“Do you know if there are any wagon trains heading west?” he asked, switching to English.
“They are gone one week now, sorry. More settlers will come soon. You are going to Oregon?”
Thomas was not concerned that he had missed the first wagon train, and he had no interest in waiting for another to assemble.
“Do you know where I can buy a horse and saddle for a fair price?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“Yes, my brother has a horse. And a saddle too, I’m sure. I will take you there. He will be fair.”
Thomas was concerned that she might not be telling the truth, but he had no better idea. “How can I know that he will be fair?”
Her eyes gleamed as she alluringly caressed his broad, hairy chest. “I will show you.”
She slipped from his arms and scooted down under the covers. In one of her soft, small hands she held his balls. With her other hand, she stroked his shaft. She knelt between his thighs. His hands caressed her hair. Her hands stroked the tender skin between his thighs, and he trembled with pleasure. His thick shaft threatened to poke her in the face. Holding his rigid manhood in her left palm, she raised it to her lips. She tenderly blew on it a few times. He shivered as it twitched and bounced. Her right hand began softly stroking his balls, lifting and rolling them gently from side to side.
She looked up at him and flashed him a flirtatious, but wicked smile. “Do you trust me?” She pretended to bite his tip, but then licked it.
Groaning, Thomas said nothing. He lay back and surrendered himself to her.
Practically purring, she kissed up and down the length of his cock. She then licked all around the corona of his penis. She ran her tongue on the underside of the head and sucked the precum oozing from the tip.
“Oh, more please, baby, please don't stop. Having your velvet lips on my rod is like heaven.” Thomas sighed.
Sucking him in, she massaged the head of his tool with the top of her mouth for several moments. Then she voraciously licked his shaft harder and faster. He could feel the tightening in his balls. He knew he was close to the edge.
He whispered, “Baby, you are going to make me come.”
She moved back a bit and cupped both her hands together to support his cock while he spurted his sizzling hot seed over her chest. She massaged the milky liquid all over her breasts and nipples, and then sucked the last few remaining drops from his tip.
“Ahh. Yes, yes.” He groaned with the waves of pleasure.
He was barely coherent as she climbed back into bed. As he lay on his stomach, she tenderly kissed and massaged his back. After a few minutes, she crawled on top of him, breasts pressed into his back. Her nose was buried in his hair while her lips kissed his left ear.
“Do you trust me?” she whispered.
“Ah, yes, I do,” Thomas answered.
The Indian man that she indicated was her brother bore no resemblance to her. His bronze skin was a deeper hue than her peach complexion and his broad, angular nose looked nothing like her round, button nose. If they were siblings, they shared only one parent. However, he began to dicker fairly when Thomas addressed him in Lakota. Soon, they reached what Thomas thought was a fair price. The chocolate stallion with white feet that he bought was a magnificent animal—healthy and strong. The saddle that he purchased was well worn, but he examined all the leather straps and found no cracks or undue wear.
“Mr. Blackfoot, want to take me with you? I can be your wife,” she asked, as he mounted his new horse.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot afford a wife right now.” He gave her a second dollar. Following a quick kiss, he was gone.
Thomas’s last stop was at the trading post where he bought a sack of hardtack, a slab of bacon, coffee, and other supplies. The hardtack was thin bread, slowly baked until it was rock hard. As long as it was kept dry, this would remain edible for months. However, it was only edible once mixed with grease, or in a soup. The heavily salted bacon would also keep for a long time. While it might slowly spoil, the rancid portion could be trimmed away. His final purchase was a Colt Walker 44-caliber revolver.
While not enough to get him to California, he figured that this food would be sufficient to get him to Fort John, if he augmented his food with fresh deer meat from time to time. Fort John was a trading post located at the junction of the Laramie and Platte Rivers. It was the halfway point along the Oregon Trail. However, he hoped that he would catch up with the wagon train in less than two weeks. He hoped that Captain La Barge was correct and that he could sign on as a scout.
While on the north side of the Platte River, Thomas nudged his spurs against the horse and directed the stallion westward. He would cross the river and then head due west. In a few days, he would again intersect the river and follow it upstream, westward. The wagon trains typically covered twenty miles a day, but he would have to double that to catch them. Thomas and his unnamed steed had a hard ride ahead of them. At this point, Thomas was grateful for the used saddle. He would not have the agony of breaking in a new one as he set off on a two-thousand-mile ride.
Following the Oregon Trail was unexpectedly easy. The hundred or so wagons ahead of him, along with the thousand or so animal hooves, had churned the earth for a twenty-five-yard-wide swath. There was not one pair of wagon-wheel ruts, but several ruts that ran in parallel, creating the wide path. Occasionally, one set of ruts became too deep in the soft, moist soil and was abandoned.
On the third day of his travels, he encountered the river and his first turn-back. A weary family of four had abandoned the journey and decided to head home. Thomas removed his hat and nodded to the woman riding in the wagon.
“How far ahead is the train?” he asked the man walking beside the oxen.
“We turned back three days ago, so less than a hundred miles, I reckon,” the man replied.
Thomas nodded again to them, and continued westward.
Along the Oregon Trail
The first leg of Olga’s trip to Oregon passed easily. She was surprised to discover that the Oregon Trail was not a single, marked roadway. Rather, it was a wide swath of land with hundreds of wagons heading northwest through the waist-high prairie grass. The wagons within the organized trains remained close together as they passed and were passed by individual groups of three and four wagons.
They stopped briefly each hour to water the oxen. The beasts were tame and easily coaxed into pulling the wagons mile after mile as long as they had water. If they became too thirsty, they would bolt and follow their noses to the nearest water. To keep the beasts satiated, their wagon had two water barrels strapped to its sides. As they always camped near streams, the barrels were refilled each night by a bucket brigade.
As time passed, the groups of settlers drifted farther apart as they traveled at their own pace and chose slightly different routes. The prairie soil along the Kaw River was soft, and heavy wagons sank several inches into the dirt making them sluggish. After their second day on the trail, they began to see where people had abandoned some of their property. Heavy, unnecessary items such as a table and cupboard, cast-iron stove, and featherbeds began to litter the prairie. Olga convinced Peter to pick up two chairs so they would have something besides the ground to sit upon while they camped. She wished she could ask for a featherbed, but they simply had no room for it.
Major Jamison paid a group of Indians to ferry the wagons across the Kaw River. They had a flat log raft and took the fifty wagons across the river one at a time. Most of the travelers lacked the funds for this, and they continued westward in search of shallow water where they could make the crossing.
“Crossing here,” the major had explained, “will allow us to take a more direct route to the Platte River, which will save us many days of travel time.”
As they continued northwest, they crossed many smaller rivers and streams. The beds of these were churned into muddy quagmires by the numerous wagons and animal hooves. Groups of Indians stood by like sentries and swarmed around wago
ns that became stuck in the mud. However, they were not malicious. Rather, they spoke English and politely negotiated a price to help free the stuck wagons.
Major Jamison took advantage of the clear weather and gentle hills to drive the wagon train hard. He insisted on fourteen hour days. They established the pattern: his wife and a scout would ride ahead of the train in the morning. They would go about fifteen miles and cook lunch for the entire train. This way, minimal time was lost when they stopped for their midday meal. Then, the pair would ride ahead again to find a campsite for the night.
The wagon train traveled in two parallel rows of twenty-five wagons each. Their livestock grazed between the rows. At midday, they stopped and unhitched the oxen to allow them to graze while the emigrants ate their lunch. At night, the wagons were pulled closer together and the ends of the two rows were closed together to form a giant ellipse. The wranglers allowed the livestock to graze while the evening meal was prepared and eaten, then the livestock were herded inside the ellipse for the night. Most of the people camped in tents on the outside of the curved formation.
Olga observed that Martha had been wrong. The four wagon trains were probably within a dozen miles of each other, but she had no idea where the Mormon train was located. After the first few days, she had not seen another wagon train.
The further north of the Kaw River that they traveled, the more flat and featureless the prairie became. Without any trees, they used buffalo chip for cooking fuel. The buffalo migrated across the plains in herds that numbered in the thousands and their sun-dried waste was flammable. Olga spent a large portion of her day walking along beside the wagon train collecting this fuel into a large basket. She enjoyed straying far from the wagons. From a distance, they looked like sailing ships traversing a sea of grass. She was reminded of her trip across the Atlantic Ocean as a child. The gentle rolling hills were the waves of this ocean and the tips of the grass swaying in the wind resembled the foam on the wave crests. Completing the metaphor was the seasickness that many of the people experienced while riding in the wagons as they tumbled along the prairie.
Sweeping her arms across the tall grass, she wondered why they didn’t simply stop here and claim this land. However, she knew the answer. The government had reserved it for the sole use of the Indians.
While Olga never saw the Indians on the plains, they knew where the wagon train was. Several Indians would always be found waiting for them at the river crossings. These people did not speak English and refused money. In exchange for their help, they bartered for the trade goods. They had an affinity for anything made of cotton fabric. Olga watched one man exchange a bag of flour for one Indian’s assistance. The native promptly opened the bag and dumped the flour on the ground, keeping only the cloth bag. Then, one day the Indians disappeared and the pioneers were forced to complete the crossings on their own.
“Another week and we will cross the South Platte River,” Major Jamison said at their nightly campfire meeting. “We’ll ease up and rest there before following the river west.”
The following day, they prepared to cross a small river at the bottom of a deep ravine. There were no Indians to help them. The wagons had to approach the fast-moving waterway by angling down the ravine wall.
Olga’s wagon was halfway across the river when the wagon behind them, still partway up the hillside, sank down in the mud. The man was insufficiently experienced with oxen to know that a harsh whipping was the only means of controlling the beast. As the oxen turned to climb back up the hill, the wagon flipped onto its side. Bound to the yoke, the oxen also rolled over. With nothing anchoring the rig, it slid down to the river. The entire assembly floated down upon Olga and Peter. Peter mercilessly whipped their oxen to urge them to cross faster.
Olga watched in horror as the wagons collided.
Chapter 6
June 14, 1848
Fate intervenes
Thomas was startled awake. His horse snorted angrily. His front legs were hobbled, but still he pounded the ground. Instinctively, Thomas reached under the buffalo hide for the butt of his revolver. Grasping it, he opened his eyes to the pre-dawn darkness. His chocolate stallion whinnied and dug his rear hooves into the soft earth. Thomas looked up to his horse as he stood only yards away. The wary animal kicked and sprayed dirt behind him. Thomas followed the horse’s stare to the horizon.
The Indian was silhouetted against the pink sky. In the darkness, Thomas could discern no details of his visitor, but the stallion was distinctly annoyed by the invader. Climbing from his bedding, Thomas stood and stared at the Indian on horseback. He stared back. With the rising sun behind him, Thomas judged that the Indian could clearly see him and his camp in the thicket of cottonwood trees. Thomas picked up the Hawken rifle from beside his buffalo hide bedding. While not holding it in a threatening manner, he allowed the Indian to see the weapon as he propped it up against a tree.
As expected, upon seeing the rifle the Indian turned and rode down the backside of the hill. However, he left something behind. He had stabbed his spear into the ground and there was something waving on its end, like a flag.
Sensing a need to get moving before the Indian returned with his friends, Thomas skipped his coffee and breakfast. Hastily, he packed his bedroll and saddled the stallion. Mounting his horse, Thomas pointed him westward, along the Platte River.
What in tarnation is that?
Thomas curiously looked at the flag on the crest of the hill. Wondering why the Indian would leave his spear behind, Thomas urged his horse up the hill to the south. Slowly, expecting a dozen Indians to be hiding on the other side, he rode up to the spot where the Indian had been standing. As he approached, he observed that the flag was some sort of cloth, and that it was yellow.
Where could an Indian get yellow cloth?
Thomas released the strap holding his revolver in its holster and cradled the Hawken in the crook of his arm. He inched over the crest of the hill. The Indian was waiting for him at the bottom—alone. Thomas pulled the spear from the ground and examined the cloth. It was a woman’s yellow sunbonnet. He pulled the bonnet free from the spear and stuffed it under his shirt.
The Indian trotted his horse a dozen yards to the west, stopped, and turned to face Thomas.
All right, I’ll bite.
In the brighter light, Thomas could see that he was Pawnee who were generally a peaceful Indian tribe. He followed the Indian west, the direction he wanted to go anyway. Once it was clear that Thomas was following him, the Indian urged his pony into a trot. Cautiously, Thomas remained twenty-five yards behind as the two men rode three miles westward.
On the crest of a hill, the Indian came to a halt and stared down at a small river. Thomas brought his horse to a stop several yards away, and followed the man’s gaze. In a cottonwood grove on the riverbank, two bodies were sprawled in the grass.
Thomas scanned the sky.
No buzzards. They’ve not been dead long.
Thomas saw a splash of yellow that matched the sunbonnet. Thomas reasoned that there was no motivation for the Indian to kill the settlers, and then guide him to them. Nonetheless, Thomas kept the Indian’s spear as he trotted his horse down to the dead couple. Approaching, he saw that one body was a pasty white nude man and the other was a fully clothed woman. She was wearing a yellow blouse that matched the sunbonnet. Cold remnants of a campfire were visible, but nothing else remained of the couple’s camp.
Thomas dismounted. The corpse of the young man was completely naked and lying on his back. The Indian dismounted as well, but kept his distance. The dead man had a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. There were powder burns on his face, but no exit wound. While some Indians did have rifles, very few had pistols. The power of a rifle shot would have created an exit wound. Therefore Thomas concluded that this man had been shot with a pistol. The powder burns indicated that the assailant had been no more than two feet away. Indians routinely took the clothing of their victims, and Thomas reasoned that he had b
een stripped to make the murder look like an Indian attack.
But why not strip the woman?
The fully clothed woman was face down and Thomas reached to roll her over. As he moved her, she sucked in a gasping breath. Her hands, face, and blouse were stained with blood, but he could find no wounds. She continued to breathe, but did not awaken.
Thomas retrieved his canteen and tore a strip of cloth from her apron. He gently washed the blood from her face and hands. Slowly, her eyes opened. When they focused on Thomas, she screamed.
“You’re safe now,” he said and held her tight as she struggled. “You’re safe,” he repeated. “Are you injured?”
She sucked in a few short breaths and stopped struggling. She looked up into his face. “Who are you?”
Thomas tossed his hat aside so that she could see his face. “My name is Thomas Meyer. I’ve just come upon you. Are you injured?” He released her and she sat up.
“No, no, I’m not.” Her eyes drifted to the Indian standing by the horses and she shrieked again.
“He won’t hurt you. He’s with me. Actually, he saved your life.” Her eyes shifted to the dead man. Thomas regretted not having covered the body. Had he known that she was alive, he would have.
“That’s my husband, Peter.” She sniffled. “I mean, that was my husband.” She began to sob.
Thomas touched her arm to return her focus to him. “And what is your name?”
She wiped her face to compose herself. “Olga.”
“Rest here a bit.”
Thomas untied his bedroll from his horse and placed it over Peter’s body. Pulling his Bowie knife from his belt, he began to dig a hole to bury the man. The big blade easily churned up the soft earth, but he had to scoop it out of the hole with his hands. After a few moments, the Indian knelt to help using his small knife. Thomas recognized the type of cheap, iron knives that he had traded with the Indians at Fort Union. These were quick to dull and rust, and had to be replaced frequently. He studied the Indian up close for the first time. He was lean and young, in his late teens, with coal black hair and eyes.
South Pass Brides Page 5