Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  Del had to scream to be heard over the sound of the fire. He hollered repeatedly for everyone to get back. They started another bucket brigade to the river and back, throwing all the water on the wagons closest to the flames. Against all physical capacity, they kept going. Even the hardest man had to choke down his panic to keep from running. It seemed like hours, but within thirty minutes it was over. They had saved their wagons, their lives, and literally everything they owned.

  B. F.’s hands were blistered from the hoe he had been using, and his eyes and throat felt like they were raw meat. Mr. Fitzwater’s face was black with soot, and only his eyes were uncoated, giving him the appearance of a skinny raccoon. He put his hand on B. F.’s shoulder. “Let’s you and me go see about our family.”

  Mary and Jane sported blisters as well—a result of hauling so many buckets that they had lost count. Both had witnessed Missus Broderick use her bucket on the Pawnee and were quick to tell B. F. and Mr. Fitzwater what had happened inside the wagon circle.

  When they found Ethan, he was busy describing how he had chased the Injuns away. And according to an older girl, he had indeed thrown several rocks at them in the middle of the melee.

  Mr. Fitzwater knelt down and pulled the little boy to him. It was hard to tell if his wet cheeks were from the smoke or gratitude that his family was safe. “That’s my boy, Ethan. You sure showed ’em whose cow ate the cabbage!”

  The night had taken its toll. Old man Flaherty had been killed by a Pawnee. He was one of the first guards to shoot, and had been felled by an arrow as he was trying to reload. William Jackson had died in the fire line. A couple of men had tried to talk him out of that kind of heavy work, but he wouldn’t listen. The man who had been working next to him described what happened. “Old Will grabbed his chest, took no more’n two steps, and just fell dead. I pulled him off the line so’s he wouldn’t burn up, but it didn’t do him no good. He’s still dead.”

  One mule had been stolen, and a second one on the ground had been struck right in the ear by an errant bullet. There were six dead Pawnee. Del spoke to his charges. “You can betcha them prairie fires was set a’purpose by the Pawnee. The thievin’ divils might try again. We cain’t let our guard down.”

  My story. On June 12 year of 1849

  I never seen so many brave men as I saw last night. The Pawnee set a prairie fire to keep us busy, then tried to steal our stock. The men from the train fought the fire right up to our wagons. The heat and the smoke were terrible bad. But not a single one of them run off. They just kept fighting. As for me, I tried not to let them see how scared I was.

  Paddy rescued my pony when he hit a Pawnee on the top of his head with a shovel while he was trying to cut the hobble line. We lost two men and two mules in the fight.

  Today we’re passing some of the strangest rocks I ever saw. Del calls two of them the Courthouse and Jail Rocks. But off in the distance is one that is hard to describe. It looks to be a giant arrow shooting up from the plains. Del says it’s the Chimney Rock. It seems just a couple of miles away, but he says there is two days of travel before we get there. I hope the trail comes close to it, as I intend to climb the Chimney as high as I can to see what I can see.

  Nineteen

  There Ain’t No Good Choice

  Indian Territory 1849

  The train crossed easily to the south side of the North Platte. Over the last three weeks, they had gradually ascended to the high plains. The river was faster here but was not a difficult obstacle because it was already shallow in early June. Despite the relative ease of their crossing, there were four graves on the north bank, permanently testifying that even the Platte could be treacherous. Standing guard over the river was a discarded grandfather clock, which was leaning precariously against a hardy red cedar. The pendulum was missing. Whether taken by the owner or by a later visitor, that would remain unknown. But in that particular place, the rusted hands would always proclaim the time as a quarter past eleven.

  The days were terrifically hot. One would think that the constant wind out of the west would make the heat a bit more bearable, but even the wind seemed to sear the skin. On this day, the wind was blowing straight into their faces, pushing all the dust from the wagons in front of them into their eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and even some locations you wouldn’t expect to see dirt.

  One afternoon, the iron rim on a dry, shrunken wagon wheel just rolled off the rim on the Fitzwater wagon. Del’s advice was to remove the wooden wheel and roll it down to the river to soak so it would swell up enough to hold the rim.

  Thankfully, it worked. So B. F. and Mr. Fitzwater walked along beside the wagon, keeping an eye on the other wheels, with their heads bent forward, kerchiefs over their faces, and axel grease smeared on their dry, split lips. “Son, if this wagon train is traveling only fifteen miles on a calm day, and this wind has got to be blowing at least thirty miles an hour, we might just get ourselves blowed all the way back to yesterday.”

  During the noontime break, Missus Broderick was approached by one of the unattached men. Most called him only by his nickname of “Polecat,” which he had earned after a skunk sprayed him one evening when he walked into the brush to relieve himself. The poor man smelled like his name for three weeks. Finally, Mary Fitzwater had suggested he bathe in river mud, then spread a mixture of dried tomatoes and water all over his body, and leave it on for a full day before washing it off. Not only had Polecat been so grateful that he broke down and cried, but the whole train had been thankful as well.

  Polecat’s current problem had nothing to do with smell but rather with a terrible toothache. His lower jaw was swollen to at least twice normal size. He described his ailment. “This here tooth hurts so bad, I cain’t chew no food at all. Fact, I can just barely sip water from a cup. Can you fix it, Missus Broderick?”

  The problem was easy to locate, as the gum line around the faulty tooth was also swollen and inflamed. But just to be sure, Missus Broderick tapped each of the teeth on the left lower jaw with the butt end of a big metal spoon. When she struck on the second tooth from the rear, Polecat squalled like he’d been hit with a hot poker.

  “You already sound like an old badger caught in a steel trap.” She petitioned Del for six ounces of whisky, which she knew he kept for his own personal needs, then retrieved a stout pair of wire pliars from her husband’s tools.

  About thirty minutes after Polecat finished his medication, he was having significant difficulty walking and talking. “I’d really like s’more o’ thet sour mash.”

  “Look here, Polecat—you’re so drunk now you couldn’t hit the ground with your hat.”

  He stumbled a bit before grabbing the wagon for support. “I beg to differ with you madam.”

  She sat him in a chair and had one of his friends hold his arms, while still another held his head still. “Polecat—you had plenty. Now let me see that tooth.”

  “It don’t hurt near as bad now,” he slurred, eyeing the pliars. “Mebbe I can just get by on soup. Fact is, I sorta have a fondness for soup.”

  “I’m gonna pull somethin’ outa yore mouth with these pliars. If you don’t be still, it might be that wiggly thing at the back of yore goozle.”

  Nobody would ever say that Missus Broderick was not a well-fleshed woman. In fact, it was difficult to consider that there was ever any reason for her to turn sideways—as she was just as broad one way as she was the other. The tooth was not the least bit anxious to come loose. But Missus Broderick was a mighty strong woman, and once she had hold of the tooth, she was determined to have it.

  She began to gradually move the pliars in a back and forth motion, and Polecat tried to move his head in the same rhythm so she would exert minimal pressure on the tooth. But once his head began to sway with her, she reversed directions and went right when he went left. Polecat began to make a screeching sound that could only be described as a caterwaul—perhaps the strangeness of the sound had something to do with the pair of pliars that still remained ja
mmed in his mouth.

  Missus Broderick began to sweat—not just a dainty, womanly perspiration—but great rivulets of water ran down her forehead and dripped off her chin whiskers as she gripped and pulled and turned. She put a beefy knee against Polecat’s scrawny chest to get better leverage while continuing to move the pliars back and forth. The men doing the holding were sweating as well, and perhaps not a small amount of their duress was due to the fact that Missus Broderick’s dress had begun to ride up her substantial thigh within a few inches of their noses. It was the kind of sight that could haunt a man for years. As the hem of the dress continued its rise, both of the helpers closed their eyes tight at the prospect of coming nightmares.

  When she saw the blood, Missus Broderick began to pull and rotate the pliars in earnest, knowing that the tooth was beginning to turn loose of the man. Finally, she felt the molar moving with her and began to slightly reduce the force of her efforts. She didn’t want to yank it out so suddenly that she risked knocking half of his remaining teeth loose in the process. When it finally gave way, she raised the tooth high in the grip of the pliars for all to see. But Polecat could only slump forward in relief, as his holders gladly released their victim and quickly retreated to a safer place with far less exposure to things they wish they had not seen.

  She wrapped a dried clove bud in a piece of wet muslin, packed the hole with the damp cloth, and instructed him to hold pressure on the area for a half hour. It was all Polecat could do to muster the strength to follow these simple instructions. In the following days, he would complain more about the knee-cap shaped bruise on his chest than his missing tooth. But sympathy was in short supply for anything less than terrible afflictions on the wagon train, and he was soon ignored.

  Three days later they passed the massive Scotts Bluff. Because its base and the extensive rough ground extended all the way to the river, serving as an obstacle to wagon passage, it was necessary for the train to take a wide detour around the south side of the Bluff.

  Two more days brought them to the Army’s newest facility, Fort Laramie. The Laramie property had been purchased earlier in the year from a couple of traders. It had been the intention of the Army to then build a traditional, enclosed fort, but the realities of a lack of appropriate trees in the vicinity, money, and labor all contributed to what the travelers saw before them. Once again, they had to get used to the new definition of “fort” as Fort Laramie was no more than a series of buildings spread out across the prairie. There were no walls or impediments to siege whatsoever, except for the guns of the cavalrymen assigned there.

  Two signs were nailed to a solitary post; one pointing easterly read West Port – 650 miles, while the one aimed in the opposite direction said Pacific Ocean – 900 miles. It had a rather sobering effect on the travelers.

  The Fort’s mission was to provide protection along a three-hundred-mile swath of the Oregon Trail, most particularly from the Cheyenne and the Sioux. The reality was that during the summer months it was not unusual to see six to ten wagon trains pass by the fort in a single day. So spread across their huge area of responsibility, it was very possible that there might be a hundred or more trains requiring their protection at any one time—an impossible task for five such installations, let alone Fort Laramie.

  Unlike Fort Kearny, Laramie’s soldiers appeared to be well disciplined and able men. Although there was little spit and polish, at least the men looked like soldiers. Also unlike Kearny, the supply store at Fort Laramie was only too happy to charge a huge mark-up to travelers. Sugar that was a nickel a pound in West Port, and no more than seven cents in Kearny, cost a dollar a pound in Laramie. Actually, most travelers were considering the ramifications of lightening their loads by the time they reached Laramie, so they had very little appetite for the expensive goods. As they continued to sight high peaks off in the distance, it was already beginning to sink in that the worst was yet to come in their journey. The elephant would arrive soon enough.

  My story. On June 15 year of 1849

  Since we left Fort Laramie we are slowly climbing higher and as we look off to the west, it looks to be more of the same. This morning, Del told us we have come almost half way. He warned everybody to look at their stores and decide if there was anything we could do without. He said we had best throw it away here as the long uphill pull ahead is going to be hard on the oxen. He said if they dropped dead, we’d be walking the rest of the way.

  When the train pulled out today, the camp was littered with linen bags of flour and meal, and slabs of bacon. Folks who were saving heavy tin cans of peaches opened them and ate fruit for breakfast, lunch, and supper. Pan after pan of biscuits were made and carried in the wagons, instead of just throwing away the flour and lard. Most people walked trying to ease the load on their animals.

  When I spied a perfectly good iron cookpot that someone had thrown away, I started to pick it up and put it in the wagon. But Del told me it was a leeverite. I said I thought it was a cookpot. He said a leeverite meant to leave ’er right there. Only Mary and Ethan are riding in the wagon now. I feel guilty for being able to ride my pony, so most of the time I walk too and just tie the horse to the back of the wagon.

  They had been away from Fort Laramie for almost a week. This particular morning, B. F. and Jane were walking along, engaged in a conversation about the benefits of farming in Oregon versus setting up a business in the gold fields. Each of them thought the other completely unreasonable on the subject. Mr. Fitzwater was walking beside the oxen, every now and then giving them a slap on the rump to encourage them as they climbed a long hill. Mary was on the jockey box, and Ethan was playing in the back of the wagon.

  B. F. looked to his right and saw that Ethan had apparently climbed out of the back of the wagon and was running to try and catch one of the green lizards that seemed to be everywhere along the trail. Ethan squealed with delight to be out of the confines of the wagon. When he did, his pa heard him and turned around to give him back to his mother. There were just too many things that could hurt a little boy while the train was moving.

  Ethan decided he was not ready to be caught, and he dodged away from his pa. B. F. eased behind him in order to prevent his getaway. Suddenly, the little boy tripped on a rock and fell to his right, directly between the front and back wheels of the wagon. Both B. F. and George jumped for the little boy, but George got their first. He grabbed Ethan by the arm, pulling him backward. B. F. pushed the boy further away from the oncoming wheels, but saw that George’s momentum had caused him to fall where Ethan had been. B. F. shouted, “Stop, Mary.” and reached for George’s outstretched hand. There was a brief second when he could see the dread on his friend’s face. Too late, the wagon gave a lurch as the four foot in diameter, iron-rimmed back wheel rolled over both of his legs.

  Mary jumped down and screamed when she saw him. The rear wheel had stopped atop his right leg, just above the knee. It took ten men to lift the wagon enough that George could be pulled out. He was white as he could possibly be and still be breathing. His pants were torn, and there was blood covering his right leg.

  Del and Missus Broderick were summoned. After she knelt and looked closely at Mr. Fitzwater’s injuries, she grabbed Del by the arm and walked away from the onlookers. Tears were running down her face. “I think his right leg is all crushed up, and the left one is broke. If we had a doctor, he’d probably take his right leg off and splint the other. I don’t think he’s got a prayer if his leg don’t come off, and I don’t know how to do that.”

  Del put his head down. There were now tears on his cheeks as well. It kind of surprised him, as he couldn’t remember the last time he had been affected like that. He wiped his sleeve on his face and sniffed. “Don’t let Miz Fitzwater see them tears.”

  They walked back together with their arms subconsciously interlocked. Actually, they were holding each other up. Missus Broderick told Mary what she thought about the extent of George’s injuries. Del cleared a frog from his throat. “Ma’am,
I cain’t tell you how bad I feel about this. George needs a doctor real bad. I don’t know if there’s one at Laramie, but its six days back. I don’t believe he could stand the trip, as rough as this trail is. Besides, this here is Sioux country. You cain’t travel alone. And the next chance for a doctor is Fort Hall. That’s almost a month out. And the travel ’twixt here and there is lots worse than anything we seen yet.”

  Mary could not stop crying. “I don’t know what to do. There ain’t no good choice.” Jane held her mother’s hand, and Ethan stood between them, holding his mother’s leg.

  B. F. saw only one chance. “Miz Broderick, if you and your husband will stay here with the Fitzwaters, I’ll ride back to Fort Laramie to get a doctor. Maybe there’ll be a wagon train right behind us that will have a doctor. When I get back with the doctor, you folks can catch up with Del or join another train coming along. You’re the only one on the train that can help Mr. Fitzwater until the doctor gets here. And if you stay, it won’t just be one wagon and one gun if any Indians show up. I figure me and my pony can be back in four days.”

  She looked at her husband, who wouldn’t look her in the eye. “I don’t know if we can do that.”

  Del spoke up. “That’s one dangerous idea, son.”

  “Yes sir, but a mule can’t make time like my pony can. They can’t go on, and they can’t go back. It’s the only way, if the Broderick’s will stay.”

  Mr. Broderick shook his head to clear his mind. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. “B. F., get on that pony and get goin’ afore I change my mind. We’ll be right here when you come back.” He walked with B. F. to his pony and spoke quietly. “Son, I don’t believe George’ll last four days. If he dies, we’ll leave you a sign and try to catch up to Coggins. Too many Injuns to stay out here any longer than we have to. And that goes double for you.”