Abbie didn’t really want to be a shepherdess to anyone seemingly incapable of looking out for themselves and so she probed a little deeper. Jacob had been on a small wagon train, but several members of the party had been increasingly vocal in stating that every stroke of bad luck they experienced was due to the fact that they had this ‘dirty Jew’, like an albatross hanging around their necks. Finally, his situation got so bad that Jacob with his one-horse trap had pulled out of the wagon train when it reached Paradise, and there he had remained, unable to attach himself to any respectable party travelling west.
While Abbie sat pondering Jacob Levy’s request, another man, with a young woman in tow, approached her table. Abbie looked up enquiringly at this latest interruption.
‘Permission to speak, ma’am?’
Facing her was a bluff, red-faced man, probably in his mid-forties, who stood stiff as a ramrod, feet together at forty-five degrees, and hands held rigidly at his sides. Abbie noted with more than a little curiosity that she was being addressed by somebody who had definitely experienced military service.
‘Jack Harding, ma’am, late corporal in the 44th Regiment of Foot; honourably discharged from the garrison of Fort Henry, Kingston in Upper Canada. This ’ere’s me wife Polly. We’ve been properly married these last three years. Polly’s family in Toronto died of the cholera outbreak. We’ve been making our way west, and wondered if we could join your party?’ Harding’s information and request was delivered in the nature of a military report and Abbie looked at the ex-soldier with interest.
‘Discharged soldier, eh? Can you shoot, corporal?’
Jack puffed up with pride at her use of his old military rank, but corrected her gently. ‘Not corporal any more, miss. Just Mr Harding, if you please. Yes, I can shoot. I ’ad me Crossed Rifles badge,’ thus indicating that he had been qualified as a marksman in the regiment. ‘I’ve got me own rifle too, miss. Bought it as surplus to requirements.’
He produced a British-made weapon upon which Abbie looked with fond memories.
‘Why, that’s an Enfield! I used one in Kashmir years ago!’
Jack Harding had been stationed in India and, for several moments, the two of them were lost in a welter of memories of depots and cantonments in the sub-continent. A polite cough brought them back to reality where Jacob Levy was still awaiting a reply to his plea.
Abbie quickly made up her mind. ‘Why yes, Mr Levy. I would be delighted to have you accompany us.’ Her use of the royal plural not only told Jacob that he was acceptable but also informed both Jack and Polly Harding that they would be welcome. Polly it seemed had once lived on a backwoods farm north of Toronto and was familiar with a shotgun. Jacob, on the other hand, was a complete novice where firearms were concerned, although Jack Harding stressed that he would soon rectify that lack in Mr Levy’s education.
‘There are two things upon which I insist. First of all, you, Mr Levy and you, Polly, must obtain firearms that you can handle. Mr Harding, perhaps you could assist with their selection.’
Jack Harding nodded. Abbie paused and, looking at her prospective travelling companions, assumed a stern expression: ‘You people are joining me. I am not joining you! I will be the captain of this party, and I expect you to follow my instructions!’
Three days later Abbie Penraven’s little command had more than doubled in size. The first two days had been uneventful. They had set off early in the morning after bidding farewells to Mr and Mrs Kunz and the other folk of Paradise who wished them well on their journey to the west. They travelled with the Harding wagon in front, followed by Jacob Levy’s two-wheeled cart, behind which was hitched Abbie’s roan packhorse, leaving her free to roam ahead astride the bay.
On the afternoon of the third day, a small cluster of wagons was to be seen half a mile to the south of the main trail. Calling a halt, Abbie rode cautiously over to see who the strangers were, and why they were circled rather than travelling at that time of day. As she approached, a young lad of possibly fifteen or sixteen years, clutching a double-barrelled shotgun, ordered her to halt and state her business.
‘My name is Penraven and I’m guiding the wagons you can see to your north. What’s the problem here?’
The shotgun was lowered and Abbie was permitted to enter the enclosure created by the five wagons. Immediately, she was surrounded by a group of women, all talking at once, while an old, grey-bearded man sat on a wagon tongue and shook his head slowly from side to side. Abbie took a deep breath and raised her voice.
‘Quiet!’ she roared in a voice that would have pleased Company Sergeant Major Jones. ‘Be quiet all of you! Now one person and one only please, tell me what is going on here?’
The women gradually fell silent, looking at each other and at the buckskin clad girl, holstered pistol at her hip, who sat looking down upon them. Finally, a middle-aged member of the little group pushed herself forward and said, ‘Well, miss.’ She paused, took a deep breath and then proceeded to describe the tale of their dire fortune. They had left Independence as part of a fourteen-vehicle wagon train bound for Santa Fe. Just before they reached the cut-off for the Mountain Division trail that led to the north-west, a party of excited men came up from behind. Over the evening campfires they told of literally mountains of gold to be had in the Colorado Territory. Apparently, fresh discoveries were being made every day. The strangers moved on the following morning and left the wagon train seething with arguments like an overturned beehive.
Some were saying they should head north-west, others that they should stick with the trail to Santa Fe. Eventually, the train split, eight continuing on their original course, and six determined to seek their fortunes in the gold fields. The smaller party had been led by her husband Jeb Marlowe, who, though not a scout, was a reasonably good frontiersman. Unfortunately, shortly after the wagon train split, his horse fell on him, shattering his left leg and, shortly thereafter, gangrene set in. He had lingered for a week and finally died leaving the group leaderless.
One wagon broke down and had to be abandoned, its contents distributed among the remaining five. Then they had Indian trouble. A group of warriors rode up and demanded horses, guns and whiskey. Upon being questioned, Mrs Marlowe admitted that though personally she had not seen any war-paint, the men, convinced that they had to act quickly, opened fire on the braves. Two fell, the others rode off and four of the men rode hotly in pursuit. They had not returned and had been missing for a full week. Therefore, the only males left in the party were fifteen-year-old Bobby Smith and the elderly man, Mark Isaacson, seated on the wagon tongue.
‘We can’t stay here, miss. If our men do manage to get free of those red devils, they could follow our trail, if we left a message on a board or something, Would it be possible for us to join up with y’all?’
The other women nodded in agreement to her plea, and Abbie realized that they had already had the notion of getting to a safer location before she had appeared on the scene.
Abbie looked around the campsite; the women stared back hopefully. She was reluctant to take on the added responsibility, but seemed to have no choice. ‘Very well. Now how many drovers can you muster between you?’
The women looked at each other and again it was Ann Marlowe who appointed herself spokeswoman.
‘Miss, I can drive my own wagon. Jeb an’ I always shared the work.’
Beth Isaacson volunteered the fact that she thought she could handle their team with her husband doing some of the more simple tasks. She added that he had not been right in the head since their son Tom had ridden off after the Indians.
Bobby Smith spoke up stating that he and his mom could handle their outfit and this was followed by two more women, Naomi Johnson and Eve Schultz now sharing a wagon, indicating that they thought they could manage their rig between them.
The group turned and looked at their unspoken member. Dora McAdam stared back defiantly. Abbie looked with great interest at this remaining member of the stranded wagon train. She saw a
well-dressed girl of about her own age, with blonde hair peeping out from her poke bonnet. She stood arms akimbo on her generous hips with her chin raised. ‘Oh, you can all stare! You all think I’m incapable of doing anything except leading your men astray, but you’re wrong! Yes, miss! I’ll handle my own team, and I won’t let you down!’
Abbie nodded with dubious satisfaction, suspecting that there had been problems among the distaff members of this wagon train. ‘What guns have you got and how many know how to use them?’
The reply was far from encouraging. The only firearms left with the wagon train were Bobby Smith’s shotgun, and a flintlock pistol owned by old Mr Isaacson. Unfortunately, the pistol also lacked a flint, which meant that currently it was useless. Proficiency with guns was practically non-existent.
‘OK, people! Let’s get those animals hitched up and everything prepared for moving!’
Abbie thought wryly, ‘It’s strange how I find myself tending to slip into Americanisms. Wouldn’t Aunt Sarah be shocked! “OK”, indeed! Next I’ll be describing the animals as critters.’
With much confusion, and quite a number of loud, shrill, unladylike expletives, the women and Bobby slowly got their teams of oxen hitched to the wagons and prepared to move out, having left a brief message on a cleft stick in the centre of the campsite.
Abbie called out, ‘Wagons roll!’ and the move began. The Marlowe wagon was first, followed by the Isaacsons, with Beth walking alongside her team, brandishing a long whip, while Mr Isaacson sat placidly up on the seat loosely holding the reins. Next came Nelly Smith’s outfit with young Bobby walking. Naomi and Eve seemed to work as a team as indeed they had for several weeks, and Dora McAdam brought up the rear, struggling tearfully to prove that she was as competent as the other women. Abbie meanwhile cantered back and forth along the length of the train, noting silently the many problems that hopefully would be cured by time.
When they neared the trail, she continued ahead and spoke to the Hardings waiting patiently in their wagon. ‘We have other people joining us! Move ahead a mile or so and pick out a likely site for six or seven wagons. Make sure it has good water. Make camp there. The newcomers will get there eventually.’ She fell back and passed the same instructions to Jacob Levy adding that there would be further explanations when they had made camp. Then Abbie rode back to where her new charges were manfully struggling to handle the lowing oxen.
When she reached the back of the column, she had a call from Dora McAdam, ‘Miss Penraven, or do I call you captain?’ Abbie noted a slightly mocking note in the query and responded sharply, ‘Captain will do quite nicely, thank you. What do you want?’
Dora apologized for her slightly sarcastic remark and indicated that Abbie should climb up into the seat next to her. Curious, Abbie did as suggested, whereupon Dora elaborated about herself and the man with whom she had been travelling west. It was noted that there was no mention of marriage nor was Dora wearing a wedding ring. She had been working in a small store when Leonard Flynn had entered her life. He was a gambler and had just made a pile, or so he said. Dora, bored with the humdrum life of the store and an unhappy home situation, had jumped at the chance of a life of western adventure. Flynn promised her marriage and a good life, but she soon found out that his promises were like trying to hold on to quicksilver. They just slipped through one’s fingers.
The main reason for speaking to Abbie was that the wagon contained a secret. She instructed her to check the boxes under the blankets. Abbie did so and was astonished to find that the boxes were stamped US Property. ‘There’s four boxes, and Flynn said that each one contained six rifles. That’s twenty-four in all. They’re stolen. Flynn said he’d skin me alive if I told anyone, but I figure he’s probably dead himself now. Anyway, I know you could arm the whole wagon train with them,’ she ended triumphantly.
Gradually the second portion of the wagon train reached the location that Jack Harding had chosen as a suitable campsite and the oxen were coaxed into turning so that the wagons were once more circled. Then the animals, both bovine and equine, were left to graze inside a rope corral. In no time campfires were alight as the women started preparing evening meals.
Abbie walked over to the Harding camp and asked Jack to step aside for a little chat. She told him about the contents of the McAdam wagon and of the need to get the women to the stage where they were reasonably proficient in the use of the rifles. ‘Mr Harding, I’m hereby appointing you Sergeant of Arms. I want you to teach these women to shoot, and shoot accurately. Also I am going to state to all that, in my absence, you will be in command of the wagon train. Is this acceptable to you?’
Jack thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘I’ll do as you wish, ma’am, just as long as those women are prepared to accept my instructions, or orders. I won’t stand for any nonsense.’
And so it was agreed and announced at a camp meeting later that evening. Initially, there was some giggling and smiling at the thought of being drilled by Jack Harding, but the women soon settled down to listen to the clear, concise explanations, especially as Abbie told them in no uncertain terms that their very lives might depend upon learning these new skills. It was aided by the fact that Jacob Levy was only too glad to join the group to add to his admittedly meagre firearms knowledge.
Abbie was fairly satisfied with the progress that first evening and, since there was both powder and ball with the stolen weapons, was eager to let the women experience live shooting. She had also noted a certain sadness on the part of those who realized that they were now widows. They needed distraction, that is, all except for Dora McAdam who shed no tears over the loss of Len Flynn. However, if Abbie Penraven had had the wings of an eagle and had been able to soar high and see many miles from the trail, she would have been far from satisfied with the state of her wagon train.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Len Flynn had left with the other men in pursuit of the Indians, he quite rapidly fell behind as his horse started limping. He had halted in a small grove of trees and had just removed a stone from his animal’s left forehoof when he heard shooting up ahead. Cautiously he peered up the little valley from the undergrowth where he was hiding in time to see the end of the fight and view the ghastly scalping of his four companions.
Unable to retreat the way he had come, since he believed that yet more Indians blocked that way, he had been forced to go further and further from the wagon train until he was hopelessly lost amid the foothills of the mighty Rocky Mountains. And so he wandered for several days, existing on roots and a single jackrabbit that he managed to snare. Fear of the Indians prevented him from using his long gun to obtain larger game, and it was with initial relief that he met up with a party of white men.
His relief was very short-lived. An unkempt bunch of filthy, rag-garbed rogues, armed with an assortment of rusty guns and knives, surrounded him, fingering his clothing and possessions and disputing various items as though his throat was already slit. Thinking desperately of a means to save his life, Flynn cried out, ‘Wait! Not too far from here I can show you a wagon train with just women there. It’s yours for the taking, and one wagon is loaded with new rifles, far better than the junk you’re using!’
The grim, one-eyed leader pushed the others aside and, stepping up close to the quaking Flynn, pressed a needle sharp Bowie against his victim’s throat. ‘They call me Scar. Now tell me that tale again.’
Flynn did so, mentally forgiving himself for betraying his late travelling companions. There was no other choice, he told himself. Another moment and he would have been a goner. For the moment he was alive.
His gun and knife were taken and, with hands tied in front of him, Flynn was permitted to sit and eat with the outlaw gang while they discussed ways of getting to this treasure trove of guns and women. Flynn rightly claimed that he was not at all sure of the location of the wagon train, but figured that it was still in the same location where he had left it, and so that’s where the gang headed. Flynn was allowed to ride h
is own horse, but with a noose around his neck and the other end tied to the pommel of Scar’s saddle.
Two days hard riding brought them to an area that Flynn thought he recognized. He was correct and later that morning they reached the location of the last campsite, bare of wagons but with a thick stick driven into the ground in the centre of the clearing. They dismounted. A folded note was resting in a split at the top of the stick. Flynn retrieved the note and reading it quickly passed it to the impatient Scar. He held it upside-down and demanded to know the contents. Ann Marlowe had scribbled the note very quickly and, since her scholastic achievements were limited, the note merely stated: ‘Headed west with Inglish gurl on mane trayl.’
Flynn explained this move to Scar and his other captors. Scar said nothing while he pondered the contents of the message. ‘So the wagons had been moved, joined up with some foreign girl, another chicken in the pot. This one’s no use to us anymore!’
He half turned away, drew his Bowie and, spinning on his heel, drove it into Flynn’s stomach, ripping as it was withdrawn. The New York gambler only had time to mutter, ‘I didn’t...’ before his shocked eyes glazed over and he expired. The only protests at the killing were from two of the gang who had had their eyes on pieces of Flynn’s clothing. ‘Why didn’t you strip him first, chief. Now it’s all bloody.’
Scar waved them to be silent. ‘Mount up an’ ride! From what the late Mr Flynn said there’ll be plenty of new clothing in those wagons,’ and leaping into their saddles, they rode at a gallop north and then west along the Mountain Trail, sure that their quarry, a mere bunch of women, were not too far ahead.
The Pinfire Lady Page 5