by J. A. Crook
***
Harriet did have a chance to tell Floyd about what she saw, many days later, when they were alone, talking late at night. Floyd warned Harriet to mind her business when it came to the Indian guides. Floyd reminded her that native people of America were very superstitious and that they believed in “nature gods” that were very different than the Christian god they knew. He advised her that their practices may seem foreign, like voodoo or witchcraft, but it was their own, in their own land, and it was their right, in this undeveloped section of America more than any, to practice their faith as they saw fit. Finally, he reminded her that there was no danger in their practice.
The issue of danger was what concerned Harriet most of all. Harriet wasn’t as sure as Floyd was about the potential danger of the Indian’s practices. She wondered if they were casting curses instead of wards of protection. She thought maybe the Indians were finding a way to get revenge for all of their tribesmen that were killed by the colonial settlers many years ago, or revenge on those taking their lands from them. She was afraid of the silent, dark men. It took all she could manage to trust her husband and Mr. Vickers, who assured her time and time again that they were a safe party.
Time went on and travelling became a terribly boring affair. The group had been lucky with the majority of their travel, as the provisions brought along sufficed fairly, the wagon held up short of a few wheels and tears in the canvas top, the cattle were strong despite occasional shortages of grazing lands and sickness strayed from the Greyson party in ways that it hadn’t with some of the other travelling groups that had already given members to God. As was with anything, everything was eventual, and when entering the desiccated Midwest, the axle of the wagon gave with a sharp snap and caused an immediate halt of the group. Harriet, who was in the wagon, grasped on to all she could with the sudden jolt of the mechanical failure and shouted out to her husband with worry.
“Floyd! Floyd, what’s the matter out there? Did something happen?” Always thinking of the worst before the best.
“Come on out, Harriet! Step on out of the wagon. Oh! Oh, son of a bitch! Son of a bitch, we broke an axle, I think!” It was unusual for Floyd to curse, but the fact that he did said something about the severity of the situation.
Harriet emerged carefully from the wagon, with the escort of Mr. Vickers who was already standing a step or two behind Hank. Hank was assessing the situation with the wagon, only to give a nod back to Floyd and to his assumption of the axle.
“It’s an axle alright. This will take a while to repair, Mr. Greyson. I know it’s still early, but I don’t think we’re moving much more today. We’re going to have to move around some of the provisions. Take them out of the wagon, keep them close by. I’ll see if we have everything we need to get this going again, but I think we may have to wait for one of the travelling parties to catch up with us, maybe to lend a hand.” Hank frowned to the thought. He knew, much as the others did, that the Greyson party was some time ahead of the others. It could have been hours, or even a day or so, before the other groups caught up to them to help with the replacement of the integral part of the wagon’s structure. “We’ll do what we can. Com’on, let’s get this stuff off of the wagon.”
Hank then worked with the members from the party to begin moving things around to accommodate the maintenance that had to be done. Harriet helped best she could, concerned about having much of their provisions exposed, as well as many of their personal items. The wagon had become something of a home for Harriet and it felt as though it were being ransacked. The experience gave her a bit of perspective, however. It reminded her of the reality of travelling, of what she was really a part of, and how things could go from good to bad in a moment.
When everything was appropriated for the maintenance, the group did what they could to try and get the wagon back in working order. The few efforts they gave were unsuccessful, however, and Hank advised the group on the matter as the sun was falling in the West; on the horizon of the land they now longed for.
“We’ll need some help, for sure. I think with a couple more hands, with the break we’ve got down there, it shouldn’t be a whole lot more trouble. But we’ll get everything taken care of.” Hank said, dirty and sweaty beneath the falling sun. He wiped at his hands while waiting for the decision from Floyd and Grant.
Floyd crossed his arms in frustration. He thought for a moment, hoping to discover some sort of resolve. It was the falling sun, however, that told him that no more progress would be made this day and it would be best they waited for the next of the travelling parties to arrive before they moved on. With that decision, Floyd looked back toward the East and the direction they came. There was no sign of any of the travelling groups headed west. No lights flickered in the distance, a distance that was visible for miles from this part of the country. Instead, the group prepared a fire, a meal and their tents for the evening, prepared to do all that they could and wait. Eventually, someone arrived, in the cool twilight hours, but it wasn’t who the group expected or hoped for.