by Harmon, Amy
“What if we wait and he doesn’t come?” Mr. Caldwell chimes in. “Then we’ve waited for nothing.”
“He’ll come,” Abbott reassures me, patting my shoulders. “I have no doubt. You watch—he’ll pull in here before tomorrow morning, you mark my words.”
I mark his words, but John doesn’t come, and the train pulls out a few hours after dawn, our teams watered and fed, our barrels filled, and our path set. I leave a note and another strip of my yellow dress tied around a tree. I try not to doubt, but even Ma’s grown pensive.
“They’ll take care of each other,” she says, “just like they did before,” and I nod and try to breathe, doing my best to hold back the tears. We don’t discuss it; we don’t voice our fears or wonder out loud what’s holding them up, but I know Ma’s thoughts are churning too, and she’s saying her prayers, just like I am.
It doesn’t help that my menses have started, soaking my bloomers, chafing my legs, and making it hard to keep clean. I tell myself it’s good that John is gone. Maybe when he returns, my time will have passed, and I won’t have to worry about being close to him the way I want to.
We make ten miles over sage and lava rocks before Abbott blows his horn and veers away from the road, searching for a spring he’s certain isn’t far. We’ve just begun making our circle around a pathetic patch of green a couple of miles off the road when Pa’s wagon hits a rock and busts a wheel, and Elsie Bingham, sitting on the back of Tumble, tells us she’s through.
“I can’t go no farther,” she moans. “I gotta get down.” Her pains have started, and she’s afraid she’ll tumble from the mule. Ma and I help her slide from the saddle and support her as she steadies herself.
“It could be a while yet, Elsie,” Ma says. “It’s your first one, and you know all the stories. The best thing you can do is rest now, while the wagons are stopped and the pains are still far apart.”
“All right,” Elsie says, nodding. “But . . . if it doesn’t come tonight . . . will you stay with me in the morning? I know we gotta keep moving, but I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s gettin’ dark, and our wheel is broken,” Ma says, smiling a little. “So we’re not going anywhere.”
“Well, thank the Lord for broken wheels,” Elsie breathes.
“Ma and I will stay with you as long as you need,” I agree.
I just hope John and Wyatt don’t pass us by back on the road. They won’t know where we are.
JOHN
When the mules begin to prick their ears and lift their noses, I straighten on the torturous wooden seat and scan the horizon like I’ve been doing all day. We are heading west now, and the sun is high and the dust is thick, making the way before us hard to see. We should catch up to the train today, and the mules’ sudden interest has my heart quickening in anticipation. We passed Sheep Rock this morning, and I found Naomi’s yellow streamer and the note she nailed to a tree. She put a date at the top and the time they pulled out—yesterday morning—so they can’t be far now.
“You see something, John?” Wyatt asks, grimacing against the sun and gritting his teeth against the dust. He’s taken a position beside me on the seat, rifle in hand like we’re driving the stage.
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t see anything. But I’m guessing the mules know Trick and Tumble are out there.”
“I thought we’d have caught up to them by now,” Wyatt says. “They got farther than I thought they would.”
We’re late. Days late. Jefferson Jones came through, but not before I almost killed him. He spent a day tinkering in his shop and another assembling the wagon, only to realize he was missing a part. We went back to the ravine, and he puttered around until he found what he wanted, losing half of another day. At the end of the fourth day, I told him I was leaving in the morning and taking my mules—all of them—with or without the wagon. He got angry, but then he got serious, and the wagon was ready to go at dawn, provisions loaded. I didn’t give him Samson. I gave him Gus, and he didn’t argue. I harnessed up the other six to share the load and tied Kettle to one side and the dun to the other.
We’ve been riding hard and fast, resting for the darkest hours of the night and rising well before dawn. The mules are holding up. The wagon is holding up, and Wyatt is downright cheerful. I am not holding up, and I am not remotely cheerful, and were it not for the notes and the strips of yellow in the trees telling me all is well, I would be a damn sight worse.
“They might still be a ways ahead,” I say. “Mules are sensitive. They usually know what’s coming a while before anyone else does. We’re getting close, running over miles where the train traveled not too long ago. That might be all it is.” But I let the mules lead, letting them set the pace. Their hooves begin to eat up the ground, their eager pursuit tightening my hands on the reins. When they start to slow of their own accord, chests heaving, a cloud of dust rising around us, and then come to a stop altogether, I let the dust settle and stay put. My eyes sweep the distance, scanning the brush and surveying the rocky outcroppings, looking for a line of white tops against the muted greens and browns of August. Heat and silence and a long stretch of no one greet my gaze.
“It’s hard to tell with all the dust, but doesn’t that look like smoke?” Wyatt asks, pointing at a grayish funnel rising off to our right. It’s far enough away that I can’t make out what’s on fire. “I think it is.” He sniffs at the air. “Smell that?”
I do. But that is not what has caught my eye. Directly in front of the column of smoke are two small figures, no bigger than the freckles on Naomi’s nose. I watch, not certain what I’m seeing. The sparse trees of the West have fooled more than one man into thinking he’s got company.
The mules have begun to stomp and shimmy, but the dun is perfectly still, his head high, his nose turned in the direction of my gaze.
“Whoa, mules. Whoa,” I reassure them. They have their ears pinned back like they’re sensing a watering hole being guarded by a wolf and aren’t sure whether they want to risk an approach.
“Giddyap,” I urge, giving the reins a shake.
They begin to move, veering away from the road to pick their way around the rocks and sage to another set of ruts. These tracks aren’t nearly as deep and distinct as those on the main, but they head toward the tiny shapes that quiver in the distance.
Wyatt is quiet beside me, and I’m grateful for his silence. I have questions and no answers. I only know as long as the mules are walking and not balking, we’re not in any immediate danger. They pick up speed, chuffing and bearing down on the reins, and I hold them back, mindful of the wheels beneath me and repairs I don’t want to make. Within minutes the figures reveal themselves.
“John, I think . . . I think that’s Will and Webb.”
I forget about the wagon and the unforgiving seat beneath me and let the mules go. Wyatt clings to the seat with one hand and to his rifle with the other.
“Where’s the rest of the train?” he shouts over the squeal of the wheels. “Where the hell are the wagons?”
The two boys have begun to run, their arms and legs pumping, their shaggy hair bouncing around them. They see us too. Neither of them is wearing hats or shoes—not that Webb ever does—and they are very much alone.
The distance between us is a thousand miles, and I am gripped with dread. For a moment, everything slows and fades, and all I hear is the sound of my heart drowning out everything else. Then I am reining in the mules and jumping down from the seat with my gun and my canteen, running across the uneven ground toward the news I don’t want to hear. Will collapses at my feet, and Webb clings to my legs. I pull Webb up into my arms, and Wyatt tries to help Will stand, but Will’s legs give out again, and Wyatt kneels beside him.
“Will?” Wyatt says, putting his arm around his brother. “Will, what happened? Where is the train?”
“I d-don’t know. They w-w-went on,” Will stammers. “Pa broke a wheel, and Mrs. Bingham was having her b-b-baby.” He’s begun to shake so h
ard he’s bouncing.
I make him drink a little water, Webb too, though he’s crying and struggles to swallow. And then they tell us the rest.
“Indians,” Will says. “I k-killed one. I didn’t mean to. And then they killed Pa and W-Warren. They killed Mr. B-B-Bingham. And they b-b-burned the w-wagons. The wagons are gone. Ma’s g-g-gone too.”
“We hid in the rocks,” Webb cries, interrupting him. “We hid in the rocks for a long time, and the wagons burned. Will wouldn’t let me up. He laid on top of me and covered my mouth. I woulda killed ’em. I woulda saved Naomi.”
Each breath burns my throat and scalds my chest, but I ask the question.
“Where is she? What happened to Naomi?”
Wyatt is shaking his head, adamant, denying everything he’s heard, but tears are streaming from his eyes. Will is crying now too, and it is Webb who answers me.
“They took Naomi,” Webb cries, lifting his shattered eyes to mine. “They took her away.”
About a mile down the rutted path, I halt the wagon again and make the boys wait for me inside. One wagon is a pile of smoking embers. One wagon is only partially burned, the cover hanging in ashy shreds, like the fire never caught hold.
“Maybe they’re not dead,” Webb insists. And his face carries the hope and dread of every question not yet answered, but Will knows.
“They’re dead, Webb,” he whispers, and he covers his face.
Wyatt wants to come with me, but I threaten to tie him down if he sets foot outside the wagon. “You stay here with Webb and Will. And you don’t come out, none of you, until I come back for you.” Wyatt’s holding his rifle, and his face is striped with dust and tears, but his jaw is set like he’s ready to fight.
“Stay here,” I repeat, holding his gaze. He nods once, his hands flexing on his gun, and I turn away and cock my own. I won’t need it, but I bring it anyway.
I study the scene as I approach. Two wagons, one partially burned and the other a pile of smoking rubble. The oxen weren’t taken. They’re bunched together around a watering hole, none the worse for wear. They lift their heads as I near and watch as I discover the bodies beyond them.
The top of William May’s head is a raw, bubbled wound. Blood discolors the ground between him and Warren, who is facedown, his splayed feet at his father’s head. Homer Bingham is turned away, his back to the others, but his arms are flung forward, reaching for something, clawing at the dirt as though he attempted to crawl to his wife but made it a mere foot before succumbing to the destroyer who took the top of his head.
The indignity of the death stuns me. Not just the death itself. I have seen death, but not like this, and a deep, inexplicable shame wells up in my chest. This is death I don’t understand. I can do nothing for them but give them some dignity and shield them from the eyes of the boys waiting in my wagon. Using a bit of water and my handkerchief, I do my best to clean off the worst of the blood from their faces and pull their hats over the clotted mess on the tops of their heads. And then I brace myself for what is next.
The May wagon fared better than the other wagon, though the cover is gone and the box is black. I know it’s William’s because it’s missing a wheel. Inside the May wagon are blackened provisions and sooty blankets, but that is all. The straps that kept the feed box and the water barrel attached to the side have melted and snapped, releasing their cargo. The barrel has rolled to a stop near the smoldering remains of the other wagon.
Nothing is left of the Bingham wagon but the charred skeleton and a single willow branch jutting up from the remains. An iron dutch oven, none the worse for wear, sits amid a rounded pile of debris I can’t distinguish. It radiates heat and an acrid stench, and I make myself approach it.
There is very little left of them, no hair, no shape, no flesh at all. I cannot tell who is who or the details of their suffering. What is left is just a charred suggestion of two bodies clothed in ash, lying side by side, and obscured by a four-foot section of the wagon box that has collapsed against them. My throat aches, my heart thrums, and I can’t feel my hands. I turn away and steady my breaths.
I don’t know what to do.
Winifred. William. Warren. The Binghams. The boys. Naomi.
“ka’a,” I moan. “Naomi.”
I don’t know where she is. I don’t know how to find her, and I can’t leave the Mays. Not the boys, and not their dead. Our dead. They are mine too. They are Naomi’s. And I promised William I would take care of them.
I look around me, helpless, desperate for direction. William’s tools are scattered around the wheel he was working on, and suddenly I know what to do. I’ve just spent a week building a wagon, and I grab what I need and slide beneath the Mays’ wagon and find the bolts that secure the box to the underpinnings. When I’ve removed the bolts, I drag the box off the frame, letting it crash to the side, spilling the blackened provisions and contents onto the ground. I roll it, end over end, over to the remains of the other wagon. I need something to bury them in. Something to bury them all in. The ground is hard, and I don’t have much time. One by one, I drag the three men beside the remains of their women, and I cover them all with the upended wagon box. It looks like a table, sitting there among the rocks and the brush, but the death is hidden, the worst of the horror concealed. I go and get the boys.
I have to confirm what Will already knows. Webb knows it too, though I think Will shielded him from the worst parts. I don’t know how long Will kept them hidden, cowering among the rocks, waiting to feel safe enough to run for help, but it was a good while if the Binghams’ wagon had time to burn.
“I don’t know how long,” Will says when I ask him. “But when it happened, it wasn’t much past noon.”
It’s nearing four o’clock now.
“We gotta find Naomi and baby Wolfe, John,” Webb whimpers.
“I know. And I will. But I need your help now.”
We pile rocks onto the overturned wagon box to weigh it down and then line the sides with the same, creating a monument of stones to mark the spot. From pieces of the undercarriage, I create a cross and bury it deep so it stands upright.
“We need to say something or sing a song,” Wyatt says. His jaw is tight, and he wears the calm stupor of disbelief. I am grateful he won’t ever have to see what his brothers saw.
“We need Ma to sing,” Webb says, and his face crumples.
“I can do it,” Will says, his lips trembling but his shoulders squared.
He sings a song I know, a song Jennie used to sing about grace and the sweet sound it makes. Will’s voice is clear and true like Winifred’s, but he starts to cry when he begins the third verse, and Wyatt and Webb have to help him finish. I can’t sing, but I say the words with them.
The Lord hath promised good to me;
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.
When we are through, I unharness my mules and change the rigging on my wagon to accommodate William’s oxen, and then I gather them so I can yoke them in. Not far from the watering hole, I find some blood and a loose page from Naomi’s book. She was here when they surprised her. A cluster of tracks—unshod ponies—lead away from the area. At least I have somewhere to start.
“Why are you yoking the oxen?” Wyatt asks. “The mules will be faster. If we’re going after Naomi, we want to go fast, don’t we?” He and his brothers have culled through the Mays’ provisions and pulled out the things they can save, and they’re piling them in the back of my wagon.
“I can’t follow those tracks in a wagon, Wyatt,” I say.
“We’re leaving it here?”
“No. I’m going after Naomi and Wolfe, and you’re going to take this wagon and your brothers, and you’re going to follow the ruts until you catch up with Abbott and the train.”
“No, no, no. We’re going with you,” he says, shaking his head emphatically.
“Wyatt.”
Wyatt shakes his head
again, and his mouth trembles. He’s close to breaking down, and I need him to hold on.
“You can do this, Wyatt. You have to. You remember what your ma said to you when we made it back to camp after my animals were scattered?”
“No. I don’t remember,” he chokes.
“She said you were a man now. She got to see that. And you are, Wyatt.”
“It’s easy to be tough when I’m with you, John. But I don’t think I can do this by myself.”
“I have to go find Naomi, Wyatt. And I can’t take Will and Webb. You know that.”
He groans, fisting his hands in his hair.
“You’ve got money in the wagon. You know where I put it. You’ve got oxen. You’ve got supplies to get you through, and you’ve got people in that train who care about you. You keep on that westbound route until you find them. They’re only a day ahead. Then you stick with Abbott. He’ll get you all the way to California, and when I find Naomi, I’ll come find you and your brothers.”
“Do you promise?” He’s crying now, and I want to cry too. But I’m too afraid to cry.
“I promise you I will. I don’t know how long it’ll take me, but I promise I will.”
“Okay,” Wyatt whispers.
I’ve watered my animals. They’re ready to go. I might need the dun, and I’ll need a few mules, but I leave Kettle and a mule for each of the boys, securing them to the sides. They might need them. I help Webb and Will into the back of the wagon, and I tell them what I’ve told Wyatt.
“I can’t go with you. You gotta take care of each other so I can take care of Naomi and Wolfe,” I say. “Listen to Wyatt. Mind him. Webb, you take care of Kettle and the mules. They’re May mules now. Will, you keep looking after Webb.”
Webb throws himself into my arms, and I reach out for Will, who is pale and quiet. His tears have dried and his eyes are hollow, but he lets me take his hand.
“All of this is my fault, John,” Will says. “I killed one, and that’s why they attacked us.”
“You can’t take the blame for what other men do. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know the why of it. But I know this—you saved your brother, and you kept your head. I’m proud of you.”