Charlie’s respect for men like Hoke and Harry Sims and John Sutler had shot way up. And for Michael Chessor—only twenty, not much older than him—who had raced past him toward the front, snarling like a bobcat.
Hoke had been everywhere Charlie looked—racing down the line with the command to circle up the wagons . . . firing his rifle from his hip into the cedars at the north end of the train . . . racing up and down the line of men behind the wheels yelling, “Hold ’em off! Watch that one on the bank!”
He’d steered women and children to the inside and encouraged the men. He seemed to know where everyone was and exactly what was happening. Mr. Hoke was normally reserved and collected, but he sure could command attention when conditions called for it.
Charlie appreciated Dotson’s foresight and tactical planning, too. The way he’d told them to circle those wagons, and the way he stationed himself in the center so he could see what was happening, was smart. And each man only had to do one thing. That was smart thinking, too.
Dotson’s cool planning and solid decision making, coupled with Hoke’s quick action and ability to get up and down the line, was what had saved them, according to Charlie’s way of thinking.
When Hoke reached his wagon he pulled out two shovels and handed one to Charlie.
Colonel Dotson hurried over. “Hoke! Charlie! Looks like they’ve moved on, but James and Gerald are riding out to scout around and make sure they don’t double back. How’s Mrs. Baldwyn?”
“I think she’ll be fine. Doc’s with her now,” Hoke said.
Charlie looked toward the wagon. He hadn’t seen Doc Isaacs arrive.
“He got there when I was handing you the shovel,” Hoke told him. “Mrs. Austelle’s with her, too.”
The colonel gave Charlie’s shoulder a squeeze and pointed to the blood on Hoke’s shirt. “You weren’t hit, were you?”
Hoke shook his head and glanced at Charlie. “Must be hers.”
Pointing to the dead Indian on the ground, Hoke said, “He’d have killed me if your mother hadn’t shot him. Looked like you were holding your own, too.”
Charlie felt pride rush to his face.
Hoke started shoveling over the blood on the ground. Charlie got to work, too, doing exactly what Hoke was doing.
“How many of ours are hurt?” Hoke asked.
“Five that I know of,” said Dotson. “I’ve nearly finished making the rounds. Duncan Schroeder is the worst. He was shot twice—I don’t know how, he wasn’t even on the front line. Doc says one didn’t miss his heart an inch. Shot in the leg, too. Harry Sims had a tussle and got stabbed a couple of times, but the cuts aren’t too deep. Tam and the Jaspers are tending him. Baird Douglas was speared in the shoulder. Lijah Sutler took an arrow at the start. McConnelly turned his ankle pretty bad gettin’ out of his wagon. Guess that makes six with Mrs. Baldwyn. And six Indians on the ground. They carted off some of their wounded, too. That’s pretty good odds. I don’t think those Indians had a lot of guns. You notice what they did have?”
“Yeah, I noticed.” Hoke stepped over, picked up the rifle the Indian had dropped, and handed it to Charlie. “Army commissioned. Same kind they had at Laramie. Either they’ve picked ’em off dead soldiers or someone out here’s supplying to ’em. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’m surprised they attacked us like they did,” said the colonel. Charlie handed him the rifle and got back to work. “They must have wanted those horses pretty bad, and for some reason weren’t as patient as normal. Lucky break for us.”
“You think they were put up to it?” asked Hoke.
“I don’t know. I don’t want to jump to conclusions and upset anybody without cause. Let’s get these bodies cleaned up and move on to a better spot. We’ve got some livestock to round up, too. You think we need to go after the horses they took?”
“How bad do you want ’em back?”
“I can live just fine without all of ’em, but you know Rudy Schroeder’ll throw a fit if I don’t offer. Two of ’em were his. At any rate, we don’t have to decide this minute.”
As Dotson left, Jenkins joined Hoke and Charlie. Together they dug a deep grave in a low spot a hundred yards from the wagon train. Then they went back to get the bodies. The most horrific site was the one where Abigail had saved Hoke’s life. As Hoke picked up a piece of the Indian’s head he bent down for a closer look at the body. A small leather bag was looped over one shoulder. Hoke cut it off.
“Jenkins,” he said in a low voice, not looking at Charlie. “Come here.”
The men opened the bag and looked at something they found inside it. Jenkins muttered, “Good God.” They looked closer at the dead man on the ground.
Jenkins turned the body with his foot. “That’s not an Indian. That’s a white man with a shaved head, dressed like an Indian.”
Charlie stepped over for a closer look. “What was in the pouch?”
Jenkins and Hoke exchanged a look.
“Picture of a white woman,” said Hoke. “See if you recognize her.” He held out the worn picture. Charlie’s heart dropped. It was of his mother.
“Who is he?” demanded Charlie. “How did he have that?” His veins had turned to ice. It didn’t make any sense why a white man would be dressed like an Indian and have his mother’s picture in his pouch.
“Let’s not say anything about this to anyone yet.” Jenkins put the picture in his pocket. “I’ll talk to the colonel. But Charlie, let’s not say anything to your mother or your brother and sisters about this. It may just be a strange coincidence.”
It wasn’t a strange coincidence. Charlie could feel it in his gut. “No, sir. I won’t say anything about it. But I want to know what y’all are thinking, and I want to be included in any efforts to find an explanation.”
Hoke nodded at Charlie. “Fair enough.”
Colonel Dotson moved the train to a camp four miles from the attack spot.
Once he’d gotten the rest of Company C settled, Hoke stopped by to check on Abigail. As he peered into the back of the wagon he caught a glimpse of her with her dress off, lying in her underclothes, Doc Isaacs dressing her wound. She had regained consciousness and looked out at Hoke over the back of the wagon with those big blue eyes. Her expression . . . was it pain? Longing? Gratitude? Or embarrassment?
Corrine blocked his view and said, “Mother’s not decent. You can come back later.” She closed the flap before he could protest. But Doc Isaacs was still in there. Doc got to see her not decent.
Hoke had intended to stop back by but ended up talking with Colonel Dotson and the other men until long after dark, going over the events of the day. What had worked well? What hadn’t? Who among them had proved his merit? Who hadn’t? Did anyone think they should go after the horses? “If so, say it now,” said Dotson, looking hard at Rudy Schroeder. But Rudy didn’t ask him to. The Schroeders were all worried about Duncan, and with good reason. Duncan Schroeder was the only one Doc Isaacs couldn’t promise would make it.
On his way back to the wagon to bed down for the night, Hoke stood beside Abigail’s box garden for several minutes, twisting his hat in his hands. It was easy to spot her wagons with those box gardens on the side. He needed to tie up that cherry tree again, before it started to lean. And this purple flower had really grown. What had she called it? A dahlia.
He lightly touched one of the blooms, thinking of how purple flowers would always remind him of her now—purple flowers and the smell of lavender.
She’d scared him. She’d really scared him.
He’d quit asking himself weeks ago why this woman made him crazy and had just resigned himself to the fact that she did.
Why the hell had she not stayed in the wagon with her children like he’d told her to? When he’d seen the group of Indians break off from the others and swing around during the attack, few of the other men had noticed. Even Dotson hadn’t noticed yet. But she had. She had looked like she was trying to decide whether to shout to the men nearest her o
r to just run and tackle those Indians on her own.
He grinned and shook his head. She probably would have tackled those Indians on her own if he hadn’t run over and tried to push her to the inner circle.
She might have saved his life, but she had put it in danger, too. She was a distraction to him. He never would have turned his back to that Indian if she hadn’t been there. He’d been worried about the visibility of the white horse, while the bigger danger had been his feelings for Abigail. Still . . . she did save his life. She would have done the same for anybody, but it was him. She was a woman a man could count on . . . except to stay put in the wagon.
Hoke’s mind traveled back to what had gnawed at him the rest of that day. How had that man come to have her picture in his pouch? It gave Hoke a bad feeling.
That night he slept in fits. He finally gave up and took over the watch. Charlie was up at daybreak asking to scout around with him and James.
“Go ask your mother if she’s awake, but don’t wake her if she’s resting,” Hoke said. “She might rather keep you close today.”
Charlie was back shortly. “She says as long as it’s with you and Mr. Parker, I can go.”
“How’s she feelin’ this morning?” asked James.
“She looked good.”
“She always looks good.”
Charlie and Hoke both gave James a dark look.
“What? Y’all don’t think so?”
Charlie rode with new respect for Hoke and James—they had the most tracking experience of anyone in the group.
“Here’s where horses were tied. Indian ponies are unshod,” Hoke told Charlie. “You know the difference in their tracks?”
Charlie nodded.
“There’s a whiskey bottle over here,” said James.
Charlie turned to Hoke. “You and Colonel Dotson said yesterday they had army-commissioned rifles. You think someone at Fort Laramie sold them guns and whiskey?”
“Laramie or Fort Hall. Sold ’em or gave ’em to ’em.”
“Why would they give Indians guns? Aren’t they supposed to protect settlers from the Indians?”
“If white men—soldiers or not—can get Indians to attack a train, then they don’t have to.”
“But why would they want to?” asked Charlie.
“Different reasons. Money. More guns. Horses. Supplies.” Hoke looked Charlie in the eye. “Women.”
Charlie scowled.
“Then the army goes after the Indians who attack the trains when it was really white men putting them up to it—white men waiting in the background to collect on the spoils,” added James. “We’ve also known soldiers to sell guns and whiskey to the very Indians they’re fighting. To line their own pockets or serve some personal scheme.”
Charlie shook his head. “I can’t believe white men would do such low things.”
“Bein’ white don’t make a man good; we’ve known several who adopted low behavior.”
“James is right,” Hoke said. “Happens more than you might think, Charlie, especially in parts of the country where laws are scarce, and that’s where you’re livin’ now. If these Indians were really after horses, they would’ve attacked when we were circled up at night. Instead, they hit us on the ascent, when we were spread out. Makes me think they had their eye on certain targets.”
They found where the Indians had camped for the night—about six miles from the train—with spatters of blood on the ground.
“Two or three wounded,” said James. “This one here lost quite a bit of blood, but I don’t see a body.”
From all indications the Indians had moved on.
“Maybe these Indians only wanted horses,” surmised James. “Or maybe they just wanted us to know they don’t appreciate their land being invaded. Ever since the Grattan Massacre of ’54 the Sioux have been mad.” James turned to Charlie. “The Grattan Massacre started over a misunderstanding about a cow.”
“I don’t think they’ll be back,” said Hoke.
“How can you be sure?” asked Charlie.
“I’m not. It’s just a gut feeling.”
“Hoke’s gut feelings are usually right,” said James.
“I still don’t understand why that white man was with them and how he came to have my mother’s picture.”
Hoke looked Charlie in the eye. “I can’t answer that.” One last time he surveyed the scene where the Indians had camped. “They were after something, but whatever it was, I think they got more resistance than they bargained for.”
CHAPTER 24
Neither silly nor vain
July 10, 1866
My dahlia has flowered, Mimi. It has large, purple blooms—exquisite blooms to match the beauty of the land. We’re coming out of the plains and into hills that appear to have been caressed by the hand of God.
And the hand of God is holding us as we begin to travel through them.
Hoke stood outside the Baldwyn wagon twisting his hat in his hands, the laughter that floated out choking his heart with jealousy. He had just turned to leave when Corrine lifted the back flap and said, “Hey! Mama’s been asking for you.”
“I better go check on some of the other patients before we roll out.” Doc Isaacs climbed out with his bag and grinned at Hoke. “You were great yesterday.”
Hoke nodded to him coolly. “I’m just glad more folks didn’t get hurt. Glad you didn’t get hurt.”
“Glad you didn’t, either. I have a feeling you wouldn’t make a willing patient.”
Hoke tried not to seethe as he watched the man walk away. The doc was too smiley to suit Hoke’s taste.
Following on the doctor’s heels, Corrine called over her shoulder, “Ma, I’m going to see Emma but I’ll be back before we leave.” When she climbed down, Hoke offered a hand and she took it.
“Thank you.”
It was a more docile Corrine than he’d ever witnessed. He turned with raised eyebrows toward Abigail. “Is that your same wildcat of a daughter?”
“It probably won’t last any longer than I’m lying here. Are you going to come in, or do I have to shout at you through the flap?”
Hoke stepped up and swung a leg over, using for only the second time the steps he’d made for her, feeling like an intruder into the private world of Abigail Baldwyn. He’d carried her in here yesterday but had hardly noticed the surroundings at the time. As he might have expected, it was nothing like the inside of his wagon, or most wagons. It looked more like a bedroom in a fine home than it did the back bed of a wagon.
He sat gingerly in the rocking chair, feeling like he might break it, and touched the side of the bed. “Is this a real bed?” Most people who slept in their wagons slept on piles of blankets. Some had straw or feather mattresses or sacks filled with old papers and feed bags.
Abigail tried to sit up and winced. “No.”
He reached for her. “Don’t—”
“I’m fine. Just sore, is all. I made cloth trunks for our clothes and quilts. And we brought quite a bit of extra cloth, as you know. Aren’t you glad? I like that shirt, by the way. Where’d you get it?”
He grinned. “Lady friend made it for me.” It was the second shirt she’d made—the one the same color as her riding skirt. His gold shirt still had her blood on it, but Mrs. Austelle was working to get that out for him.
He was pleased to see the return of her sass and humor.
“We’ve put the feather mattresses on our cloth trunks,” she continued, “and while it’s not as comfortable as my bed back home, it’s much more comfortable than the ground where the boys sleep every night.”
A lot of folks slept on the ground, including him. In fact, he slept only a few feet from this wagon of hers, sometimes watching her body’s outline on the canvas in the light of an oil lamp as she wrote letters and read books to her girls. She read the Bible or poems to them every night. He liked to hear her read Scripture, but there was something about the poems he found mesmerizing, maybe because they were new to him.
> On cooler nights, when sound carried best, he could hear their conversations. One night not long ago, Lina had begged, “Mama, sing that song you made up for me.”
“What song did I make up for you?”
“You know, what’s a mama gonna do?”
She laughed. “I made that song up for Corrine, sweetheart, before you were born.”
“You did?” Corrine asked.
“You don’t remember me singing it to you before Lina was born?”
“No. Maybe. I never really thought about it.”
“All right then,” said Lina. “Sing us Corrine’s song.”
What’s a mama gonna do,
With a girl like you?
What’s a mama gonna say,
When you play all day?
What’s a mama gonna try,
When all you wanna do is cry?
What’s a mama gonna do,
With a girl like you?
“Keep me.” Lina giggled. “I love that song.”
Hoke felt like he knew the exact look Lina had given her mother right then, and the thought made his throat tighten.
“Should I keep Corrine, too?” Abigail had asked Lina, “Even when she turns her back and refuses to join in?”
“Yes. You should keep us both because you love us both.”
“Yes, ma’am. That I do.”
Hoke smiled, remembering that night.
Abigail lay crossways so she could better visit with folks. There was just enough room at the end of her bed for the rocking chair and a beautifully carved box that served as a low table that held a washbasin. The rocking chair was usually kept in the second wagon, but someone had brought it in here for visitors. He ran his hand down the side of the carved box, admiring the craftsmanship.
“My father built that, from a cherry tree off our land. It’s the only piece I saved when we sold all our things in Marston—that and the rug.” A large blue braided rug with flecks of yellow and green covered the floor. Some cloth bags made from matching colors hung on both sides of the wagon. That was a smart idea—it kept things from rolling around inside. He looked down at the seat of the rocking chair and noticed that the same colors in the bags had been woven into it.
Leaving Independence Page 23