A Trail Too Far

by Robert Peecher

  Today, Rachel was with her mother on the lead wagon, though this was not how she started out. She started on the second wagon with brother Jeremiah driving. But at noon she contrived to get up into the first wagon to sit beside her mother, though it was not her mother who held her interest.

  Rachel Cummings' attention was on the rough guide in the buckskin coat.

  For no reason that she could name, Rachel's interest in Rab Sinclair had increased. She found that quite suddenly she was very curious about him. With some guilt, she wondered if it was because of the way he had treated Graham the day before.

  "What do you think of him?" Rachel asked her mother.

  Martha Cummings, who'd been lost in her own thoughts, raised her eyebrows into a question. "What do I think of whom?"

  "Our guide, mother. Mr. Sinclair."

  Rachel was leaned forward, her elbow resting on her crossed knee and her chin on her hand.

  "I think he makes me very sad," Martha Cummings said.

  "Sad?" Rachel asked, surprised. She did not connect Rab Sinclair with sadness.

  "Of course. No mother, except for a series of Indian women that his father apparently took up with. It's scandalous, to be sure, but it is also very sad to me. What kind of life is it for a boy who grows up without a mother to love him?"

  "I think he is interesting," Rachel said, and there was some lost and dreamy note to her voice that made her mother start.

  "Oh, Rachel," her mother said, her tone a mixture of sympathy and foreboding.

  "What?" Rachel asked, throwing in a note of innocence. "I do think he is interesting. He's certainly like nothing we've ever met before."

  Martha Cummings looked at the casual slouch of the man on the horse in front of them, the easy way he sat in the saddle. She wouldn't admit it – not to her husband or her daughter or anyone – but she felt very drawn to the young man and his rough ways. "He is a curiosity," Martha said. "I will grant you that."

  "Graham does not like him," Rachel said.

  "I've noticed," Martha said. "You should be very careful. You know your father thinks highly of Graham and would very much like to see the two of you engaged after we have arrived in California. But if you were to encourage Mr. Sinclair, either purposefully or accidentally, it could create even more animosity with Graham. It would be good to remember that Mr. Sinclair will be with us only as far as Santa Fe, but Graham will be with us in California for a very long time."

  "I will be careful, mother," Rachel said. "I know father's thoughts about Graham. I am not so sure that I share them. But I can assure you, I have no thoughts of Mr. Sinclair in that respect."

  Rachel's face cracked into a smile even as she thought of it.

  "The notion is preposterous," she told her mother, and she covered her face as she laughed aloud.

  "Don't snort, Rachel," Martha said. "It is not becoming."

  Even as Rachel's face fell from the reprimand from her mother, the wagon lurched to a stop. Martha snapped the whip – something she had gotten exceedingly good at in the last few weeks since first leaving Ohio – but the mules could not pull the wagon.

  "We've gotten mired," Martha proclaimed, looking at the wheels stuck in a low, muddy spot. Talking with her daughter, she did not even see it coming.

  "What's the problem?" Amos called from the next wagon back.

  Martha leaned out and shouted back to him, "We are stuck in the mud!"

  The wagons all halted behind the lead wagon, and Rab Sinclair turned the two horses he was leading to go back to see what the hold up was.

  Jeremiah Cummings, the oldest son, was mounted on one of the saddle horses and leading the stock. He allowed them to wander and graze, but if they strayed too far he turned them back to the group.

  Rab dismounted and picketed all three horses. Usually a ground tie was all he ever did with Cromwell, but experience told him that one problem usually leads to the next. A wagon getting stuck in mud is the sort of problem that leads to a horse wandering off and no one noticing until the thing is a speck on the horizon. When he was finished with the horses, he looked at the wheels.

  "Mired good," he told Amos Cummings who was standing over him and looking down at the wheels.

  "We'll need to unload the wagon as much as we can. If we've got a spare board or some of the firewood you've collected, we can push that up under the wheels to try to give it something firm to catch hold to. Once we've got the weight out of the back of the wagon we should be able to get it rolling again."

  The men began unloading. Water casks. Tents. Sacks of flour and salt. Boxes of provisions. Bedrolls. Spare wheels. Boxes of clothes and personal items. Even heirlooms Amos and Martha had decided to bring with them to California.

  When they reached the boxes of books at the bottom of the wagon, Rab Sinclair was appalled at the weight of the things. They were in heavy wooden crates, and the books themselves were surprisingly heavy.

  "Ain't they got bookstores in California?" Rab asked. "These would be best left right here. It's a cruelty to the animals and an imposition on our time to load these books back into the wagon."

  "These books are exceedingly valuable," Amos Cummings said. "Beyond that, they are necessary to me for my profession. I would sooner leave some portion of the flour than I would these books."

  Rab assumed he was joking, but when he looked at the professor's face he realized there was no jest.

  With the wagon unloaded, they were able to lever the wheels out of the mud with a spare board, and they left branches in the low spot so that the wheels would have something to roll over.

  Once the wagon was back on firm soil, the men loaded it back. Rab refused to pick up a box of books, and so Amos, Stuart, and Graham got the books while Rab loaded supplies that made sense to him.

  The process was a lengthy one, and at least three-quarters of an hour were expended on the unloading and reloading of the wagon.

  Rab stood by and supervised each of the wagons going across the small bridge of branches they had made. Most of the branches snapped under the weight of the wagons, but they were sufficient to give the wagons something firm to cross.

  "You should collect all those branches from the mud," Rab told Paul, the youngest of the Cummings sons. "They won't be good for burning now, but when the mud dries we can knock it off and those sticks will still be good for fire."

  Rab let the horses gallop for a bit. He caught up to and passed the first of the wagons with the two Cummings women, and he was soon far out in front of the wagon train.

  Today he was on the sorrel and the buckskin had the pannier so that Cromwell was unburdened. He tried not to favor the blue, but he knew that Cromwell was not doing his part with the pannier. Though he preferred riding the young roan, Cromwell found that he could talk just as freely with either the sorrel or the buckskin as he did with Cromwell, and neither offered any more argument than Cromwell ever did.

  "Old sorrel hawss, I will tell you that I ain't never seen nothing like these university people," Rab said. "They'd sooner starve than give up them books, knowing that it is an imposition on me and a danger to the entire expedition. And it's a damn shame to over burden them animals in that way. All for books. I cannot understand it."

  The books in the wagons were like a bur under the saddle to him. Those books stung Rab Sinclair in a way that he could not fully understand.

  "I know I shouldn't let it bother me so," he said to the horse. "But those books are a stain on my conscience. I shouldn't allow them to force those mules and oxen to drag around such an unnecessarily heavy load."

  ***

  The sun sank low on the horizon faster than Rab Sinclair would have liked. He pushed on as long as he dared, and then finally turned his horses, rode back to the train and told them they should make camp.

  Remembering his promise to Amos Cummings and thinking of his own diminishing provisions, Rab took his supper that evening with the others. He helped with setting up camp and seeing to the livestock, and in that w
ay he did not feel bad about sharing in the food and coffee. Most often in wagon trains, families and small parties separated themselves out when it came time for victuals, and in that way they made certain to preserve their own stores for the remainder of the journey. But the Cummings group all ate communally, and Rab wondered if they were keeping a good watch on their supplies.

  They lit lanterns and sat around a small fire just large enough for cooking.

  When supper was finished, the attention of the party seemed to turn universally toward Rab Sinclair. The Cummings and Bancrofts and Graham Devalt, after all, had been all together at supper for many weeks now, and the introduction of a new person naturally drew the interest of all the others.

  They questioned him about any number of things about growing up in the wilds and among the Indians, and Rab did his best to answer them without committing to too much conversation.

  "I am surprised, Mr. Sinclair, that we have not encountered any Indians on the prairie," Martha Cummings said. "I believed that they were as numerous here as the grass."

  "Not so numerous as that," Rab said. "But there is no doubt whether or not they are out there. The Arapaho are west of us, nearer the mountains, but they sometimes will come this away. The Lakota and the Cheyenne are north of here, but we could encounter them. The Pawnee, too."

  "If we were to encounter them, how should we proceed?" Stuart Bancroft asked.

  "If they have women and children with them, they will let you alone. They might want to trade. We'll make them know we have no interest in trade. They might want to beg. It's best not to give them anything, unless we think they are truly hungry. If they are truly hungry, they will leave their women and children and come take what they want. So if they truly have no food, it's best to give them a little something – even if it might be more difficult on you later. You don't have to give them much."

  "What if we encounter only men?" Stuart asked.

  "Don't talk to them," Rab said, and he looked meaningfully at Graham Devalt. "Don't engage them, don't rile them. If we see only men, we'll do our best to make a circle out of the wagons and keep the livestock in the circle. We'll greet 'em with guns, and if they come near we'll have to shoot one of them. If they keep coming, we'll have to shoot all of them."

  "We will not shoot another man, not even an Indian," Amos Cummings said.

  "Then they'll take everything you've got, and if they leave you alive it will be a surprise to me."

  "Are they all so vicious?" Rachel Cummings asked.

  "I wouldn't say they are vicious," Rab said. "If a man's family is starving and he takes food, is that viciousness?"

  "Theft is vicious," Rachel said.

  Rab shrugged. "I reckon the Indians wouldn't see it as theft. They would see it more as survival."

  "If you do not think they are vicious, then what do you think of them?" Rachel asked.

  Rab lit his pipe and thought for a moment about the question.

  "The Indians are an interesting people," Rab said evenly. "They are wild and beautiful, and of course each tribe is as different from one another as the English are different from the Germans and the Germans from the French, and the French from the Spanish. They have their own languages and their own traditions. But on the whole, most of 'em are a might too superstitious for me."

  "How do you mean?" Rachel asked. "Why do you say they are superstitious?"

  "A might too religious, I reckon," Rab said. "Them Injuns, they put a heap of stock into the spirits of their ancestors. A bird ain't never just a bird, but it's an omen that can speak of the future, and such. They take the buzzard as being a sacred beast because it cleans the land. Buzzards are a nasty bird, and I would not eat one even if I had been days without food."

  Rab looked to the sky, but there were no buzzards to be seen in the dwindling light.

  "They are not so different from some folks from back East that I've known," he added. "The religion is different, but it's all superstition."

  Whether he meant it as such, Rachel Cummings took the last remark as a jibe intended personally against her.

  "How are Easterners superstitious?" she asked.

  "Too much churchin'."

  Rachel's reaction was beyond her ability to control. She snorted as she laughed, then put a hand up to her face.

  Her tone was now incredulous. "Do you not believe in God, Mr. Sinclair?"

  "I reckon I do, ma'am," Rab said. "But I don't find much use in preachers."

  "Was your father not a preacher?" Rachel asked. "You gave us to understand that he was a preacher."

  "I reckon I did call him that," Rab said. "Folks called him a preacher, that's true enough, but he was never as much of a preacher as they claimed he was. He sought to teach the tribes about Jesus, that's true. But I think mostly my old pa liked the ways of the Indian people and better preferred associatin' with them than he did with white folks. And as I mentioned to you before, he was partial to squaws. My mother was part Cherokee herself."

  Martha Cummings cut in.

  "Please, Mr. Sinclair. In front of my children, can we not discuss 'squaws'?"

  Rab gave her a smile. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "You've asked me not to do that, and I am sorry. I did not mean any disrespect to you or your children."

  But Rachel Cummings was not through with him.

  "Do you believe that Jesus was the Son of God, Mr. Sinclair?" Stephanie asked.

  "I've had opportunity to hear some of what he said, when pa was reading from the Saint James. I reckon I don't dispute none of it. If'n he said he was the Son of God, it ain't for me to say he warn't."

  Martha did not know if she was bemused or horrified at the apparent ignorance of the man.

  "Do you not read the Bible yourself?" she asked, though she thought she had caught on to the answer already.

  "I've had parts of it read to me," Sinclair said. "I know some of the stories well enough."

  Rachel's feelings toward Rab Sinclair turned ugly, and she could not herself explain why. Perhaps she was thinking of her conversation with Graham from the previous day. Or maybe she felt hurt by the apparent insult about people from back East. Or maybe she was angry because her mother, again, had to ask Rab to watch how he spoke. Or maybe, if she was honest with herself, she felt jealous at the talk of "squaws."

  Either way, Rachel's suspicions of Rab Sinclair's illiteracy were now confirmed, and she felt an opportunity to get the upper hand on this man who had been rude and demanding, lording over them for so long his knowledge of the land and the customs of its people, its dangers and its advantages.

  There was an edge to her voice as she asked, "Do you know how to read, Mr. Sinclair?"

  "I ain't never learned how to read letters, if that's what you mean."

  Rachel Cummings smirked at him. "Mr. Sinclair, if not letters, then what you have learned to read?"

  "You see them clouds yonder, Miss Miles?" Rab said, pointing to a distant cloud bank, just a darker shade against the darkening sky.

  "I do."

  "I learned to read them clouds, to know if they threaten a bad storm. I learned to read the signs of a track, and I can judge if there's deer or bear, wolves or lions. I can look at a print in the dirt and read whether Injuns or white men are around. So I reckon I've learned to read some things, but letters ain't one of them. The things I've learned to read serve me out here better than letters would. I notice, for instance, when y'all went looking for a guide who could get you from one place to another, you did not seek out a scholastic man with a university degree to help you. You had one of them already.

  "And if we run into trouble, I reckon you'll be glad enough to have me here."

  Rachel Cummings offered no retort, and Rab Sinclair was indifferent as to whether or not he'd backed down her contempt.

  Rab Sinclair left Miss Cummings and the others at the campfire near the wagons and he walked over to where he had set up his small tent. He looked at the darkening sky, at the clouds blowing in, and judged that indeed
they would bring a storm before morning.

  "Y'all better pack up anything you don't want to blow away or get wet," Sinclair called to the others at the camp. With a grin, he added, "Especially your books."

  13

  The small caravan of wagons appeared on the distant horizon to the east, riding toward them.

  "That ain't the stagecoach," Mickey Hogg said. "That's five or six wagons."

  "Let 'em catch us up," Pawnee Bill said.

  While they waited for the wagon train, they dismounted and picketed their horses. Dick Derugy, Pawnee Bill, and Chess Bowman lounged in the grass, but Mickey Hogg sat on the back of the wagon and watched the train coming toward them. More than anything, he hoped they were drinkers. He'd been too long without a drop of whiskey, and it made him feel worse when he didn't drink.

  As the wagon train grew nearer, Mickey could see better what he was dealing with. A single horseman led the group. He was pushing two horses out in front of him. Another horseman, who was riding out through the prairie at an easy gait, was pushing ten or twelve head of cattle as well as some spare mules and oxen. There were six wagons, some pulled by mules and some by oxen.

  The lone horseman at the front was riding well ahead. He was not far from Mickey and the wagon when Mickey realized that a woman was driving the lead wagon.

  "Hey, Bill," Mickey called. "Take a look'ee at what's coming in that lead wagon."

  Every man had his vice. For Mickey Hogg, women came along often enough, but a day without liquor was a sad day, indeed. Though he'd been with Pawnee Bill and the others only a short time, Mickey already had Bill figured out. Women served as Pawnee Bill's vice. Dick liked women himself, but he was different from Bill. Bill had a lust for hurting women.