Together, they cried into the night. Two women, one very young and one older, weeping openly in grief, yet each holding life.
Morning light came, opening a new day.
“Are you gonna have a baby? Mary says you are.” A little girl pranced around in her homespun dress.
“Carrie, you’re not supposed to tell,” Mary, the older of the two girls, said. “We brought you some breakfast, Mrs. Strong.”
Belle thanked the girls and savored the aroma of fried bread and sizzling bacon. Mary thrust a china plate into her guest’s hands. The faded design and chipped edges of the plate only enhanced the food and demonstrated the love with which it had been prepared.
Carrie placed a bowl of cold milk on the plate and put a serving of bread into it.
Belle tried not to look surprised, because she wasn’t sure if she would like it and didn’t want to offend them. Much to her surprise, the crispy, cornbread-like texture, when added to the cool smoothness of the fresh milk, resulted in a concoction that melted in her mouth. “What kind of bread is this?”
“Hoecake,” the girls said in unison.
“How do you make it?” Belle glanced at the cold fireplace.
“We’ll show you, soon as you eat. Ma says you have to eat all of your breakfast,” Mary said, acting like a little mother.
“Or we’re not to let you get up,” Carrie, the stern disciplinarian, said.
Later, the girls gave Belle one of their mother’s soft, faded dresses to wear and showed her how to make hoecake batter. Taking Belle outside to the cooking fire, Mary explained the process. “It’s too hot sometimes to cook inside our cabin, especially in the summertime. Here, take this clean hoe and dip it in the grease and then stick it over the fire.” She demonstrated well.
The smell of bubbling, bacon grease made Belle’s mouth water. She dipped a garden hoe into an ancient black kettle and pulled it back out.
Mary ladled batter onto the hoe and helped Belle position it over the fire. Even though the bread cooked fast, it took a long time to feed the large family. Taking turns, eating and cooking for others, the process went smoother than Belle expected, and no one complained.
“Here comes Pa,” Daniel, the tallest boy, said. “I’ll see to the mule, Pa.” He sprinted, his long legs clearing clumps of native grasses. He unharnessed the lathered animal while George Campbell leaned against a blackjack tree, exhausted from his early-morning plowing.
The children took him a pail of cold water and dipped a refreshing drink for him. He sat down in the shade to cool off, and they carried breakfast to him. Everyone sat down to talk with him, and Margaret came outside to join the group.
“There’s a lot of love in this family,” Belle said, tears threatening to roll down her swollen cheeks. Although she had cried most of the night, she knew tears of happiness for the Campbell family and tears of sadness were only a blink away. Mother’s gone. And now, Michael’s gone. She felt so alone.
“Pa sure loves his young’uns. That’s for sure.” Margaret looked into Belle’s teary eyes. “You’ll love yours, too.”
Later that day, Belle said, “I need to get back to the settlement at Horseshoe Bend. Will you please take me?”
“But, dear, we really do wish you’d stay,” Margaret said, her kindness evident.
“More’n welcome to stay,” offered George Campbell. “We kin make room.”
“I know.” Belle smiled, appreciative of their help and their generous hospitality. “You are too kind. I must not impose more.”
“But…”
“No, please.” Belle held her hand up to signal she did not want to argue. “My mind’s made up. I must see about a proper burial for my husband, and then I must locate the property Michael cleared and get settled so this babe can have a home to be born into.”
Margaret frowned and looked askance at her husband who shrugged his tired shoulders. She sighed, turning to look into Belle’s young face and spoke in her gentle voice.
“Dear, Michael only built a dugout. There’s no house, not even a cabin.”
“That’s all right.” Belle pushed a wisp of hair back from her face and squared her jaw. “I already know that, and I can make do.” I hope saying that out loud will convey my determination to this nice family and somehow quell the inner turmoil I’m feeling.
Margaret made another attempt. “But you shouldn’t be alone, especially out here.”
“I have no choice.” Belle tried to appear convincing. “I’ll be fine, really.”
The older woman sighed before making a suggestion. “Don’t you want to go back east where it’s safer?”
“No, I came to the Mexican Province of Texas to make a home and raise a family. And, with the grace of God, I will do just that.”
George Campbell, as if recognizing true pioneer spirit in his presence, motioned to Daniel to help him harness a team to the buckboard.
In town, Michael’s body had been moved to the livery stable. The corpse lay on a wide board, supported by a couple of empty nail kegs.
“Daniel, please get me a bucket of water,” Belle said. Tearing strips of cotton from her ruffled petticoat, as if in a trance, she looked at the lifeless form of her husband, the father of her unborn child, realizing she hardly knew him at all. How would she describe him to their child when he started asking about his father? Other than his land, what were Michael’s dreams? And, of course, Belle wondered who shot him. Was it accidental? Or was it murder? With no law to speak of in this wilderness, she might never know.
Pushing her questions aside when Daniel brought a bucket of fresh water from the creek that flowed behind the livery, she washed her face first, reviving herself from the oppressive heat as well as from her troubled thoughts. Thrilled with the small vial of cider vinegar Margaret had given her, Belle added it to the cool water. As she washed Michael’s lifeless body with the soft cotton of her torn petticoat, she shed only a few tears, her mind already on the future.
Daniel and George Campbell sat nearby, shooing away pesky flies in the sweltering June heat. They spoke only after Belle completed her washing task.
“Must be nigh a hundred degrees today, Pa.” Daniel wiped sweat from his brow.
George nodded.
Daniel wrinkled his freckled nose at the stench coming from the body, then turned to watch a dust devil through the broad doorway, the harmless funnel whirling its way down the dry, red-dirt street.
“I know it smells bad, Daniel,” Belle said, giving him a weak smile, “but I’m grateful to you and your pa for staying with me. I don’t think I could do this alone.”
George continued to shoo away the persistent flies and gave Belle an encouraging smile. “Some just cain’t touch the dead, ma’am. You’re doin’ mighty good.”
“Thank you, George.” Belle wondered if she would be strong enough to finish the process. “Would you and Daniel lift this board up at the head and slide a block under it? We need to slant this to let more body fluids drain.”
Placing the wooden bucket on the ground to catch the foul-smelling liquids, Belle looked around at the horses and mules in the livery, their tails constantly switching to protect them from giant horseflies. She looked at Daniel and managed a grin. “I never thought horse manure smelled good until today.”
A dark shadow fell over the somber group. “I came to pay my respects, ma’am, and to offer a gravesite.” Stephen Owens all but blocked the sunlight with his large frame. “I want to bury Michael in the family cemetery on my place.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Owens, that’s very kind of you, but I think Michael would want to be buried on his land,” Belle said.
Stephen stood very still, his arrogant stance failing to camouflage his anger. His pleasant manner disappeared when his voice boomed. “That infernal piece of property got him killed.” He lowered his gaze and relaxed his stance, his voice almost back to normal, as he apologized to Belle.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Strong. I shouldn’t have said that. Not at a ti
me like this.” He cleared his throat. “But I do have a beautiful and peaceful cemetery high on a hill at my plantation, and forgive me for reminding you, but you have not even seen his undeveloped land.” His tone softened. “It would be a much easier burial.”
George gave a nod of reassurance to the widow. “I agree with Owens here. Digging a grave is hard and hot work right now. Soil on his plantation would be kinder to the spade and the workers’ backs.”
Stephen came closer and his voice broke. “Please, let me bury my closest friend.”
Belle looked then into eyes racked with pain, barely visible in Stephen’s swollen, puffy face. If they were so close, maybe Michael would want it this way. How can I know? These people lived near Michael, and I… She paused to swallow the lump that rose in her throat before she could whisper to herself. “I barely knew him.” Failing to quell them, hot tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Got to bury him today,” George said. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but with this here heat, a body will ripen mighty fast.”
Belle took a deep breath and nodded. She continued to shoo flies away from the body, hoping to dress her dead husband soon. Will these fluids ever stop draining?
“Thank you,” Stephen said, his voice almost inaudible.
“But what about a preacher?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Strong,” Stephen said. “Sent a runner out for the circuit rider, but it’ll be a while, might be a week or more.” He reached down and patted her shoulder. “We’ll all say something over him today, then have the preacher pray over him when he gets here.” He released a deep sigh. “That’s the best we can do.”
Belle shrugged and gave Stephen a nod of acceptance. She smiled her appreciation when he produced a new outfit of clothes for Michael to be buried in.
After a while, the men dressed the lifeless form and placed it with reverence in a pine box for burial, the fresh-cut wood a pleasant smell in the humid, livery stable.
Chapter Five
Three months later
“Land sakes. Don’t shoot!” Margaret Campbell’s familiar voice shouted as she jumped down from a buckboard. Giving orders to older children to watch after younger ones, she looked like a mother hen caring for her brood.
“Come on in here,” Belle yelled, carefully uncocking the old flintlock rifle and placing it back over the doorway inside the dugout. “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve missed you.” She hugged the older woman.
Margaret pried herself loose. “Let me look at you. You’re beginning to show a bit. Any sickness?”
“No, none at all. In fact, I’m feeling quite good.”
“You shore do look pretty in black.”
“Thank you.” Belle curtsied, her auburn hair hanging in ringlets on her neck. “I needed something new to wear when I arrived here, but I had no idea my whole wardrobe would need to be black.”
Margaret fingered the cotton sleeve of Belle’s dress. “Where on earth did you ever get enough black cloth? Brought it with you, did you now?”
Belle laughed. “Oh my, no,” she said. “I brought a whole bolt of cotton muslin out here with me, so I took a good bit of it and died it black.”
Margaret stepped back, admiring the dress, and placed her hands on her hips. “Must have taken a powerful lot of ash.”
Belle grinned, eager to share her knowledge and starving for conversation. “I used ash and bark, but I also mixed in a lot of red berries, green berries, and green leaves, too. If you can get red dark enough and green dark enough, you can mix them and make black.”
“Well, I do declare! Ain’t that a revelation?”
“Try it sometime,” Belle said, “but now, let’s check on the children. They just grow by leaps and bounds, seems like, every time I see them. Oh, I’m so excited to have company.”
The women walked out into the early September sunlight, shading their eyes with their hands until their eyes could adjust to the brightness. Hot, scorched earth under their feet seemed to burn through the soles of their well-worn shoes.
The children, oblivious to the heat, played a game of blind man’s bluff in the timber around the dugout. When they noticed Belle, they formed a circle around her and their mother.
“Can we tell her now?” Mary asked, the sun highlighting her tawny-gold hair.
Carrie, in her familiar sing-song voice, chanted. “We have a secret. We have a secret.”
The other children mimicked her. They all giggled and looked askance at their mother.
With a smile playing at the corners of her stern mouth, Margaret shared the secret with Belle. “Any minute now, Pa and Daniel will be a-comin’ up, and they’re gonna build that quiltin’ frame you been wantin’.”
Belle shouted with glee. The children clapped their hands. They seemed as excited as Belle, who hugged her dear friend, embracing each Campbell child as well. Belle and Margaret sat on a flat-topped, sandstone rock to enjoy the shade of a gnarled oak tree.
“Seen any Injuns around yet, Belle?”
Her brow knitted into a frown, Belle answered Margaret. “Only from a distance. Haven’t bothered me. Seems like they get close enough to see that I’m alone, then they ride on. How do you figure that?”
“It’s your black dress, Belle.”
“What?”
“Those Injuns that know anything at all about white folks know that black dresses means your man’s probably gone—died, you know.”
“They still know I’m alone.”
“But they are a superstitious lot. ’Specially when it comes to dyin’.” Margaret pursed her lips. “So they stay away from death and from places where someone died. You see, they likely ain’t heard your man was somewhere else when he died.”
“Oh,” Belle said, wondering if Margaret knew what she was talking about.
“You’ll be wearin’ black for quite a spell. Hope you’ll be safe. If you get scared, you know you’re welcome at our place any time of day or night.”
“I know, and I do appreciate it.”
Later, while watching the Campbell carpenters put finishing touches on the quilt frame, Belle could not contain her enthusiasm. “Do you realize what this means to me?” She squeezed the older woman’s calloused hands. “I can quilt for hours and hours now, out here in the daylight. The summer days have been so long, and as dry as we are, I won’t worry about rain for a while yet.”
“We keep prayin’ for rain, though.” Margaret eyed Belle’s withered garden. “Looks like my men are almost done with your frame. Are you ready to put in?”
“Almost. Come and see.”
Inside the dugout, Margaret seated herself in the rocking chair that had once belonged to Belle’s grandmother.
“It is mighty dark in here,” Margaret said. “And a might crowded for quilting very big.” Admiring the bright colors in Belle’s quilt top, Margaret inquired about the backing for the quilt.
“Oh, yes, I have enough for at least one quilt. Of course, I’ll have to wash it first,” Belle said, motioning upward. Crude, hand-forged spikes pinned lengths of cloth to the hard-packed, red earth overhead.
“Land sakes. Whatever did you put good muslin up there for?”
“To protect myself from those everlasting scorpions you have out here. I got stung twice. They just fall down from that dirt right into my bed, into my hair, just about anywhere.” Belle pointed at the dirt ceiling. “They’re still in here, crawling around. But, at least, they don’t fall on my face when I’m trying to sleep.”
“They’re hard to see in here.” Margaret twirled a lock of Belle’s auburn hair in her fingers. “Scorpions are ’bout the same color as this red dirt and your red hair.”
They both laughed.
A pixie face appeared in the doorway. “Ma, the secret is ready,” Carrie informed them, her sing-song voice forgotten in her excitement.
They spent the rest of the afternoon assembling the layers of the quilt, and with all hands helping, putting it into the frame. With a fiery, crimson ball sinking lower
on the horizon, the Campbell family loaded up and started for home, the big wagon following behind the buckboard.
Belle waved to the children until they disappeared behind a low hill.
Only a week had passed since the Campbell’s visit, and Belle had used her quilt frame every moment she possibly could. She moved her chair often to gain maximum light to sew by and still be able to sit in the welcome shade of tall trees that grew in abundance around the dugout.
Her fingers aching from long hours of quilting, Belle leaned back in her chair to study her stitches. The dainty tulip outlines almost begged for her thread so they could puff up into tiny, muslin flowers like their stitched companions. A nice complement to the appliqued tulips of blue chintz, the raised designs brought richness to a plain muslin background.
All of a sudden, tiny hairs at the nape of Belle’s neck stood on end. She shuddered as if experiencing a cold chill, although it was a warm September afternoon. Movement to the left caught her eye, and she looked up from her quilt to see Indians on horseback.
“Comanche,” she said in a whisper, “as near as I can tell from their clothing and their choice of horseflesh. Expert horsemen, I read. They can outride most any man, red or white.” She counted nine blooded horses, eight of which carried Comanche. The remaining Indian was taller and his clothing unfamiliar. She calculated in her mind the distance to the dugout and realized she wouldn’t be able to make it inside before they fell upon her.
“What could I do with an old flintlock rifle anyway against all of them?” She noted no war lances or painted faces. “Must be a hunting party.” Their horses bore no decorative paint either. “Besides, I’d already be scalped by now if they were scouting for a war party.”
A large, ugly brave came toward her, baring ochre-colored teeth behind scarred, protruding lips. He fondled the bone handle of his broad knife above its leather sheath.
Belle had never been so frightened. She had been warned about Indians and that Comanche were the fiercest. There was no doubt in her mind that this one was not Comanche, yet he scared her most of all. She believed her time had come to pass from this life.
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