnell had disappeared. Maggie went to her wagon and took out needle and thread. Bracing herself against the wagon wheel, she stitched up the wound herself.
A teamster who was resting nearby watched the procedure and fainted.
Twelve
June 29, 1852
Fort Laramie
When they reached Fort Laramie, Joseph insisted that Dora see the post surgeon to make sure her arm was healing properly. He suggested that Maggie go along, too. Maggie knew her arm was fine, and she wanted to stay with the wagons, in case information about her had reached the fort. Still, she went, knowing that Dora needed her for support, since the ministers were aware now of her pregnancy. So Maggie walked the mile from where they had camped outside the fort to the surgeon’s office, Joseph, William, Caroline, and Dora at her side. The man’s services were in great demand because many emigrants had been injured or taken sick on the trail from Fort Kearny.
Dora’s fever had subsided, but she was still weak and in pain and held on to Maggie as they slowly moved forward in the line. The sun beat down on them, and Caroline said she wished she had brought an umbrella to shade them. If she had, however, she probably would have discarded it on the trail. Sunbonnets would have to do. Dora was unsteady, and Maggie asked if she wanted to wait in the shade of a tree near the parade ground. The others would keep their place in line and come for her when they were near the door of the surgery.
Dora shook her head. It wouldn’t be fair, she said, the others standing in the sun for her while she rested. Besides, being on her feet and moving around would strengthen her. She had spent too much time lying in the wagon. Maggie knew Dora would not admit her weakness for fear it would give the ministers another reason to leave her behind.
Dora had confided she was still frightened of losing her arm. Since the Indian attack, she had been inside the wagon, feverish, trying not to moan or cry out when the vehicle ran over a rock or dropped into a hole. She did not want to be a burden and refused to let the others tend her. Dora had expected to keep her pregnancy secret for a few more weeks, until after they left Fort Laramie, hoping that by then it would be too late for the ministers to make her return home. But now the whole company knew of her sin. The broadside she had read before signing up for the trip had said only women of good morals would be accepted, and here she was, unmarried and pregnant. “What is more immoral than that?” she asked Maggie.
“Abandoning a woman in need on the prairie,” Maggie replied.
Maggie had been impressed with how well Dora had taken to the trail. As a schoolgirl from a privileged family, Dora had never known hard work or sacrifice. She had talked of being a teacher, but such girls romanticized the schoolroom, and it was more likely she had hoped only to marry the man who had seduced her and raise a family. What would have happened if Dora had not seen the broadsheet? She had signed up not because she wanted to go west for a husband but because she was desperate—like Maggie. And like Maggie, Dora would have had no idea of the challenges ahead. Still, she had met them. Dora never complained, never shirked her responsibilities, and even volunteered to do the chores of others who were tired or ill.
The women had formed a sisterhood, Maggie thought. Edwin had said they were less quarrelsome than the members of other wagon trains. He believed that was because they were women. Maggie wasn’t so sure. She knew women did not get along with each other any better than men did. Perhaps they had formed a bond because they knew if they did not, they would never reach California. A man could quit a wagon train and join another, but women had no such opportunity. No train would want to acquire a single woman, one without a wagon or even a horse to call her own. Maggie was surprised at how such a diverse group had melded together: Caroline, the most religious woman Maggie had ever met, with Sadie, a prostitute; Winny, a maid, with the wealthy Bessie; Evaline with Clara. Even Lavinia, if she had lived, would have been one with them. Maggie wondered if the others saw how they had become sisters.
Maggie was aware that Dora did not want to see the surgeon. She was afraid he would say that the arm had not healed properly, that she should not continue the journey. As Dora, Maggie, and the others stood in line, Dora said there were emigrants more seriously ill and she should not waste the time of the surgeon. Indeed, a man in front of them lay on a stretcher made from two tree branches and a torn wagon sheet. He had a head wound and was unconscious. Behind them, an old woman sat on the ground coughing up blood. As the line moved, the woman scooted along with the help of an aged man. Maggie wondered why two such elderly persons would make the trip west.
For a moment, clouds blocked the sun, and those in line were re
lieved at a respite from the bright glare. But the clouds dissipated, and the sun seemed hotter than ever. Maggie loved the clear, early morning skies on the prairie, but long before noon, the rays were merciless, beating down on her head, her sunbonnet trapping the heat around her face, her eyes red from the glare. It was hard enough walking on the prairie, but standing still in the dirt of the parade ground was torture. Perspiration ran down the women’s faces, mixing with the dust churned up by soldiers and horses. When she brushed her hand against her face, Maggie felt her cheek covered with grime. She reached out and put her arm around Dora, knowing that her friend felt the heat and dust even more than she did. “A few more minutes,” she said. “Are you all right?”
Dora nodded and smiled, and Maggie wondered at her cheerfulness.
“I should be helping with the wagon. There is washing to be done,” Dora said.
“It can be done without you,” Caroline put in. “You should not exert yourself after being so badly wounded. And with the baby…”
Despite herself, Dora blushed. “I did not mean to deceive you. I did not know what else to do. I had nowhere to go.”
“I understand,” Caroline replied, then said no more, not giving a hint of Dora’s fate.
“I sinned,” Dora said, her eyes on the ground.
“Who among us has not?” Caroline replied.
By then, they had entered the surgery, a small, plain room lined with cots. A table stood along one wall—an operating table—and the surgeon sat at a desk. He looked tired, although he smiled when Dora pushed Maggie forward to have her arm examined. The surgeon barely glanced at it before saying, “You are fine. It appears from the stitches that the sewing up was done by a woman.”
He did not wait for an answer but beckoned Dora forward. She sat down on a chair next to the desk, too nervous to speak. It was William who said, “Her arm was broken by an Indian hatchet. We reset the bones as best we could.”
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