by Stephen Bly
The Buffalo’s Last Stand
Stephen Bly
Retta Barre’s Oregon Trail
Book 2
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Bly Books on Smashwords
Copyright©2002,2015 by Janet Chester Bly
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Cover Design: David LaPlaca
Cover Illustrator: Bill Dodge
For a list of other books by Stephen Bly write:
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Dedication:
For
Natalia Puebla
Who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom
for such a time as this?
Esther 4:14 ESV
Chapter One
Along the North Platte River, two days west of Robidoux’s Trading Post, near Scotts Bluff, Tuesday, June 29, 1852
Dear Diary,
I think he likes me. I could tell it by the way he ran away. Boys are like that, Joslyn says. And Joslyn knows. If nothing else exciting ever happens in my life, perhaps this day has been enough.
Coretta Emily Barre, 12 1/2
Retta jammed her journal into the back of the covered wagon. She licked her fingers and tried to mash her thick dark brown bangs flat against her forehead. Then she plopped down on an upturned bucket under the canvas awning attached to their wagon so she could scrape mud off her shoes. The air felt warm, with the shouts of men and the painful shrieks of wagon wheels drifting on a slight breeze. Retta’s mother climbed down out of the wagon with slow, deliberate steps.
Mrs. Barre paused by Retta and fastened the tiny buttons on her cuffs. “You’re a muddy mess, young lady. What have you been doing?”
Retta brushed a fly off her cheek, leaving another streak of mud. “William told us to stay out of the way while they moved the California wagons to the front. So some of us hiked over to the river—that’s all.”
Mrs. Barre licked her fingers and smoothed down the back of Retta’s hair. “Is it dry enough to move wagons?” she asked.
“I don’t think so ’cause they surely are making a mess.” Retta stood and gently hugged her mother’s waist. “How are you feeling now, Mama?”
Mrs. Barre slipped her arm around Retta’s shoulder. “Better, thank you, baby. I needed that nap. I don’t like feeling so tired all the time. Did you get your moccasins?”
Retta held up the knee-high deerskin moccasins. “Look, Mama, aren’t they pretty? They are a little worn where they have been rubbing against a horse, but that won’t matter, especially when I get my very own pinto.”
“What is this talk about a pinto?”
“Mama, I want to buy a horse for this journey.”
“You know what I said about ladies riding horses.”
“But, Mama, I don’t have to be a lady until I get to Oregon, do I? Ladies stay in the wagon and sew. Girls go out and pick up buffalo chips.”
Mrs. Barre allowed a small smile. “An interesting definition. Perhaps it does add weight to your cause.”
“I only have a few dollars saved, and there’s no chestnut and white pinto around anyway. So I guess it’s no more than a little girl’s dream.”
“You aren’t all that little.”
“Lerryn says I am.”
“Yes, well, compared to big sis, I suppose you are a little girl.”
“Compared to her, I look like a boy.”
“Coretta.”
“How do you like my moccasins, Mama?” Retta held them up again.
“They’re beautiful. I don’t think that little book was worth this much.”
“Two Bears was very happy with the trade.”
“I must say I’m impressed. Anyone who wants to read Pilgrim’s Progress is a wise man. I wonder if he’s seen the light?”
“You mean, become a Christian?”
“Yes. I heard some Indians are coming to Jesus. There are missionaries, you know. But poor Dr. and Mrs. Whitman ... poor, poor lady.” Mrs. Barre rubbed her forehead.
“Two Bears said he wanted to find the path to heaven.” Retta saw a tear trickle out of her mother’s eye. “Mama, did you see my note? I left you a note before I went to the river.”
“Yes. You need to practice your penmanship, young lady. I can hardly tell your v’s from your r’s.” Mrs. Barre peered into a pail of soaking white beans.
“I write in my journal every day.”
“That’s nice, baby. Good practice for you.”
“I actually had something to say today. Imagine meeting Indians face to face.”
“Let’s make that the last trip where you might encounter Indians ... especially without your brothers or your father along. Not all Indians are friendly. You were very fortunate. Now wash your cheek.”
Retta found a small flour sack towel and wiped her whole face. “Joslyn, Christen, and Ben went with me.”
Mrs. Barre plucked out a white bean from the pail and chewed on it. “That’s good. I’m glad young Ben went along to look after you girls.”
Retta bit her lip and puffed out her cheeks to keep from saying anything. Ben Weaver was about as much help as a log chained to her ankle.
Mrs. Barre waved her out from under the awning. “Now hurry and find your papa. Ask him if we are rotating our wagon or if I should fix supper here. I can’t imagine moving wagons in this mud. And send Lerryn this way if you spot her. She was getting some help with her memory quilt from Mrs. Ferdinand.”
As Retta hiked past the wagons, seven-year-old Taggie Potts caught up with her. “Taggie, how come you have a string on Santana?” she asked.
The boy tugged on his ripped hat and looked down at his skinny black dog. “Ain’t a string. It’s a leash.”
Retta leaned over and petted the head of the smiling dog. “You have to leash him?”
Taggie’s brown eyes widened. “Yep. Don’t you know there are Injuns around? I’m afraid they might eat him.”
Retta stared at the ribs on the small dog. Someone would have to be dying of starvation to even think of eating that dog.
Taggie rubbed dirty fingers across the beaded sleeve of her buckskin dress. “Did you really see the Injuns, Retta?”
“Yes, I did. I met some very nice Indians.”
“Did you talk Indian to them?”
“One of them knew English. But there was another one who didn’t. He was a bit scary.”
Taggie reached up and put his sticky hand in hers as they hiked around the Swanson wagon. “Did he have any scalps on his belt?”
“No.”
“Did he have a bow and arrow?”
“No.”
“Did he have a rifle?”
“No, but he did have a hunting knife.”
Taggie’s eyes widened. “Ansley said Injuns have rings in their noses. Did this one have a ring in his nose?”
“No, but he did have some scars on his cheeks. I wonder why Ansley said that? She didn’t go with us to see the Indians.”
“She didn’t?”
“No, she sure did not.”
“Are you scared of Injuns, Retta? I ain’t scared of them.” He clutched her hand more tightly. “Well, maybe just a little.”
Retta could feel the
soles of her shoes sink into the dirt, but the mud no longer stuck to her heels. “Taggie, did you see those six men who camped with us at the river crossing last week?”
“The ones who smelled funny and had big guns strapped to their belts?”
“The very ones. Did they scare you?”
“Yeah.”
“Were they Indians?” she pressed.
“Nope.”
“Well, they scared me, too. So I reckon there are some scary people all over. Some are Indian, and some are white.”
“Yeah, sometimes I’m scared of my papa,” Taggie admitted.
Retta put her hand on Taggie’s shoulder as they walked up the line of wagons. When your daddy takes to whiskey, all of us are scared.
She stopped to stare at the open space where Joslyn’s wagon had recently been. There were foot-deep muddy ruts leading away from the spot.
“The California-bound folks done pulled out,” Taggie announced.
She stared toward the head of the line of wagons.
“They put them up front this evening, but they aren’t actually leaving until first thing in the morning.”
Taggie squatted down and petted his dog. “No, they all pulled out for them hills up there. I seen ’em and waved good-bye.”
Retta squatted down next to Taggie and scratched her head. “What do you mean, they left? The Landers surely didn’t leave. Joslyn was with me for the last couple of hours.”
“Your brother gave her a ride up to them. They left, I tell you. It was really muddy. You should have seen it.”
Retta shaded her eyes against the setting sun. “They can’t just leave like that. No one leaves in the evening.” She sprinted toward the front of the mile-long wagon train.
“I’m goin’ to stay here,” Taggie shouted. “Santana don’t want to run.”
Retta slowed near a tall Conestoga with red-spoked wheels and a blue box. She saw Mrs. Ferdinand rummaging in a valise on a rocking chair beside the wagon.
“Retta, I have something for you to take to your sister.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ferdinand ... hi.” Retta gasped for breath. “Isn’t Lerryn here with you?”
“Oh, no. She only stopped by for a minute, but I promised to find her this star pattern. Would you see she gets it?”
Retta grabbed the neatly folded large paper star. “Do you know where she went?”
“I believe she said she had to help Joslyn pack. They’re going to California, you know.”
Retta hustled to the lead wagon as her brother Andrew rode up on Beanie.
“Where are the California wagons?” she called out.
“Just over that next rise, wallowing in the mud and making a mess of the prairie.”
“Did you take Joslyn up there?”
“Do you mean River Raven? She insisted I call her that.” His light brown hair curled out from under his floppy-brimmed gray felt hat.
Retta stepped up and rubbed Beanie’s dun-colored neck. “River Raven is her Indian name.”
“Did you go see your Indian?”
“Yes, but why does everyone keep calling Two Bears my Indian?” Retta stood in front of the horse and leaned her open eye close to Beanie’s.
Andrew reined the horse back. “’Cause you’re the only one who has seen him.”
“Not anymore.” Retta watched the sun drop behind the distant horizon. “I can’t believe she’s gone just like that. It makes me sick to my stomach I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
“Her stepdaddy went off without her. Said she could walk and catch up because he wasn’t waitin’. Sure seemed wrong to me, so I figured the least I could do was give her a ride to the wagon.”
Retta folded her arms across her chest. “But I didn’t get to tell her good-bye properly.”
“I did.” Andrew grinned.
Retta spun around and grabbed his stirrup. “What do you mean?”
His wide smile revealed twin dimples. “She hugged me and gave me a kiss right on the cheek.”
“She did not,” Retta fumed.
“Yes, she did.”
“But—but you’re my brother. She can’t kiss my brother.”
“I’m not her brother.”
Retta sputtered, “You can’t go around kissing my friends.” She puffed out her cheeks.
“I didn’t.” He winked. “She kissed me.”
Retta waited by the flap of the dingy white tent. Three men huddled inside around a small folding table covered with maps. She jumped when she heard her father’s voice. “You lookin’ for me, darlin’?”
Retta stuck her head into the tent and asked, “Sorry to bother you, Papa. Mama wants to know if she should cook supper where we are, or are we rotating the wagons first?”
Mr. Barre glanced at Colonel Graves hovering over a map. “I don’t reckon it’s worth movin’ this late in the day,” the colonel said.
Bobcat Bouchet scratched his shaggy gray beard. “No danger from Missy’s Indian, I reckon. Shoshones are a fairly peaceful lot. Course, he’s a long way from home. Makes ’em more peaceful sometimes.”
“I’m sure you don’t have to worry about Two Bears. I gave him a copy of Pilgrim’s Progress.”
“Is he in camp?” the colonel asked.
“No, some of us went out to his place,” Retta replied. Bobcat Bouchet rubbed his beard. “You found him?” She dropped her chin to her chest. “He sort of found
us.”
“Next time how about takin’ me along?” Bobcat suggested. “I want to know what he knows about this country. I assume he’s been through it before.”
“He’s going to Fort Bridger.”
“He is?” Bobcat pulled off his felt hat and rubbed his dirty forehead on his dirty shirtsleeve. “He’s got a few hundred miles left.”
Retta rocked back on her heels. “I think that’s his home. The government wanted him down in the Indian Territory, but he doesn’t have any family there. So he left. It’s not easy for the Shoshone to get along with the Cherokee. I think it’s silly to stick them all in the same place.”
The colonel gave Mr. Barre a sharp look. “Eugene, did it dawn on you this young lady knows more about the Indians in the area than any of us?”
Retta held her breath and puffed out her cheeks.
Mr. Barre studied his daughter’s face. “I’ve got a feelin’ she has a little more to say. What else do you know, darlin’?”
“I saw an Arapaho Indian named Tall Owl,” she blurted out.
“Arapaho.” Bobcat Bouchet leaped to his feet and grabbed his rifle.
“Already? I was hoping we wouldn’t see them for two more weeks.” The colonel chewed on the stem of his unlit clay pipe and tapped his foot as if listening to a march.
“Did he look friendly?” Bouchet asked.
“No, sir. He looked mean,” Retta reported.
Colonel Graves waved his hand. “Eugene, we need to organize the wagons. Put them in two parallel lines fifty feet apart, even if we have to double up on the oxen to pull them through the mud. You get your boys and bring the horses and cattle into the middle.”
Then he turned to the grizzled scout. “Bobcat, take two men with you and ride up to that California-bound bunch and tell them the Arapaho are nearby. Tell them to post extra guards and reconsider if they really want to split off.” The colonel’s arms waved as he punched out the orders. “It would be safer if they stuck with us at least until South Pass ... but we’ve been down that line of thinkin’ with them before.”
“It’s really that serious?” Mr. Barre asked.
Bobcat nodded. “The picnic’s over. Now comes the hard work. I never thought Tall Owl would come this far north and west. We’re in Cheyenne and Sioux country.”
“You know him?” Retta asked.
“Never met him face to face. Did you actually see him up close?”
Retta stepped inside the tent. “Yes, but Two Bears and his sons chased him off.”
Bobcat held his rifle and rubbed his beard. “Arapahos chase
d by a Shoshone family?”
Retta bit her lip and rocked back on her heels. “Only one Arapaho. Tall Owl was by himself.”
Bobcat Bouchet paced the tent. “Why was he alone?”
“Maybe he was scouting,” Mr. Barre suggested.
“He usually has a whole band with him,” Colonel Graves said.
“He’s in trouble,” Bobcat mumbled. “Maybe they kicked him out again. Was he carryin’ a weapon?”
“A huge knife,” Retta reported.
“No bow and arrow?”
“Nope.”
“No gun?”
“Nope.”
Colonel Graves moved closer to Retta. “Did you happen to notice if his horse was tired?”
“I didn’t see a horse. I think he was on foot. He just ran off into the brush. ”
“Don’t make sense,” Bobcat muttered as though to himself. “Unless his band was just around the corner.”
“Bring the livestock in. We’ve got to get these wagons moved up right away,” the colonel shouted as he barged out of the tent.
Retta crept over and slipped her hand into her father’s. “Papa, is Colonel Graves mad at me?”
“No, darlin’. He thinks you’re tellin’ the truth, and he respects your word.”
“I am telling the truth.”
“I know, baby. Now run back and tell Mama to pack the outfit. We are movin’ the wagon after all. But don’t tell her we’re expectin’ Indians to attack. This is just a safety measure. There’s no reason for her to worry. Your mama has enough worries without us addin’ more.”
Retta sprinted back down the line of wagons.
Taggie trotted up. “Are the Indians really goin’ to attack?” he hollered.
“Where did you hear that?” she challenged.
“I sort of listened in from outside the tent.”
“You can’t tell anyone. It might not be as bad as they think.”
“I didn’t tell no one ... except Travis Lott ... and maybe Johnny Dillard.”