by Zina Abbott
Penelope fished around until she found her soap wrapped in a well-worn handkerchief. Carrying the soap in one hand and her bag in the other, she raced outdoors once more and found the outdoor washbasin next to the water barrel. She poured fresh water over her hands, soaped them up, and then rinsed with more fresh water. She tossed the wrapped soap in her bag and shook her free hand dry as, just short of running, she walked toward the waiting stagecoach. She held her breath as she prepared to pass the captain.
“Are you ready now, Mrs. Humphry?”
Penelope stopped at the tone of forced patience she detected. She faced him with a bright smile. “I am, Captain. I apologize for the delay for you and your men. However, I assure you, my fellow passengers will have reason to rejoice that my son produced here while we were stopped instead of into his diaper while we are trapped inside the coach miles from the next station. Shall we proceed?”
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Chapter 6
~o0o~
Castle Rock to Carlyle Hall Stations, Kansas
October 3, 1867
A s she stared at the white rock formation jutting up out of the otherwise flat landscape barren of everything except brown grasses, Penelope sucked in her breath. “What is that? Do any of you know? It almost looks like a white cloud resting on the prairie.”
Mr. Tucker twisted his body to look out the window behind him in the direction they were headed. “That’s Castle Rock, ma’am. It’s something to behold, isn’t it? It means we’re coming up on the next station to swap out the team.”
“Oh, my. Are there more rocks shooting up out of the ground like this?”
“Yes, ma’am. Heard-tell some say this must have been under the ocean at one time because there are seashells stuck inside some of these rocks.” He settled back in his seat and wriggled his back. “We got a few stations to go, if I recollect correctly, but the Pyramid Rocks are something to see.”
“Pyramids? Like the ones they have in Egypt?” Before life grew difficult for Penelope and her mother, she had attended school until the spring after she turned sixteen. Her world history and geography study of that year had included Egypt and the pyramids—a topic she had found fascinating.
The man yawned. “Naw. They’re just rocks standing straight up in the middle of nowhere. A lot of folks call them Monument Rocks. That’s where the next home station is. If I understood correctly, it’s where the doctor is headed to treat some soldiers stationed there.”
“Thank you.” Penelope studied the rock a few seconds longer before she leaned back in her seat and wrapped one forearm across her midsection. The flapjacks she managed to eat for breakfast in between taking care of Jeremy were not settling well on her stomach.
Hoping to distract herself from the mild waves of nausea, Penelope inhaled and slowly released her breath. She looked down and smiled at her son, now sleeping on the center bench of the coach. His little arms and legs straddled the thin, padded board. The sway of the coach remained gentle enough not to toss him off. She still kept an eye on him. She prepared to grab him in the event he, in the process of waking or shifting in his sleep, started to roll off.
Jeremy slept for only a short while before he woke and demanded her attention. Penelope fought back her own discomfort as she sought ways to entertain and keep quiet the child who behaved as though he was bored. She knew that, with his new-found skill of being able to walk a few steps, he would have loved nothing better than to be let loose in a large room or a grassy field and allowed to run as fast as he could on his still-unsteady legs. However, the most she could grant him was to climb on top of and under the bench in front of her.
Penelope lost interest in the landscape which, with its flat vistas of browning grass, grew monotonous. She began to feel hungry. She wondered at the distance between stations that offered meals. After having been told they would travel about fifty miles between Downer Station and their destination for the day, Monument Station, she realized the stage line expected them to go without a mid-day meal. That was fine for her, but she worried about Jeremy. All she had for him was part of a flapjack she saved and the rest of a can milk she poured in the glass jar that morning. She had allowed him to drink from the jar twice already, but only small amounts because of the diaper issue.
As unfamiliar sounds coming from outside reached her, Penelope stiffened her spine. She heard the driver holler to the team. The coach began moving at an increased speed. The voice of a mounted soldier escorting the coach and ambulance shouting orders filtered in through the windows. Expletives from several of her fellow passengers quickly followed.
The passenger across her to the left reached under his seat and pulled out two rifles. “Looks like the Cheyenne found us. There’s supposed to be a couple of pistols under these benches, too. See if you can find them.”
Penelope felt her heart race, and her breaths come in rapid gulps. Cheyenne found us? They really are out here?
The seasoned traveler bent over and reached beneath his seat. “I’ve got two here, plus I’ve got my own weapons. How about you, Barnard?”
Mr. Barnard sitting next to Penelope on her right mumbled a curse as he bumped his head on the center bench in his effort to reach beneath the bench. “Not trying to be fresh with you, ma’am, but we need those weapons.”
“Of course.” Penelope, grateful she wore only her two muslin petticoats dyed black, grabbed the side of her skirt and pulled it in front of her and out of the man’s way. “Come to Ma, Jerry.” With her free hand, she grabbed for her son.
Jeremy, catching the excitement of men searching beneath the coach benches, evaded his mother’s hand and scrambled to the floor on Penelope’s right side. He dove behind Penelope’s skirt. When he popped up on her left side, he lifted a hand that held a metal object that caught the rays of the sun shining into the coach from the south. “Gun, Ma!”
“Jerry, no! Put the gun down.”
Mr. Pierce reached for the weapon with one hand and used his other to gently untangle Jeremy’s fingers from it. “Thank you, young man. I’ll take that. Now, you hide under the seat like a good boy.”
A series of shots rang out that were followed by a blast from the shotgun messenger and a second one inside the coach.
“Looks like there’s about ten or twelve of them.”
“We’ve got five or six over on this side.”
Mr. Pierce turned Penelope. “It’s time for you and your son to take cover beneath the benches, ma’am.”
Her eyes wide, Penelope swallowed before she, open-mouthed, again began to breathe heavily. This is really happening? There are still hostile Indians out this way? Before she could move or say anything, she heard the voice of Mr. Barnard, her bench mate to the right.
“And, while you’re down there, look to see if there are any more weapons, especially rifles.”
“Of course.” Clutching Jeremy next to her, Penelope wriggled beneath the center bench. She turned almost on her back and blinked as she waited for her eyes to adjust. She soon saw the outlines of two rifles resting against the back wall of the coach. Shoving her carpetbag tight against the bag belonging to Mr. Pierce, she used her free hand to pull out first one rifle and then the second one. She next reached to unknot her reticule from her sash and undid the knot. After pulling the drawstrings loose, she pulled out the small pistol Elam gave her to carry to protect her and Jeremy—just in case. That she tucked inside the front of her sash. She shoved her reticule into her carpetbag.
The weapons out from under the seats, Penelope did her best to ignore the sounds of weapon fire coming from inside the coach as she wriggled around and shoved Jeremy beneath the bench until she pressed his body against the back wall. She hoped that, between the padded bench seat above him, her on one side, and the boot filled with luggage behind the coach, her son would be protected. She reached for her carpetbag and pressed it against his body so his head stuck out on one side and his now-kicking feet on the oth
er. “Hold still, Jerry. It’s a game, darling. We’re playing hide.”
“No, Ma! Want up!” Jeremy wiggled and fought against being restrained.
A sob caught in Penelope’s voice. “We must stay down and hide, Jerry.”
“Eat, Ma!”
Penelope gritted her teeth. She had one last plain, dry partial flapjack from that morning she wrapped in a clean handkerchief for Jeremy. It was in the carpetbag she now pressed against him. “In a minute, Jerry. Look! Ma’s hiding, too.”
As Mr. Barnard kicked her with his boot when he twisted to aim out his window, Penelope stifled a cry. She could not tell the rifle shots from the pistol shots. She only knew several were exchanged. She tried to ignore them as she focused on cajoling her son to cooperate. “I’ll get you more flapjacks in a few minutes.”
“Eat now, Ma!”
“Aargh! Dad-blamed Indian got me! My apologies, ma’am.”
“I understand, sir.” In an attempt to see what was wrong with Mr. Pierce, Penelope tipped her head back and craned her neck in time to receive a boot kick to her forehead.
Mr. Pierce fell against the bench back and slouched in the spot where she had been sitting. Holding his injured arm with his good hand, he leaned forward and groaned.
Penelope stared in shock at the man’s arm that now dangled over the edge of the bench above her. The wound, just above Mr. Pierce’s wrist, bled profusely. She lowered her gaze and stared in disbelief at the bloodstain growing on the bodice of her gown.
Mr. Franklin, the older gentlemen who had been sitting in the center of the rear-facing seat the entire trip, moved to the center bench to cover the side of the coach now left vacant.
Shaking herself out of her state of immobility, Penelope grabbed the handle of her carpetbag and pulled it to her. She struggled to sit up. With her head and upper body on one side of the center bench, she swung a foot around to stop Jeremy, now scrambling in the direction of the opening to the center of the coach. She pushed him against the back wall once again. “No, son. I know you don’t understand, but you must do what Ma says. Stay back there and be still.”
Jeremy responded by screaming and kicking his feet, striking the bottom of the bench and the coach floor in the process.
“Shut that rascal up!”
The skin around her eyes tight with irritation, Penelope snapped her head toward Mr. Barnard. “You obviously have never had children, or you would know for a child Jerry’s age, under these circumstances, that is an impossible expectation. Just focus on what is happening outside.” Bracing her hands on the center bench in front of her and the open space left by Mr. Franklin, who now covered Mr. Pierce’s position, she pushed herself up far enough to get her feet beneath her. She stood long enough to climb over the bench and sit facing Mr. Pierce.
Tears streaming down his face, Jeremy popped his head out. He held his arms up. “Ma!”
Penelope leaned to the side with her right hand to pull the carpetbag closer to her as with her left hand she pulled Jeremy between her legs and stood him in front of her. While making a point to avoid the spot of blood, she pressed the side of his head against her bosom. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “Ma loves you, Jerry, but I cannot let you get up yet. I’ll get you some flapjack. Then you must go back under the bench for just a few more minutes.” Taking care to avoid the spot where Mr. Pierce still dripped an occasional drop of blood, she opened the carpetbag and unwound the handkerchief from around the now-cold food. “Here, Jerry. Go back under the bench and eat.” Feeling as though her heart were breaking, she ignored his renewed sobs as she shoved him to safety once more. She braced the soles of her feet against his side and held him in place.
“Please let me look at your wound.” Penelope reached for Mr. Pierce’s hand.
With a grunt, the man shifted so his arm stretched more in Penelope’s direction.
Penelope gently held the back of the dangling right hand in her palm as she studied the wound. She knew Mr. Pierce had been hit by a bullet, but it appeared a large splinter of wood entered his arm just where the cuff of his coat ended, slightly above his wrist bone. A quick glance at the wood frame of the window out of which he had been shooting confirmed the bullet hit the wood first. She turned until her gaze met Mr. Pierce’s. “We need to stop the bleeding.”
Penelope opened the carpetbag. Seeing only one clean diaper—her last one that had been washed with water and boiled—she bit her lip. I might need the whole of it if anyone else gets wounded. She tore the fabric into several strips about four inches wide and folded one to create a pad. “Here, let’s use this to apply pressure.”
As soon as Mr. Pierce lifted his hand for her to put the pad in place, the blood flow increased.
Penelope pressed the pad over the opening. She shook her head. “I think we need to do more than put pressure on the wound. I need you to hold this in place for a moment.”
Mr. Pierce groaned and rolled his left shoulder back as his fingers once again pushed on the fabric covering his wound. “That piece of wood jabbing into me doesn’t help any.”
“Let me try something.” Penelope reached behind her and untied the bow of her sash. She grabbed for the pistol that threatened to tumble to the floor and tossed it on the bench. Holding the fabric strip at one end, she cinched it tight around Mr. Pierce’s injured arm above the elbow and tied it in a slip knot. “Mr. Pierce, I’d like to bandage the wound, but I can’t with your coat in the way. What I wish to do is pull the sleeve of your uninjured arm off and pull it around you. Once I pull it far enough down your injured arm, I’ll tie the other side of my sash against your shirt so I can remove it the rest of the way. Are you ready?”
Beads of perspiration on his forehead, Mr. Pierce nodded and sat up enough to lean forward.
Ignoring the shots which, although slower, continued around her, Penelope wriggled her fingers beneath Mr. Pierce’s in order to hold the bandage in place.
He released the pressure long enough for her to tug his arm free of the jacket.
With her other hand, she grabbed the sleeve on his uninjured arm.
He grabbed the pressure pad once more and leaned forward as Penelope pulled the coat from his back and the upper part of his injured arm. After tying the other end of her sash as snugly as she could manage over his bicep, she reached under the inside-out coat and untied the sash end over the sleeve. Soon, she had the jacket off and was able to peel back Mr. Pierce’s shirt sleeve to better see the wound.
Penelope grimaced at the sight that met her. “I’d offer to sew it up, but I dare not with the wood and bullet still inside. I don’t dare pull that wood out, either, just in case it broke into a blood vessel and is now the only thing helping to keep you from bleeding more. Judging by my experience with unremoved splinters festering up, I think I’ll just try to clean it the best I can and bandage it until someone can look at it.”
Penelope raised her eyebrows and looked up as she realized the sound of gunshots had ceased and the coach now moved at a slower pace. She turned to Mr. Barnard, now in front of her at her left. “Are they gone?”
“Looks that way.” He leaned out the window and turned his head in one direction and then the other. He pulled his body inside and slumped against the bench back. “Whew! Glad that’s over. If I’m not mistaken, I think I saw a rock wall and the roof of a building up ahead. Let’s hope it’s the station.”
Mr. Franklin, who moved to the center bench to shoot out the window after Mr. Pierce fell, returned to his seat on the rearward facing bench and slapped a palm to his chest. “My old heart can’t take too much of that.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a flask.
As the man unscrewed his flask and tipped it up to his lips, Penelope held out her free hand toward him. “May I have some of that, please?”
The man finished his drink and stared at her a few seconds before blinking. “Certainly, ma’am. Can’t say I took you for a lady who imbibes. Under the circumstances, though, it’s reasonable, I
suppose.” He handed the open flask to Penelope.
Penelope’s fingers wrapped around the container. Drinking liquor solves nothing. I learned that from watching my husband try to drown his flashbacks and memories in whiskey. She twisted toward Mr. Pierce and removed the pressure pad long enough to dribble several drops of the liquid on his open wound. She ignored the hiss as he sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce. It will help clean the wound.”
“I appreciate your efforts, ma’am, but I know a better use for that.” Mr. Pierce snatched the flask out of her hands and brought it to his lips. He tipped his head back once and then a second time.
Mr. Barnard reached for the flask. “Let’s pass that around. Wounded or not, I think we all could use a little sip.”
A glance beneath the bench told Penelope that Jeremy, a small bite of flapjack still in one hand, had fallen asleep.
Penelope returned her attention to Mr. Pierce. She picked up another strip of cloth and folded it into a square. She twisted on her seat until she located the person in possession of the flask. Before Mr. Tucker, the seasoned traveler who had proven himself full of useful information prepared to hand it back to its original owner, she claimed the metal container long enough to douse her clean bandage. She did not need to worry what to do with the flask, for Mr. Keller, the passenger who had ditched Jeremy’s wet diaper in the boot two days before, snatched it from her hand.
“My turn before it returns to its owner. Remind me, if I’m ever fool enough to make this trip again, to bring my own flask.”
Penelope did not take the time to watch the man drink or see if he returned the flask to Mr. Franklin. Patting the area around Mr. Pierce’s open wound with the liquor-soaked pad, she cringed as the door swung open and a form filled the doorway.