He turned to Mac. “May I?” Mac nodded.
“Gentleman, if you’d be so kind as to form a line. Shoulders one foot from the man on either side of you, facing me please, and hold your rifles by the barrel, stock down, buttplate on the ground.”
There was some pushing, jostling, and confusion as the men began to line up.
The sound of horse hooves at a full gallop from the direction of the wagon train turned eyes and heads. The figure of a woman, sidesaddle, dark hair streaming from under her hat and what appeared to be a rifle draped over her hip, was riding toward them. With a start, he recognized the horse as being one from their own wagon, and the rider none other than Rebecca.
He glanced quickly at Reuben who radiated astonishment. Mac looked thoroughly surprised, and Zeb’s fingers were working his mustache more industriously than normal, his eyebrows arched.
Rebecca galloped up, reined in to an abrupt stop, and in one motion smoothly and expertly dismounted, her Sharps rifle in one hand. There was a murmur up and down the line of men. Some men stepped forward, some back, to get a better view.
Johannes collected his thoughts. “Men, get back in line, please.”
He looked on incredulously as Rebecca fell in on one side of the line and quickly mimicked the positioning of the other’s rifles. There was a haughty amusement in her eyes as she returned Johannes’ stare.
“Miss Marx, may I ask what you are doing here and where you got that rifle?”
Rebecca straightened her shoulders and smiled triumphantly at Johannes as she displayed the weapon. “This is a Model 1852 Berdon Sharps rifle, .52-caliber, slant-breech, levered, pellet primer feed, with Enfield adjustable ladder sights. When I was thirteen years old, my father brought it back to me from a trading mission to this very country. He taught me to shoot and ride and several other skills when I journeyed with him on his trading ships and during those infrequent times when he was home in England and not on the high seas.”
The men exchanged looks up and down the line. “Thank you for that information, Miss Marx…”
Rebecca cut Johannes off with an icy voice, “… Milady Marx.”
“Yes, of course. How could I forget? Well, Milady Marx, this was to be a gathering of the men of the wagon train. I’m quite sure you don’t qualify in that regard.”
Color crept into Rebecca’s cheeks and she lifted her nose. “There might come a time in the next few months when an additional rifle and someone who knows how to use it could be important. I have every bit as much right as any man here to have my skills assessed if there’s need for them in the future.”
Johannes’ eyes caught Mac’s. He was struggling to suppress a smile. Mac nodded his assent. “Very well then, Milady Marx, we are honored to have you join us.”
A number of the men snickered. Johannes’ brow creased and his back stiffened. “There will be none of that. Whatever your thoughts, you will show respect to one another at all times. Your life might be saved by the man…,” Johannes swiveled his head to Rebecca, “or woman, standing next to you. Please hold your weapons out directly in front of you, left hand on the forestock, and right hand below the trigger guard. No fingers on the triggers, please.”
One of the men, younger, surly looking and, Johannes remembered from the campfire, from some city in New Jersey, blurted out, “I paid good money to come on this wagon train. I didn’t sign-up for no military bands.” Johannes walked over to him and stood with narrowed eyelids. The man held his glare for a few seconds then darted angry glares at the men on either side of him before looking down and raising his rifle as instructed.
Johannes walked down the line of men, periodically stopping to examine the unimaginable assortment of firearms. Several of the men had Sharps, others Enfields, one had a new Model 1855 .58-caliber mini-ball Springfield musket, and half had old muzzleloaders. The father and son from Kentucky each had very long, narrow-bore rifles with thick octagon barrels, and iron sighting systems Johannes had not seen before. They resembled the 1841 Mississippi Muskets, but small metal balls rested on top of the barrel at the muzzle, similar to the bead on a shotgun. The rear sight was an elevated circle of iron.
The buttstocks had deep curves. The firing mechanism required flintlock percussion caps, still in use, but rare.
“May I?” The father handed his rifle to Johannes who hefted it several times. Despite the extremely long barrel, it was perfectly balanced. He peered through the rear sight. As he suspected, the round rear aperture aligned perfectly with the ball at the front of the barrel. He handed it back to the man, who smiled.
“Has your daughter recovered from her time in the river today?”
“She has, thank you. I am Elijah. This is my son, Abraham. These here are squirrel guns. Had ’em made special. Shoots a .32-caliber ball. Not too awful heavy, but we can take squirrel out of a tree at three hundred yards,” he paused, “and I can guarantee these little balls will drop anyone dead in their tracks if the hole is between their eyes.”
Johannes turned to the boy. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen, Sir.”
Johannes blinked. “Are you okay with your boy being here?”
“He’s here, ain’t he? He can handle himself. He’s put food on the table since he was five, and he’s kilt two big bear with that gun. I reckon he can handle whatever comes at us.”
Johannes nodded, “Very well.”
He stood back from the group. “Gentleman, and Milady Marx, each of you will advance to the log, fire two rounds using the log as a rest, reloading as quickly as you can. Then two rounds standing. Before your shots you will declare your target…” Johannes pointed out across the field toward the first set of targets, “we estimate the range to be one hundred meters, two hundred meters, and,” he pointed off in the distance, “approximately three hundred and fifty meters. Those who can shoot with accuracy will go back to the wagon train and relieve the ten men standing guard. Certain others of you will stay here and work with me, Reuben, Mac and Zeb. Is this procedure understood?” Heads nodded up and down the line.
A memory sifted, fleeting but powerful, through Johannes’ mind. Déjà vu. A tree-ringed sunny European field, battle flags flying, the crump of cannons, his troops lined up smartly before mounting to form the columns for advance. He blinked at the sudden thrill somewhere deep within him.
“All right then, who wishes to go first?”
No one moved other than to bend slightly forward to peer down the line for who would be a fool enough to volunteer. Rebecca stepped forward, “I shall go first.”
Despite himself, Johannes was impressed.” As you wish, Milady Marx.”
Rebecca marched up to the log, and knelt down smoothly on one knee, layers of her petticoats showing under the pleats of her traveling dress. She laid out three rounds on top of the log. She planted her elbows solidly on top of the log, tucked the gun into her shoulder with a motion that comes with practice, and lowered her cheek firmly against the stock. “I shall shoot at the target on the left, at two hundred meters.”
She snuggled her cheek back to the stock, took a deep breath and began to exhale. Fire belched from the muzzle of the Sharps, her shoulder jerked, and she brought the barrel back down and steady in follow-through. She lifted the long gun, levered in the next primer, expertly removed the cartridge, deftly shoved in another, closed the breech, and resumed her firing position. She stood and repeated the procedure on her third and fourth shots.
Mac had his brass timepiece out. He looked at Johannes’, his eyes wide. “Thirty-six seconds.” He reached into his jacket and walked over to Reuben. “See how she did.”
Reuben moved to a tree, and using it as rest, peered through the telescope. He lowered the glass, blinked as if disbelieving, and raised the telescope again. He turned to the group, “I’ll be damned. All four holes are within six inches of dead center. Three are grouped within two inches, slightly right. One is four inches low.”
There was another murmur in the ranks. S
everal men looked panicked. Johannes knew they were thinking about what it would feel like to be outshot by a woman. Rebecca marched back to Johannes, threw him a quick glance, and flashed an indecipherable smile at Reuben, “I assume I shall not be required to take further lessons?”
Johannes gave her a silent look of respect. Rebecca, you are quite something. Full of surprises. “Milady, further instruction will apparently not be necessary.”
“Then I shall return to the wagons. I would like to tidy up prior to supper and assist Inga with preparations.”
Johannes nodded slowly, “If you would be so kind as to wait for the next man to get done, he will accompany you back to the wagons. Despite your proficiency with that weapon, I think it wise that you not ride unescorted.”
“Very well.” Rebecca turned, strode over to her horse, expertly mounted, draped the Sharps over her hip and waited.
Six of the men proved proficient marksmen. The father and son team from Kentucky both grouped their shots in one inch bull’s-eye clusters at the furthest targets. Most of the others were passable. Five of the men could not group their shots at all, and missed the target with at least one round. One man, a previous postal inspector from Washington DC, did not hit the target. Reuben pronounced the three men, including a glowering Jacob, who had only pistols, “acceptable.”
Johannes split the five into two groups and directed them to Mac and Reuben. The unfortunate former government worker was assigned to Zeb. The last group of ten men arrived and the procedure was repeated, more quickly this time because the sun was beginning to dip beneath the horizon. Johannes was pleased and surprised. Only one of this second set of riflemen did not know how to shoot.
Dusk was creeping through the trees when they finished. Each of the instructors had made tentative dates with the men, whom they would continue to instruct over the coming week. Reuben, Mac, Johannes, and Zeb mounted up and began their return to the circled wagons.
“Better than I expected,” commented Mac.
Johannes’ shook his head. “Far, far better than anything you’d see in Europe other than military. I’m beginning to see why the British couldn’t keep these colonies.”
Mac looked at him. “It’s far more than the aim, Johannes. It’s the spirit behind the trigger.”
“Rebecca was quite something. I think she could outshoot ninety percent of the troops in my company. What do you think, Reuben?” Johannes’ tone was teasing.
Reuben looked at him and grinned. “I say there’s more to Milady Marx than meets the eye, though there’s plenty of that, too.”
Mac and Johannes laughed as the orange winking lights from the cooking fires became visible through the trees. Mac slapped his thigh. “Oh, yeah, Harris told me his wife Margaret is a respectable shot and can handle a gun, so there are at least two women on the train we can count on.”
CHAPTER 19
APRIL 9, 1855
TENDER TRAIL
Zeb loved to hunt. It was second nature, subsistence, and something more. A link to the past. His mother, a schoolteacher before her murder, had taught him rudimentary reading, writing, and arithmetic. She also taught him to play chess. Kinda like a game of chess between me and the critters, ’cept the land is the chessboard, was the way he liked to think about it.
Mac had ridden out to Zeb’s trailing position a half-mile southeast of the last wagon in the line of rigs that morning. “See if you can kill a deer or two. I plan on stopping tomorrow afternoon for wagon and wheel maintenance. There’s several wagons with metal tire jackets working loose. Should be plenty of time to smoke the meat, and I have a bit of jerky seasoning in the supply wagons. Going to get more and more unfriendly as we get toward the border of the Kansas Territories. Chances to hunt, ’cept in a party, is gonna be scarce. You get the game down, and I’ll send the Kentuckians back to help you. Just bone ’em out where they drop. They can pack the meat back in panniers.”
Zeb had grinned. This was the type of chore he liked. “Sure enough, Mac. You partial to buck or doe?”
The wagon master had laughed. “Tender doe meat is tasty, but don’t matter much since we’ll be jerking the meat. Take the biggest, fattest, first thing that comes along.”
That had been hours ago. Usually Zeb could pick up a trail right off and not lose it regardless of the tracking conditions. If the quarry was headed into the wind, then more often than not it would be in the pan by nightfall. But this humid spring morning with its smells of midwest woodlands stirred the memories. He walked through the timber along the Missouri River bottom, looking for sign in the heavy leaf cover, blown and disturbed by the winds of the previous night, his eyes fixed on his surroundings, his mind traveling backward in time.
He had fled Missouri almost twenty years ago, seeking solitude to dampen and escape the vicious cruelty that had befallen his family. At Fort Laramie he made the decision to drift north, driven by bits and pieces of information from other solo men and trappers he met on his journey. They had told him about the Holes, the places where mountain men congregated during the winter in valleys more sheltered from violent storms and wind. The Holes usually had open water, and far less snow than in the mountains that surrounded the secluded and secretive gathering places.
He had heard talk of the Grand Tetons, the Great Teats, as the French and Indians called the massive, towering walls of rocks that both red and white men held in mutual awe, and the Hole below them, Jackson’s Hole.
Along the way, on the eastern edge of the Big Horn Mountains, he had run into a small band of Oglala Sioux. The war chief was named Flying Arrow, and the medicine man of the tribe was called Tracks on Rock.
He had stumbled into their camp, half-starved, a squirrel gun his only weapon, and sadly lacking in the survival skills critical to living in any season, much less the oncoming winter in the high plains and mountains of the West. He was sure they thought him a fool, but they took him in.
He didn’t have much, an old farm horse, and an equally aging, no longer sure-footed mule, which reluctantly packed his meager belongings. He had stowed the old, ornately framed, six-by-three-inch, oval mirror his mother had loved. It had somehow miraculously escaped the fire. Little else had. Zeb had taken great pains to ensure it would not break. He had grown weary of the anxiety and checking to see if it had survived another day of travel each time he camped. He was certain it would not survive the journey that was growing ever more rugged.
Tracks on Rock’s wife, Tree Dove, was more handsome than she was pretty, but she was certainly friendly. Her face carried scars of a battle with the smallpox. She had borne Tracks on Rock two children, a boy and a girl.
Zeb lifted his nose, sniffing at the damp air as he looked for sign. After a few more paces, he found what he was looking for— split-hoof, heart-shaped tracks, all does, maybe three or four, meandering along the river bottom, pawing at the oak leaves, searching for shoots and fallen acorns. He knelt, squinted at the story in the leaves, and shook his head, annoyed at his atypical difficulty following the trail. Too distracted with memories, he thought.
Leaning against the trunk of a massive oak, the Enfield musket across his lap, he shifted so his back scabbard didn’t dig into his ribcage and began to roll a smoke. I’ll let those deer bed down. I’ll give them a spell, and let my brain sort out.
Zeb inhaled on the cigarette, rested his head on the tree and thought about the two Indian toddlers. The youngsters had been fascinated with him, especially the little girl. They liked to run their fingers on his wrist and the back of his hand, fascinated by the color of his skin, chattering to each other in Sioux made more indistinguishable—Zeb was certain—by gibberish occasioned by their age, which he estimated at slightly over two for the girl and three for the boy.
He squinted up at the hazy blue of the sky above the barren branches of the Missouri woodlands and tried to remember the daughter’s name. Something Moon.
He had quickly learned that the Sioux referred to themselves as “The People.” Their
society was matriarchal. The men pronounced the big decisions, but no plan for significant action was ever arrived at without the counsel, scolding, and stern approval of their women. He had given his mother’s mirror to Tree Dove as a thank you for the help of the tribe. The gift ingratiated him to that family, and he soon found himself on hunting excursions with Tracks on Rock and other young men of the tribe. It was from them he learned many of the skills that had kept him alive over the years. Tracks on Rock joked that he had turned into the second best tracker under the sky except for Tracks on Rock, of course. Zeb took another draw of the cigarette and smiled at the recollection.
He never became proficient in the Sioux language, but he learned enough to be able to generally follow the conversation, and—with sign language—get his major points across in a discussion.
There was a woman in the tribe, Horse’s Mane, who often cast shy glances his way. According to the Sioux, she was one-quarter white. She had lost her husband, evidently a fearless brave whom the Sioux spoke of with great respect. He had died from a Pawnee arrow during an ill-fated raid by The People on their adversary’s camp to steal horses.
One night, Tree Dove had come to the lodge Zeb shared with two other young unmarried braves and invited him to share supper with the family. To Zeb’s surprise, Horse’s Mane was there, and he noticed Tree Dove took special care to seat them together around the lodge fire as they ate. It worked.
After that evening, when Zeb was not out hunting, or getting instruction from Tracks on Rock, he and Horse’s Mane took long walks. Between the bit of Sioux he knew and the smattering of English she spoke, they managed to talk, though neither of them, Zeb was sure, could understand much of what the other was saying. It didn’t matter. The current of communication between them was far more than verbal and the physical attraction more than a rutting urge. She was four or five years older than him, Zeb reckoned— maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. Her skin was lighter than the deep brown of most of the rest of the tribe, and her hips a bit more rounded than the other young Sioux woman. Must be that white blood, Zeb had told himself. She had shown him how to stitch skins with sinew and an awl, but the lessons had continued long after he had become proficient. By the second pair of leggings, she no longer looked for an excuse to be with him.
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