Trail Angel

by Derek Catron

  Just before dinner, with everyone in camp occupied by the evening’s chores, Annabelle slipped away with a sheet of Gayetty’s medicated paper, waiting like a child at a cookie jar until certain no one watched.

  Discreetly separating from a camp of so many people proved no easy task. Annabelle came across a copse of prickly bushes growing near the banks of a stream. Squatting behind them, she felt confident enough of her solitude to relax. The ridiculousness of her position brought on a fit of laughter she stifled for fear of drawing attention.

  From Caroline, less inured by the inhibitions of propriety, she learned not to be so troubled by the chore. Annabelle watched with amazement one morning as her cousin walked not twenty paces from the wagon and squatted, her dress spread around her as a natural screen. She lingered but a moment before bouncing up as if completing a dance step and leaving the daintiest of puddles on the sun-scorched dirt.

  Proof that youth had its advantages in these matters came in the example of Annabelle’s mother, whom she suspected had not fully relieved herself for days after leaving Omaha. As willful as her mother could be, Annabelle wondered if she intended to reach Montana in her constipated state.

  Then one night the sounds of her mother rising in the hours before daybreak awakened Annabelle. She smiled to realize her mother had stowed a sheet of medicated paper where it would be handy upon a nocturnal departure. Her father never stirred on her mother’s return. Annabelle remained still, preserving her mother’s sense of privacy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Josey and Lord Byron rode to the meadow where the stock grazed, maneuvering around the herd to steer them to camp. Good grass wasn’t hard to find this early in the season. While there was little to fear from Indians here, the oxen and cattle were safer within the wagon corral, where the men took turns standing overnight guard.

  After an afternoon in the field, the cattle were contented and docile. The sounds of barking dogs and the clatter of tin plates and iron cookware carried from the camp as they approached. The waning sun brought a breeze that dried the sweat on Josey’s back and carried the sweet smell of frying bacon from the cook fires. His stomach rumbled.

  The men worked without speaking. They could ride all day while hardly exchanging a word, and then, when they did, not even finish a sentence before one understood the other’s meaning. This habit drove the Colonel to distraction. When the three of them rode together, the old man maintained a running monologue to fill the silence and then cursed the other two for not interrupting. Sometimes Josey remained silent longer than he naturally would, just to wind up the Colonel. He suspected Byron did the same, though they never spoke of it.

  The big man’s silence came from a different place than his own. Byron had suffered not just through the war but all his life. He bore the scars of savage and repeated beatings that made Josey’s battle wounds look like scratches. Years before the war, the man they first knew simply as Hoss had been taken from his wife and children. They died without him, and Josey knew his friend prayed for the souls of his family every night. Then he slept.

  Josey envied the peace of mind that permitted such easy slumber. He tried prayer, too, but talking to God only stirred him up. As they settled in one night Josey asked Byron how he fell asleep so easily.

  Byron must have thought the question a joke. Josey rarely japed, so he was eager to hear the rest. “I just close my eyes and breathe.”

  Josey wondered if counting breaths would steer his mind from darker thoughts. “Do you think about your breathing?”

  “I don’t think of anything.” Byron’s deeply lined forehead creased with concern. “What do you think about?”

  “Things I’ve done. Things I’ve seen.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Now Josey wondered if Byron was joking. “You’re a stronger man than me if you can keep from thinking on what was done to you.”

  Byron held quiet a moment. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like far-off thunder. “Things they done to me, they can’t do to me no more, so I don’t think on them.”

  Josey waited for Byron to say more but soon all he heard were his friend’s steady breaths. It was like Byron to leave unsaid what Josey already knew. I think of the things I’ve done because I fear I will do them again.

  With Josey lost in thought, Byron rode ahead, turning one of the oxen that had strayed. He rode well enough for not having grown up with the skill, but there was a stiffness to him in the saddle that left him sore after a long day. That was why Josey did most of the hard riding, ranging ahead of the wagons, watching for trouble and scouting good campsites.

  He often came across other wagon trains headed west and sometimes travelers turned the other way. They were eager to see a fresh face and generous with news about what they had seen. There were no strangers on the trail, the Colonel liked to say. Even Josey could be sociable long enough to pick up news from fellow travelers. This day had been different.

  “I saw riders,” he said when Byron returned to his side. “On that ridge to the north, when I came back from scouting.”

  “I didn’t see them.” Byron satisfied Josey’s curiosity without being asked.

  “I don’t think they meant to be seen. They rode off, headed north, as soon as I came into view.”

  Josey circled back, guiding a pair of milk cows that belonged to the New York families. It took a few minutes before he and Byron were close enough to speak, and they resumed the conversation as if it had been uninterrupted.

  “Indians?”

  “No. Weren’t soldiers, either.” Josey turned over in his mind something in the way the riders moved off. “Might have been once, though.”

  “You ain’t seen ’em before?”

  Josey shook his head. So many wagon trains left Omaha they were bound to bunch together. Sometimes they saw wagons on the south side of the river, their canvas tops gleaming in the sun. At night they might see campfires twinkling on the horizon. No one had cause to hide.

  Not unless they did.

  The cattle were quiet. From the sounds at camp, he knew dinner would be ready soon, but neither man moved. Josey didn’t like mysteries. They pricked at his mind like a sandspur on his trousers, rubbing with every step.

  “I expect we’ll see ’em again.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Exhausted by long days on the trail, slumber should have come easily. Yet even after almost a week, the sensations of sleeping in the wagon were still too new. Annabelle lay awake beneath her blanket, her bones sore, muscles leaden, unable to get comfortable no matter which way she turned. Even once she found her ease, sounds that went unnoticed during the day clamored in a discordant jumble to a restless mind. Squawking chickens. Lowing cattle. Barking dogs answering howling wolves. Whispered conversations carried by a wind that set loose canvas flapping and leather harnesses creaking.

  Finally smothered in blessed sleep, Annabelle awoke with a jolt, her heart racing like after a hard ride, her nightgown sticky with sweat. She lay still a few moments, disoriented in the dark by the dream, a subject she thought she had put behind her, if not literally buried. The white canvas wagon cover looked just enough like the canopy of her marriage bed to confuse her addled brain and leave her grasping to determine what was dream and what was real.

  Not wishing to wake her parents, Annabelle crept from the wagon, flinching every time the wood creaked. Crawling from the wagon, the fair light cast by the silver half moon and millions of twinkling stars reassured her. Two nights earlier a storm as ferocious as any hurricane she had seen tore at their campsite. Great billows of dark clouds rolled in. Lightning played over them like holiday fireworks. The breeze whipped into a gust, washing over them the fresh smell of rain. The skies darkened as a moonless night, and the rain came as the men unhitched the teams.

  They scrambled to secure the oxen and cows. A couple of the miners had set up a tent, and it blew over despite extra lines meant to hold it in place. Her father and uncle drove stakes into the g
round to anchor the family’s wagons while she and her mother took shelter within. Even with the anchors, the wagons rocked like wave-tossed boats. Rain blew sideways into the openings in the canvas, soaking nearly everything.

  Few slept that night. They rose to a dreary morning, their camp practically in ruins. They might have lost all the stock but for a cow that wandered into camp to be milked. The scouts followed its tracks to find the rest of the herd.

  Thick mud made the road nearly impassable, sucking at the hooves of the oxen. Damp seeped into everything. At the midday break, Annabelle and her mother spread out their bedding to dry in the sun. They wiped down everything inside the wagon with a water and vinegar mix to prevent the spread of mildew. They hung sodden clothes from the wagon’s canvas to dry in the wind.

  Two days later, it was so dry wagon drivers raced to move out first and avoid swallowing the dust of the wagons in front. The emigrants prayed for a light rain to tamp the trail and break the midday heat, but it seemed nothing came in half measure in these western lands.

  Except for sleep. Annabelle believed a good night’s sleep was a palliative for nearly any adversity, and she remained confident she soon would adjust to her new environment. Hoping the cool air would aid in recapturing sleep without any cursed dreams, she carried her blanket, pillow and an old quilt to spread on the ground. Her eyes sharpened by the darkness, she maneuvered easily in the night. As she sought a soft spot near the wagons, the discreet rumble of a man clearing his throat startled her.

  “If you’re going to sleep outside, lie under the wagon. It’s safer.”

  The Colonel reclined on the ground beside the orange glow of the cook fire. Annabelle wasn’t sure whether she recognized him by his lean form or the harshness of his Yankee accent. She shuffled forward, wrapping herself more tightly in the blanket and quilt.

  He must have registered her confusion as she considered the unseen danger his advice implied. “The stock.” He nodded in the direction of the animals. “If anything should startle them into a stampede, you’ll be safer under a wagon.”

  “Wonderful. Another worry to keep me awake. The wolves and rain storms weren’t enough.”

  He tipped his hat. “All part of the service, ma’am.”

  “At least it’s a lovely night.” She found a spot near the fire to lay her quilt.

  “You’ve had trouble sleeping?” The Colonel lit his pipe, his face hidden behind the flare of the match.

  “I don’t think we slept a wink the first night. Father discovered an ax next to Mother’s side of the bed. She is terrified of an Indian attack. Father was more afraid of Mother waking from a wolf or coyote howl in such a state that she might dismember a limb—his or hers—before she knew what she was doing.”

  The Colonel stifled his laughter to keep from waking the others, his amusement prompting a hoarse cough.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” she asked. “I can’t believe you’re unaccustomed to sleeping outdoors.”

  “Old men like me don’t need to sleep much.” In the glow of his pipe she saw his mustache rise into a smile. “Which is a good thing given how many times we have to piss in the night.” A look of alarm passed over his face. “Excuse my language, ma’am. I’ve been living among uncouth soldiers for too long.”

  “Your language is not alien to me.” Annabelle liked how he called her “ma’am” even though he was older than her father. His manners reminded her of Southern gentlemen. “Once I can sleep better, I think I might come to enjoy our travels.”

  “Is it bad dreams that bother you?” the Colonel asked.

  Annabelle shifted. “Why would you think that?”

  “They are common enough these days.”

  She wondered if he spoke of the war in general or Josey Angel. Annabelle rarely saw the young scout among the wagons. He usually rode ahead and showed up only to report to the Colonel before riding away again. His long absences did not remove him from Annabelle’s mind, but she resisted asking the Colonel about him. Instead she asked, “Do bad dreams keep you awake?”

  “Me?” He chuckled. “When you reach my age, you stop worrying about your dreams. You’re just grateful to still have them.”

  Annabelle stretched, feeling refreshed despite her abbreviated sleep. The camp would stir soon. Light appeared long before the sun, and the emigrants took advantage of every minute in the cool morning. Rising from her seat by the fire, she bid the Colonel a good day. “I may as well start getting dressed.”

  “I should go, too.” He tipped his hat and rose with some difficulty on knees that seemed to waggle.

  Shaking the dust from her quilt, Annabelle watched distant lightning strikes flash on the horizon. She hoped the sight didn’t portend another storm. The lights reminded her of the shelling in Charleston, carried her back to another time. It had been months since she last dreamed of her husband. Richard had been so angry in her dream. She wasn’t sure why. For selling the family land? For giving him up for dead? There were too many possibilities, some she even blocked from her mind.

  Annabelle remembered the day he left, so handsome in his uniform, his wide shoulders gilded with fringed epaulets, a plumed hat making him look even taller in the saddle. He wore a red sash about his waist and carried his father’s sword and pearl inlay revolver. The sun shone and he looked the very image of Southern gallantry.

  Yet it wasn’t until he disappeared from view that Annabelle permitted a smile. Couldn’t restrain it, really. If she’d been troubled by guilt at the moment, the feeling disappeared in the relief at his departure. She might have felt differently if she’d known he wasn’t coming back. That moment of pleasure left her no defense against his anger in her dream.

  “You never came home,” she said in the dream.

  “I’ve been here all along,” her husband responded. He reached toward her in the dream, and she pulled back, tripped, her leg jolting for balance with a sudden movement that woke her.

  It’s better to be awake if that’s what sleep brings. That he should hold such sway over her after all this time proved how deeply he wounded her. He had been dead nearly two years now. She would never know precisely how long. The uncertainty made her envy widows who received accounts of their husband’s deaths. As difficult as those letters were to read, at least they delivered a sense of finality. The women grieved and moved on. Annabelle never had that. She imagined Richard’s death a thousand ways, sometimes, in her darkest moments, wishing him the pain in death he had thrust on her in life.

  Such thoughts always wracked her with remorse and left her more vulnerable to the nightmares. He had come to her, angry, his comely face twisted into a mask of hatred she had never understood.

  No. That wasn’t right. She understood why he hated her. Perhaps the mystery was in how much. Where was the forgiveness? Where was the healing of time? She feared she would never understand that.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The wagons typically stopped late in the day, depending on where the scouts found a good campsite. They had left behind Fremont, a settlement of maybe two hundred souls. Two weeks out from Omaha, the scouts brought back word that they’d passed the westernmost point of the Union-Pacific railroad construction site. They were still at least a week away from Fort Kearny. The monotonous routine and vast distances sobered Annabelle, like crossing an ocean in a rowboat with only a vague faith that land waited on the other side.

  Yet the journey brought its own pleasures. Evenings were Annabelle’s favorite time. While the men unhitched the wagons and moved the stock to graze, the women and children gathered fuel and started cook fires. Trees were still plentiful near the river when they first left Omaha, but they began to see fewer, then hardly any. Earlier travelers had cut down what few trees there had been, the Colonel explained. Before that, great herds of buffalo ate or rubbed down whatever shoots came up long before they grew into trees.

  A stream of emigrants with rifles had run off those herds, yet plenty of evidence remained of their migrating
through the area between seasons. When dry, great piles of dung could be burned, putting off enough smoky heat for cooking. The boys in particular enjoyed gathering the dried buffalo chips, even if they spent as much time flinging them at each other as adding them to their cart.

  Each evening, her father and Luke took the end board from one of the wagons and placed it across two provision boxes. The women set the “table” with tin plates and cups. Without chairs, most sat on small boxes. After supper, while the women cleaned up, the men oiled harnesses and saw to repairs. Later, they played cards or got out their dice to play chuck-a-luck. Sometimes they visited with other families. On fair nights, the emigrants came together at one fire. They talked of family and loves left behind or spoke dreamily of their hopes for the new land.

  One warm night when the mosquitoes were scarce, they made music. Caroline had a beautiful voice and, despite her youth, played the best fiddle among them. Others improvised instruments from washboards, spoons and kettles. Some of the couples managed to dance a few steps in a dusty clearing near the fire. The Colonel sat to the side, tapping his knee in rhythm with Luke’s spoons. Caroline asked if he knew a song.

  “I best leave that to you, pretty lady,” he said, drawing a blush from the teen. “If we come across some hostile Indians, maybe then I’ll try a tune. The sound is sure to drive them off.”

  Josey Angel and Lord Byron never joined them on these evenings around the cook fires. They always took the first shift of guard duty, with the rest of the men taking turns on the overnight shift. The guides would fill plates of food and disappear to eat in darkness with the animals. It wasn’t clear to Annabelle if they wanted to eat by themselves—or if they assumed that to be the preference of the others.

  Quick to warm to an audience, the Colonel enjoyed company. Once Caroline finished her song, Annabelle asked him about Indians. She knew his opinion that sickness and travel accidents posed a greater threat and didn’t want his joke about hostile tribes to alarm her mother.