by Stephen Bly
“Just hold on to my waist,” Ansley said.
“Your horse is very nice.”
“Thanks. He cost fifty dollars, but I probably already told you.”
“I’m going to get a horse soon. A chestnut and white pinto, if I ever find one cheap enough.”
“Then we can go riding every day.”
“You and me?”
“Sure.”
Retta licked her fingers and mashed down her bangs. Maybe the reason I never get close to Ansley is because I feel so plain and boring around her.
“Shall we go up and visit with Mr. Bouchet?” Ansley asked.
“Yes,” Retta replied. She wrapped her arms around Ansley’s narrow waist.
“Mr. Bouchet.” Retta called out as they approached. “You told me you’d explain this coup stick.”
“It looks like a stone hammer,” Ansley said. “Can I see it, Retta?”
Retta handed it to her.
Bobcat spurred his horse to a slow trot. His dirty hat slipped to his back, held around his neck by a stampede string. “Ladies, that there is an Indian hammer for tappin’ on heads.”
“They use it for a weapon?” Retta asked.
“Missy, the Indians use a stick like that to measure bravery. When you get close enough to an enemy to tap him with a stone hammer, they claim you can ‘count coup.’”
“You mean, kill someone with it?” Retta questioned.
“Not necessarily. Just tappin’ the person is enough to prove how courageous you are. If you can get that close to your enemy and come away alive, you are considered a very brave warrior. Course, I’d imagine ol’ Dance-with-the-Sun has bashed in a skull or two in his day with that very coup stick.”
Ansley handed the stick back to Retta and rubbed the palms of her hands on her skirt.
Retta stroked the soft rabbit fur near the rock. “But why did he give it to me?”
Bobcat stood in the stirrups and gazed at the rising prairie in the west. Retta followed his gaze but didn’t see anything. He plopped back down. “Because you ‘counted coup’ with Tall Owl. You got close enough to touch him.”
“I got close enough to touch him, too,” Ansley asserted.
“Well, Miss MacGregor,” Bobcat replied, “being captured and tied up don’t exactly count as an act of bravery.”
“The Lord answered our prayer. That’s why it turned out like it did,” Retta said.
“You might have gotten a bigger answer than you think. The coup stick in your hand is mighty special. It has Dance-with-the-Sun’s mark on it. He said Retta could ride into any Cheyenne or Sioux camp on the plains and be accepted when she carries that coup stick.”
“Really?” Retta squealed.
“It’s kind of like a free pass, I reckon. As long as you wear the buckskin dress and carry the coup stick, you’ll be safe. He said he’ll send word from band to band about Red Bear of the Shoshone and how brave she was.” Again Bouchet stood in the stirrups. “Looks like the whole train up there.”
“There’s the California bunch,” Retta called out. “Papa, can we ride ahead and see Joslyn?”
“I reckon so, but check in with Mama first. I don’t want her to fret over you anymore.”
Retta and Ansley galloped up to the column of parked wagons. The Oregon-bound wagons were parked in a long line to the north of the main trail. Many of the California- bound ones were sunk to the axles in mud. Men shouted instructions as the oxen strained and heaved to tug the wagons out of the bog.
Ansley let Retta off at her wagon and then rode on up the line. Lerryn’s head poked out the yellow flap at the back of the Barre wagon. “It’s about time you got back,” she shouted. “Where’s Papa?”
Retta gazed over her shoulder. “He’s back at the Neilsen wagon.”
“Go get him quick. Mama’s real sick. She’s crying and mumbling and saying it might be her time.”
Chapter Seven
Retta huddled at one end of the covered wagon and slipped off her wet buckskin dress and moccasins. She yanked her green calico dress out of the small trunk and eased it over her head. Her mother was stretched out over quilts at the far end of the wagon. She watched the back of her father’s head as he leaned over and toweled perspiration off his wife’s face.
“Eugene, I told you this would happen,” Mrs. Barre said.
“I know, darlin’. You were right. I let the Donation Land Act blind me, I suppose. I can’t believe I’m doin’ this for 320 acres in Oregon.”
“And 320 acres for me,” she added.
“Still it’s foolishness that drives a man to take such chances. I always figured I was smarter than this.”
“It’s not your fault, Eugene. You need a stronger woman than me.”
“Julia Carter Barre, you are all I ever needed in my life. You know that.”
“And Oregon.”
“What?”
“You need Oregon, too, don’t you?”
“Right now, I just need you. It doesn’t matter if we’re in Oregon, Ohio, Nebraska, or wherever it is we are today. So hang on for me,” he urged.
Mrs. Barre’s voice sounded weak and pained. “I wanted to be strong for you.”
“You just need some rest. Relax now. Me and the kids will take care of things.”
“No, I can’t let you down. I need to cook.”
Retta brushed down the front of her dress and tied the ribbon belt behind her. “I can cook, Mama,” she offered.
“Oh, Coretta Emily, I didn’t see you back there.”
“I was changing my dress.”
“Did you get your buckskin dirty?”
“I got it wet, and it’s heavy.”
“I imagine it is.”
“Mama, I really can cook for you. I can boil potatoes and make gravy. Grandma Cutler taught me how to do gravy last November.”
“Come here, Coretta.”
Retta crawled up next to her father. “Mama, you’ve been crying.”
“Yes, darlin’, I’ve been hurting so bad I cried.”
“Why, Mama? What’s wrong? Isn’t there any medicine you can take? The man in Independence had some Female Remedy. Remember? Couldn’t you take that?”
Her mother reached out her hand. Retta grabbed her fingers. “Mama, your hand is cold and sweaty at the same time.”
“I know, baby. I can’t decide whether to have a chill or a fever.”
Retta studied her mother’s face. “Mama, you don’t look so good.”
“Now, darlin’, I think your mama is beautiful,” Mr. Barre maintained.
“Eugene, our Retta is the most honest girl on the face of the earth. When she says I look horrid, then I look horrid.”
“Oh no, Mama, I didn’t mean horrid. I meant sickly, peaked, anemic, tired, and run-down. I didn’t mean horrid.”
Mrs. Barre forced a smile. “Thank you for the explanation.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her mother’s squeeze was feeble. “Where’s your sister?”
The voice filtered in from outside the back flap. “I’m out here, Mama.”
“Me and Andrew are out here, too, Mama,” William called.
“My, I have taken all of you from your chores.”
“They aren’t as important as you,” Andrew replied.
“I’m as good as I can be right now, as long as the wagon doesn’t have to move. So you men go on and help pull those wagons out of the mud.”
“Not until you’re better, Julia darlin’,” Mr. Barre said.
“Now, Eugene, we both know I might not get better ever. So you go on. I’ll have my girls to look after me,” she replied.
He didn’t budge.
“There isn’t anything you can do that Lerryn and Coretta can’t do.”
Mr. Barre stood to leave. Even though he had to stoop in the wagon, he towered above Retta. He motioned for her to climb down out of the wagon with him. As they did, Lerryn scurried back in.
Her father led Retta a little ways away. “Darlin’
, your mama is very sick. Most of it is my fault. I should never have brought her out here. At the least, I should have waited until next year. But I was too set on gettin’ to Oregon and gettin’ those 640 acres. Now your mama has to pay for my impatience. I need you and your sis to take good care of her.”
“We will, Papa.”
“And come get me the minute she needs anything you can’t handle.”
Retta laced her fingers together and rested them on top of her head. “I will, Papa. I’ll come find you.”
Mr. Barre started to walk away, then paused, and turned back. “Darlin’, I’m very proud of what you did today with the Arapaho.”
“I was just trying to do what was right, Papa.”
“You did well, Coretta. Your mama did a good job of raisin’ you.”
“You raised me, too, Papa.”
He stared at her for several moments and then nodded. “Yep, you’re right. That’s probably why you get into so many scrapes.”
“I’m going to try real hard from now on to stay out of trouble.”
“Baby, that’s okay. You keep right on havin’ a good time. You’ll have your share of tough times. Everybody does. Okay, the boys and I will be helpin’ Mr. Landers pull his wagon out of the bog. We aren’t goin’ to move before mornin’. You go ahead and build a fire if you want to.”
Retta crawled back up in the wagon. Lerryn now sat next to Mrs. Barre. She held her fingers up to her lips. “Mama’s sleepin’, Retta. I’ll sit with her.”
“What do you want me to do? Can I cook supper?”
“I think it’s too early for supper.”
“Can I make a dessert?” Retta asked her sister.
“Okay, but try not to make too much noise.”
* * * * *
Retta’s fire was burning well when up hiked Ben Weaver and Travis Lott.
“Hi, Retta. Is it true you’re going to marry an Indian chief someday?” Ben blurted out.
“No. Who told you?”
“Ansley said you told the Indians if the chief’s son did a brave act, you would consider marrying him,” Travis replied.
With her chin on her chest, Retta mumbled, “I never said I was going to consider marrying anyone. I was told he’s not very brave.”
Ben’s hair curled out from under his hat “But he did want you to marry him?”
Retta dug through a big blue box labeled Food. “Yeah, well, sort of,” she replied.
“And you captured the Indian named Tall Owl?” Ben pressed.
“The horse bucked him off, and he hit his head.”
“How come you have all the adventures?” Travis sputtered.
“It all happened so fast I hardly got to enjoy it.” Retta pulled out a small burlap sack.
“And Mr. Bouchet said they gave you a spear or somethin’ that will let you go into a Cheyenne camp any time you want and not get scalped,” Ben said.
“It’s a coup stick, not a spear.”
Ben peeked into the blue box. “I can’t believe how ever’thing happens to you. Is that some raisins?”
“Yes, and you may not have any.” She closed the lid on the box. “Before the last couple of days, everything was pretty routine. You told me I was boring.”
Ben scratched his neck. “I might have been a tad premature with my judgment.”
“What’re you goin’ to do now, Retta?” Travis asked.
“Crack walnuts,” she replied.
“What?”
“I’m making walnut-raisin pudding, and so I need to crack walnuts. Isn’t that an exciting adventure?”
“Eh, not really, but I’m goin’ to stay here anyway.” Ben turned to Travis. “I’ll take the first watch.”
Retta’s eyes bored into Ben’s. “What do you mean, the first watch?”
Ben shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Me and Travis decided the only way we could get in on your adventures is to have one of us stationed with you at all times.”
“All times? Even at night?”
“No, not at night,” Travis replied. “You do go to sleep, don’t you?”
Retta hustled to the brown crate labeled Dishes and pulled out a white-enameled tin bowl. “Yes, I do, but what if I don’t want you hanging around?”
“Why not?” Ben scooted closer and lowered his voice. “Do you have another adventure planned you don’t want to tell us about?”
“I never plan adventures,” she said. “They just happen.”
“See? That’s exactly why one of us has to stay with you,” Ben declared.
“Then you might as well help me.” Retta motioned toward the wagon. “Fetch me that keg of nails.”
“What’re you goin’ to build?”
“I’m going to use it as a bench to crack walnuts on.” Ben staggered as he carried the keg of nails over to Retta.
“Now pull Mama’s dish crate over here. We’ll use it for a chair. ”
“W-we?” Ben stammered as he dragged the heavy crate.
“You didn’t reckon on sitting around staring at me and saying nothing like you do when you go see Ansley, did you?”
Ben blushed strawberry red. “Trav ... help me with this crate.”
“I’ll get the nutcracker.” Retta climbed up in the wagon and spied both Lerryn and her mother asleep. She grabbed her coup stick and headed to the fire.
Ben was perched on one end of the brown crate. She carried the small burlap bag over to the nail keg. “Where’s Travis?”
“He said I have the first shift. What do you have in your hand?” Ben asked.
She grinned, “A sack of walnuts from our tree in Ohio.”
“No, in the other hand.”
“Oh, this?” She struck a pose with the coup stick as if to strike him.
Ben jumped back. “Did you get that from the Shoshone?”
“No, I got it from Dance-with-the-Sun. He’s Cheyenne. It’s a coup stick, for ‘counting coup.’ Of course, you know all about it.”
“Eh,” Ben stammered, “sure, but what’re you goin’ to use it for?”
“Cracking walnuts.”
“How does that work?”
“You hold the walnut on top of the nail keg with two fingers. I’ll smash it with this. Then we pick out the meat.”
“Smash it? But—but what if you hit my fingers?” he protested.
Retta laughed. “Then that will be quite an adventure, won’t it, Ben Weaver?”
* * * * *
After supper Mr. Barre left to talk with Colonel Graves and Bobcat Bouchet. Andrew took the first shift at night watch over the horses. William wandered up the wagon train to visit Amy Lynch. Lerryn went back in the wagon to stay with Mrs. Barre.
Retta washed dishes.
Ben dried them.
And Travis played with the coup stick. “This sucker is heavy. I bet it would hurt to get hit with it. Retta, do you really think the one who carries this will be safe in a Cheyenne camp?”
“Yes, provided the person wears a buckskin dress.”
Travis swallowed hard. “A dress?”
“Well, Dance-with-the-Sun said he would tell the story about the Indian girl who was so brave.”
“You don’t look like an Indian,” Travis insisted.
“Oh, I don’t know. Retta’s got dark brown, thick hair,” Ben interjected.
“So do lots of girls, but that don’t make them Indians.”
“And she has a round nose,” Ben countered.
“So do I,” Travis retorted. “Don’t mean nothin’.”
“That’s ’cause you broke yours when you got bucked off your horse.”
“I didn’t get bucked off,” Travis argued. “Samson stepped in a prairie dog hole, that’s what. I say Retta don’t look like no Indian.”
“She’s got strong arms and shoulders. Did you ever get punched by her?” Ben argued.
“No, but strong arms don’t make her look like an Indian.”
“The Shoshone, Arapaho, and Cheyenne think she does.”
<
br /> Travis shrugged. “What do they know?”
“I reckon they know what an Indian girl’s body looks like.”
Retta hid her face behind the wet dishrag. “You two are embarrassing me. Stop it right now.”
“Maybe you’re right, Ben.” Travis snickered. “I do see some red in her face and neck.”
“Give me my coup stick.” Retta yanked the stone hammer from Travis’s hand. “The next word either of you say about how I look, I’m going to demonstrate what it feels like to be struck in the back of the head with a coup stick.”
“Hi, Retta.” The voice was light, feminine.
She glanced up at Joslyn, black hair bouncing in the evening shadows. “Hi, River Raven.”
“Are you having a party?” Joslyn asked.
“Oh, yes. A dish washing party. You want to join us?”
“No, I just had one of those. You know what? Mr. Landers said we aren’t going to break off and go to California. We really need to stay with the train, at least until Fort Hall.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. It’s an answer to my prayer.”
“Do you pray a lot, Retta?” Travis asked.
“Only when I’m scared or lonely or worried or angry or happy or tired or feeling really, really good.”
“Did you know Gilson hasn’t left her wagon now for two days?”
“Oh, we must go see her,” Retta declared.
“She might be asleep.”
“Let’s go right now. Ben and Travis can finish the dishes.”
“What? We’re goin’ with you,” Ben insisted.
“We’re going to visit a sick friend. It will not be an adventure,” Retta stated.
“It could be if Gilson vomits again,” Joslyn quipped.
“Eh, if we stay here, can we look at your coup stick?” Travis asked.
“Sure, but don’t go carrying it off anywhere.”
“How about the eagle-feather headband? Can we look at it too?”
Retta opened the dark green cloth valise and pulled out the headband. “But you have to finish the dishes first.”
Ben dried his hands on the towel and picked up the headband. “You promise you won’t have any adventures?”
“It will just be dull girl chat.”
“You aren’t dull anymore, Retta,” Ben remarked.