Wagon Train Reunion

by Linda Ford

  Father helped Mother alight and Abby fell in at their side, following Ben and Rachel. The Littletons joined them, Martin’s expression grim as he held Johnny. He knew what it was like to lose three children. Yet he remained kind, Sally remained cheerful. How had they found it possible to be so after so much sorrow?

  They reached the spot. Most of the emigrants had gathered together, perhaps as much to rejoice that the hole hadn’t been dug for their loved one as any other reason.

  Rev. Pettygrove stood beside the open grave, the grieving parents at his side. He nodded to Abby who played and sang “Amazing Grace.” Remembering Andy’s death made it difficult to keep her voice from cracking but she wanted to do her best to bring a little comfort to the bereaved.

  Rev. Pettygrove spoke a few words. “‘The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped.’ May this Psalm comfort and strengthen those grieving and indeed all of us.” He prayed. Once the amen was said, Father and Mother left, but Abby stayed with the others, standing at the Turnbows’ side as the men filled in the grave. Rev. Pettygrove’s wife hugged both the Turnbows and patted their backs even though the pair were still stiff with shock.

  Abby and the others waited until the grave was covered over, then they slipped quietly away.

  She joined the others at their camp. They ate their meal in relative silence except for Mother’s complaints, but Abby barely heard them. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of Andy’s death. Perhaps the others thought of their own losses.

  Some deaths were accidental, disease or so-called natural causes. But Andy’s death had been avoidable. If only she’d tried to dissuade him. If only she hadn’t been more interested in showing her silly friend how wrong she was. She didn’t blame God, only herself.

  * * *

  After supper that evening, Ben looked down at Abby, walking by his side as they circled the wagons. He regularly fought an inner battle, alternately thanking Miles for suggesting Ben ask Abby to walk with him each evening so he could keep an eye on the activities then wishing he could go back to that day and refuse the suggestion.

  It was too late to go back and undo things. There was so much he knew he would regret later although he enjoyed it in the present. Like these evening walks. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

  “I’m thinking about that baby and his poor parents.”

  He reached for her hand, knew a sense of rightness when she didn’t resist. Seems she was learning a man could touch her without hurting her. “It’s sad.”

  “Emma took it hard.”

  “She’s so tenderhearted.”

  “Yes.” She spoke somewhat distractedly he thought, and sensed she mulled over the recent events.

  “What’s really on your mind?”

  She stopped, staring straight ahead.

  He stood before her so she had to see him. “Abby?”

  She focused her eyes on his. “I...” She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He knew something weighed heavily on her mind. Something to do with the death of the Turnbow baby? Or had her mother been complaining again? Still. How that woman went on and on was enough to try anyone’s patience. Over supper she had plenty to say about the hardships of this trip. Everything from burning buffalo chips to the mosquitoes to the talk of Indians all meant as a warning.

  If God had meant us to go to Oregon, He would have made a proper road.

  No one commented on the flaws in her assertions.

  Until Emma—quiet, sweet Emma—spoke up. Instead, he sent us guides like Sam Weston, and brave men like my brother and your husband and Martin to lead the way. Mrs. Bingham had been as surprised as any of them to hear Emma and for a few minutes kept her thoughts to herself.

  Perhaps Abby worried her mother might be right.

  “Do you think our trip is doomed to failure?” Ben asked.

  She blinked and shook her head. “Absolutely not. I see it as the opportunity to start again. A new creature. Old things passed away, all things become new.” She used the words of a Bible verse to explain her feelings. “We’ll make it across the continent.” She heaved out a deep sigh. “Or die trying.”

  He grabbed her by the elbows and drew her close. “You’re talking like your mother.”

  “No, I’m not expecting to die. I’m simply saying that nothing short of death will stop me.”

  He looked into her green-gold eyes. Saw the depth of her determination and chuckled. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

  She continued to search his gaze.

  He shoved aside the barriers, giving her access to his very soul. He thought of Queen Esther’s brave words, if I perish, I perish. It would be the same for Ben. He’d allowed himself to grow close to her and he would pay the price when this trip ended.

  Abby puffed out her cheeks and shifted her gaze to the middle of his chest. “If you must know, I was thinking of Andy, my twin brother.”

  “I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet him. Tell me what he was like.”

  They continued on their way. Ben took note of those coming and going, looked for anything out of the ordinary. Amos and Grant had been out checking the animals and gave a friendly wave as they returned to the circle. And there was Clarence Pressman glued to the wheel of the Morrison wagon. According to Emma, the wound on Clarence’s back had healed well but still she spent time with him. Always apart from others. It bothered Ben no end but he’d stopped mentioning it. Every time he did, Rachel laid into him with protests and Emma ducked her head and ignored his concerns.

  “Andy was brave and courageous. I suppose a bit of a daredevil.” She shrugged. “Maybe even a show-off. But he could do everything he set his mind to do. Well, almost.”

  He turned at the tone in her voice. “Almost?”

  She quirked a mirthless smile. “No one can do everything.”

  “Guess not.”

  “Mother and Father doted on him. He was everything to them. And he knew it.”

  “Everything? What about you?”

  “I was his faithful shadow, but I didn’t mind. I adored him. We were close. Like the Jensen twins. We could finish each other’s sentences, know what the other was thinking. Maybe that was part of the problem.”

  She seemed to have slipped away into her memories.

  “Part of what problem?”

  A shudder crossed her shoulders. “Huh? Oh, just an expression.”

  He knew better. Something to do with Andy weighed heavily on her thoughts. “Did you ever tell me how he died?”

  “Bucked off a high-strung horse.” Every word came out clipped.

  “Remind me. How old was he?”

  “We were fourteen.”

  “Did you witness it?”

  Even though they weren’t touching, he felt her shudder clear through him and stopped walking. He took her hand but she pulled away.

  “It was my fault.” The words lacked emotion. Her face was blank.

  As if she’d closed her heart and mind to the memory. How awful it must have been to hold her in such a vicious grip ten years later.

  He reached for her again, wanting to hold and comfort her but she hurried past him and ran toward their campfire.

  He followed more slowly. She’d shut him out even as she seemed to have shut out the pain of losing her twin. It bothered him and he couldn’t say exactly why until he recalled something his ma had said. She knew she was dying, though the children had been spared the knowledge at the time Ben had in mind. But her words had comforted him and strengthened him after her death, after Grayson’s wife and baby died and after Pa died. Ma said, “You can only overcome the power of grief if you lean into it and learn how to walk with it as your companion. It won’t go away, but you get used to it at your side. But if you fight it, deny it, try to ru
n from it, grief becomes like an angry dog, nipping at your every step.”

  So he’d leaned into his grief. Learned to walk with it.

  That’s what Abby needed to do. Tomorrow, Lord willing, he’d tell her this.

  The next morning was Sunday. Rev. Pettygrove held his usual reading as he had since that first, long-ago Sunday when he’d been with the travelers still on the far side of the Kansas River. Only a handful of people gathered about. Most of them had decided to get on with the business of the day.

  The Hewitts, Littletons and Binghams chose to have a Bible reading at their camp. It was Ben’s turn to read again. Each man selected whatever passage he wanted. This morning, Ben selected Ecclesiastes chapter three and in part read, “‘There is a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’” He finished the chapter and took the Bible back to the wagon.

  Somehow he managed to avoid looking directly at Abby though he meant the words specifically for her.

  A sound of alarm raced across the camp and he jerked toward it. Men, women and children crowded toward the east side. Ben hurried that direction. He broke through the crowd into the open and ground to a halt.

  A band of Indians on horseback stared at them.

  “Pawnees,” Sam said at his elbow. “From the look of hides they’re carrying, I’d say they were returning from a successful hunt.” Not only were the Pawnees strange to look at but the hides brought a pungent odor.

  The camp dogs bristled and barked, and had to be restrained by their owners.

  The lead Indian and a handful of others dismounted and strode toward them.

  “What do we do?” Ben asked, wondering if he should have brought his rifle.

  “Be calm.” Sam turned to the crowd. “Stay calm. Be courteous.”

  The Indians poked their heads into the nearest wagon and pulled out a red shirt.

  Sam approached him and by way of hand signals and words they communicated. Then Sam nodded.

  “The chief will trade goods for meat. Bring things you think he’d like. Hurry now.”

  The crowd dispersed to their wagons and soon they began to return. The chief examined each item. He liked a mirror, a felt hat, a cooking pot and a set of forks which made him laugh.

  He waved to the other Indians to come forward and soon mingled with the travelers freely examining items and offering trades.

  A bit later, satisfied, they rode away, leaving the wagon train a goodly amount of buffalo meat. The women set meat to cook for the noon meal.

  “We’ll have to jerk the rest,” Sam said, explaining how the Indians preserved the meat by cutting it into narrow strips and drying it over a low fire. So while dinner cooked, filling the air with a delicious aroma and making Ben’s mouth water with anticipation, everyone helped slice the meat into strips. Sam showed them how to hang the strips of meat on ropes along the side of the wagons.

  “We don’t have time to dry it over a slow fire like the Indians would, but the sun will do the job for us.”

  It was past their usual nooning time when they finished and sat down to eat.

  “It’s gamey.” Mrs. Bingham took a bit of the roast buffalo meat, but managed to eat her share.

  As soon as they’d eaten their fill, Ben rose and began yoking the oxen in place. “Hurry and pack up. Sam is anxious to be on the way. Travel travel travel.”

  The bugle sounded and they moved out.

  Ben rode beside the Hewitt wagon for a bit as Emma drove the oxen then moved up to the Bingham wagon. Abby normally walked but this afternoon sat beside her father while her mother rode in the back. “Everything okay?”

  She gave a smile that did not reach her eyes. “It is.”

  He waited a moment and when she offered no more, he rode on.

  Everything was not okay. He knew it as clearly as he saw the line of wagons. Even more clearly because dust rose from every wheel clouding the sight of the wagons.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Abby watched Ben ride away. Everything was not okay but then she didn’t expect it would ever be. A hole the size of the Platte valley sucked at her insides. Andy was gone. The hole would never heal.

  She should never have started talking about him. It brought a fresh flood of memories and regrets.

  Despite the uncomfortable bounce and jerk of riding in the wagon, she spent the rest of the afternoon beside her father.

  The wind blew incessantly, but as they made camp, it increased in velocity. The only way they could build a fire was to dig a little trench in which to place the buffalo chips. The wind battered them as they assembled pots and food.

  She tried to measure out flour for biscuits but the wind sucked it from the bowl.

  Rachel laughed. “I don’t think we’ll be baking until the wind goes down. Even if you could get the flour to stay where you wanted, the oven would be blown clear back to Missouri.”

  They gathered up the meat they had hung to dry and stowed it safely in a cast iron pot.

  The leftover buffalo meat from dinner would serve as supper.

  Ben returned from helping people get settled. “Sam says we have to chain the wagons together so the wind won’t blow them over.” He showed Martin and Father what to do then turned to confront the women. “Finish up with the fire and put it out. It could easily get out of control.” His gaze met Abby’s for one intense moment. “Tie down everything that’s loose.” He strode away to spread the word as did each of the committeemen.

  The wind tore at the canvas wagon covers. Father jumped inside and tied it tight. Emma and Rachel did the same in their wagon. Sally huddled inside their wagon holding Johnny while Martin tightened their canvas.

  Abby turned her back to the wind and drew up her shoulders. Sparks from the fire flew past the wagons. She grabbed the shovel and quickly buried the smoldering buffalo chips before the fire could get away and cause further damage.

  A shudder caught her whole body as she tried and failed to imagine how one would fight a fire in this wind.

  “Abigail,” her mother wailed. “Abigail.”

  Abby spun around in time to watch her mother’s tent billow and bow then lift like a kite and sail over the wagon tongue. Mother lay wrapped in her blanket, her eyes wide, face pinched.

  “My tent. Abigail, get my tent.” Her mother sounded so fearful that Abby jumped over the same wagon tongue and raced after the sailing tent.

  The wind pushed her along so her feet barely touched the ground. Bits of grass and dust swirled about her face, stinging her eyes so they watered. The tent sailed onward, with nothing to stop its flight. Laughter caught at the back of her throat at the sight she must make, her skirts billowing in front of her, the tent bouncing before her. Like some make-believe children’s story about flying.

  She caught her foot in one of those buffalo trails and landed facedown with enough force to knock the breath from her. She couldn’t move. Black edged at her mind. She blinked in an attempt to clear her vision but it danced and shimmered.

  “Abby, Abby. Are you okay? Say something.” Ben’s voice came from nearby. What was he doing out here? Surely she imagined it. Just as she had when he so often came to her thoughts over the years despite her intention to never think of him again.

  Her lungs suddenly remembered to work and sucked in air hungrily. She lifted her head, turned. “Ben?”

  He laughed and helped her sit up. “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I was—Mother’s tent.” She tried to rush to her feet but a wave of dizziness made her sit back down even before Ben’s firm grasp pulled her back in place.

  “Is this what you’re after?” He held a bundled-up piece of canvas in one arm.

  “Oh, thank goodness.”

  He sat beside her. “Abby, do you ha
ve any idea how scared I was when I saw you running across the prairie? I wondered if you’d sail clean out of sight. Don’t you realize how easy it is to get lost out here? And then you fell so hard and lay so still—” He didn’t finish but wrapped his free arm about her and pulled her to his chest.

  He pressed his cheek to her head. She surely imagined he kissed her hair. But it was a nice thought and rather comforting. He sat with his back to the wind, sheltering her from its batter.

  A shudder shook him.

  She tipped her head back. “Are you okay?” Perhaps he’d been hurt in pursuing her. Oh, how would she live with that added guilt on her conscience?

  “I am now.” He shoved the bundled up tent under his knees and held it in place. Then cupped his hand to her cheek. “Abby, don’t ever scare me like that again.”

  Umm. It might be worth it to get him to touch her like that. “Why not?” some little imp prompted her to ask. She looked at him with wide eyes that likely revealed how much she wanted from him. A wayward thought that she would deal with later.

  “Because, my sweet Abby, my heart would surely burst if you frightened me like that again.” He lowered his head, and paused as if to give her a chance to duck away.

  She had no such desire. She lifted her face to offer her lips.

  He claimed them. Lingered. Not long enough to make her uneasy. Nor long enough to satisfy her desire to belong to him.

  She pressed her hand to the back of his head. Claiming him. She realized he didn’t wear a hat. Had the wind taken it? Not that it mattered at the moment. All that mattered was the two of them. Together. Belonging. Hearts melding.

  He broke the kiss but only by an inch. His breath caressed her mouth. His scent filled her pores. Warm prairie grasses, leather, sage and the maleness of him.

  “We need to get back before it rains.”

  Lightning flashed. Thunder shook the ground. How long had this been going on and she hadn’t noticed?

  He rose, grabbed Mother’s tent and pulled her to his side. Together they fought the wind as they returned to the wagons only a couple hundred yards away. She thought she’d surely gone much farther.