A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy

by Lauraine Snelling

  Jesselynn nodded. “I better see what I can do.”

  The wife of one of the men dabbed at a shoulder wound that still seeped, tears trickling down her thin cheeks. The other man sat with a makeshift bandage around his upper arm.

  “I din’t mean to hurt ‘im, just scare him a mite.” Tears rolled down Rufus Jones’s cheeks.

  Jesselynn dropped to her knees beside the woman. “Here, why don’t you let me see what I can do.”

  “You a doctor?”

  “No, but I’ve done quite a bit of treatin’ wounds and such.” She didn’t say she’d learned it all from her mother.

  The woman relinquished her place but moved back only a pace. Jesselynn examined the wound and felt under his shoulder, hoping for an exit wound. No such luck. That meant the bullet had to come out or he’d die of gangrene, not that he might not anyhow.

  “I’m going to have to take the bullet out.”

  “I’se afeared of that.” The woman wrung her hands. “He’s not a bad man, but when he starts to drinkin’, he . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Jesselynn knew that the Jones brothers had already built themselves a reputation as cantankerous and hard to get along with. But with most of the men out of the camp and the women washing clothes, the two had time to go at it.

  “I’m going to need some help holding him down.”

  A snore from the wounded man released enough fumes to make her lean back. “Whew, maybe not. Go get Meshach. He’s workin’ at the forge.”

  “I’se here.”

  The deep voice from behind her made Jesselynn sigh with relief. Between the two of them—her cutting and Meshach holding and praying—they’d manage.

  “Get us some water boiling, Mrs. Jones. We gotta get your husband cleaned up some. And is there any of that liquor left? We can use it to clean out this hole in his shoulder.”

  “Waste of good liquor,” muttered the man she’d spoken with earlier.

  “Be that as it may, I’ll need you to hold down his legs. Anyone else around?”

  “Only the womenfolk.” His voice hardened. “And that other piece of worthless trash, his brother.”

  Jesselynn looked over her shoulder. “You can lie across his legs. That shouldn’t hurt your arm any.” And it might be good if it did. She looked again. The low-down dog was sound asleep. She and Meshach exchanged glances. They didn’t need words. Wolf had almost turned them down, yet he’d taken on this heap of trouble?

  Before Mrs. Jones could get the fire hot to boil the water, someone else brought a steaming kettle over and set it on the tripod. “Mrs. Jones, you found that liquor bottle yet?” She raised her voice to be heard over the snoring.

  “Yes, but . . . but Tommy Joe, he might be . . .”

  “Get the bottle or Tommy Joe might not live to drink anymore.”

  Mrs. Jones squeaked like a mouse trapped by a cat’s paw, but the bottle showed up at Jesselynn’s side.

  “Sure would be easier if he was on a table.”

  “We can use the two planks from their wagon.”

  Jesselynn didn’t need anyone to tell her who said that. Wolf’s voice sounded flat, like a sharp piece of shale.

  “Meshach, come help me set them up.” The two men left, and Jesselynn sat back on her heels. The man she’d been working on stirred and blinked, then returned to snoring. She might have to give him a few more swigs, but, then, she’d seen men die, poisoned by the drink they craved. But other than the gaping hole in his shoulder, Tommy Joe—she shuddered at even the name—was in good shape. His color, what she could see under the matted black beard, looked good, and his breathing was steady. A belch made her blink. Her eyes watered.

  When they had Jones on the makeshift table, Meshach handed her a freshly honed knife. Jesselynn washed her hands with soap and hot water, and after closing her eyes for a moment to ask for her Father’s guidance, she stepped up to the table. Wolf stood across from her, Meshach beside her, and Jones’s brother and another man at the hips.

  “Ready?” They all nodded.

  She barely flinched as she inserted the point of the knife into the wound to widen the hole for her fingers. Jones groaned.

  “Hold him.” Using her fingers as a probe, she felt around the tissue, searching for the bullet and any pieces of bone. She felt the sharp point of bone and with thumb and forefinger wiggled it free and dropped it on the ground.

  Oh, Lord, please help me. Blood welled around her searching fingers. “Come on, come on.” More prayer than mutter, she focused only on the sphere beneath her fingertips. Something hard.

  Jones groaned, gagged, and vomited, splattering the wagon. “Turn his head.” Meshach kept one hand on the man’s arm and turned his head with the other.

  “Hold him.” Before she could say the words, all four men had thrown their bodies over the thrashing man on the table. In spite of the bucking, she probed and knew for sure she had the bullet. “Got it.”

  She held up the smashed bit of metal. Blood welled where her fingers had been. Jones gagged and wretched again, spewing foul-smelling vomitus all over Wolf’s buckskin shirt.

  The look of disgust on Wolf’s face made Jesselynn want to smile. Instead, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey and, spreading the wound wider, poured the liquid in.

  Jones let out a scream that could be heard for miles. He thrashed and bucked, sending his brother flying.

  “Ow, my arm,” Rufus cried.

  “Pour some of that down his gullet.” Wolf gave the order but didn’t reach for the bottle. He left that to their other assistant, whose expression said what he thought of the whole thing. When their patient settled down again, Jesselynn looked to Meshach.

  “You think we need to heat the knife?”

  Meshach shrugged. “Might be de other enough. Him bleed good.”

  Jesselynn nodded and went ahead with the bandages, wishing she had some of the healing salve her mother used to use. While she had the recipe, she’d not had all the ingredients.

  “Let’s take him back to his own wagon. His wife can take care of him there.” Wolf nodded to the three men, and they did just that.

  Jesselynn washed her hands and glanced down at her clothes. “Looks like I been butchering hogs.”

  “Leastways with hogs, you got something good at the end.” Aunt Agatha handed Jesselynn a towel to dry her hands. “You get those clothes off, and I’ll wash the blood out before it sets up.”

  “Thanks.” Jesselynn felt the quivering start in her toes and work its way up until she was shaking like she had the ague. Her knees turned to mush, and the world started to revolve.

  “Sit and put your head down.” Wolf grabbed her shoulder and plunked her down on a wagon tongue.

  “Let go of me.” She tried to flail at his restraining hand, but the action made her stomach roil. She kept her head down.

  “Better?”

  “Yes.” She’d known what to do. He’d just beat her to it. She breathed in and out, deep breaths that brought her world back to standing still. His hand on her shoulder felt warm and comforting.

  “Where did you learn to operate like that?”

  “From my mother, but it’s all a matter of sense.” She slowly sat upright, ready to duck her head if the world tilted. When it stayed in place, so did she.

  “Well, if he makes it through without gangrene, he’ll owe you a debt.”

  Jesselynn shook her head. “No, no debt. I’d just as soon no one told him who did it. But the next time he punches his wife, you better do something about it, or I will.”

  “You take care of your business, and I’ll take care of mine.” The bite had returned to his voice.

  So much for any moment of truce. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her mouth shut, as her mother had always recommended? Jesselynn picked up her medical box and headed back to her own wagon, where Meshach had the forge back up hot and the iron ringing on the anvil. Two oxen were lined up waiting for his attention. He glanced up when she passed him, nodded and, after ra
ising one eyebrow, went back to work. Didn’t take much to read her thoughts, she knew. The thunder sitting on her forehead would be easy to see. Or maybe it was the lightning bolts shooting from her eyes. Shame the object of her frustration wasn’t in reach of one.

  Even though Tommy Joe Jones recovered with little problems, he never did come by to say thanks. Jesselynn wasn’t surprised, but it sure sent Aunt Agatha off in a huff whenever she saw the man.

  To the chagrin of the other hunting party, Benjamin returned with two deer and three prairie chickens, while the others had only a few ducks and a goose. Daniel brought back a string of catfish and bluegill, so they ate the fish and parceled the other out among the wagons.

  “How’d you do that, boy?” Ambrose McPhereson, who was camped in front of them this night, asked. “I never saw nothin’ out there.”

  Benjamin looked up from scaling fish with a smile that crinkled his eyes. “Think like a deer.”

  “Anytime you want to give me lessons in deer thinkin’, I’ll be ready.”

  “Thank you, suh.”

  “Name’s Ambrose, not sir. What’s your name?”

  “Benjamin Highwood, suh.”

  “Well, Benjamin, how about I call you that and you call me Ambrose? Before this trip is over, we’re all goin’ to be family or foe, and I sure don’t want to be any part of the latter.”

  Jesselynn watched the look on Benjamin’s face as the man walked away. That alone made the trip worthwhile.

  Just before they left the campsite at Vermilion Creek, a single wagon drawn by two teams of horses pulled into the area. The man who stepped down off the wagon seat appeared to have seen better days. When he lifted his hat, wiry gray hair flew in the breeze and matching brush covered his face. Gimping on one leg, he hitched across the packed dirt until he reached the nearest wagon, the one driven by Aunt Agatha.

  “Howdy, ma’am.” He touched the brim of a hat that was more slouch than firm. “Where’s yer wagon master?” He coughed at the end, as if he hadn’t done much talking of late.

  Agatha nodded to where Wolf stood talking with two men. “The one in the buckskin shirt.”

  “Thankee.”

  Jesselynn looked back at his wagon in time to see an elder boy pop his head out and then retreat. Jane Ellen glanced at Jesselynn. “Bet that’s his grandpap.”

  “You think so?” Jane Ellen had an uncanny way of picking up on things. Jesselynn had come to accept this as a gift, so she pretty much agreed.

  “Looks like they come a long way.”

  “Most likely. All of us have.”

  “His horses need a good feedin’.”

  Come on, let’s get on the road. Jesselynn felt as if she were all dressed up for a party and nowhere to go. First time in their traveling that Wolf didn’t have them on the road by full light. She thumped a tattoo on the boot rest. “Hand me those strips of rawhide. Might as well make myself useful if we’re going to be a while.”

  “They sure do be jawin’.”

  “They can do their jawing while we drive on, can’t they?” Jesselynn knotted one end of the three thongs together and hooked that over a nail driven in the boot brace. Braiding rawhide was almost as good as knitting for keeping one’s mouth from running off.

  The new man limped back past their wagon and climbed up onto his own. When Wolf signaled the start, the new wagon fell in behind them.

  “Well, I’ll be.”

  Crossing the bridge over Vermilion Creek sure beat the fording they’d done on others. The hollow sound of hooves on plank, the creak of the gear and wheels was music to Jesselynn. While the rest had felt good, the need to get going again had returned. Besides, the farmer there had been making eyes at Ahab. And who was the man with the wagon? Would he be friend or trouble? Trouble or troubadour? She shook her head. Where had that come from?

  “Highwood, you’re on second watch tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jesselynn fought to keep the snap from her voice. Why couldn’t she just nod like most of the others?

  The dissecting look she got from Wolf made her feel as if he was studying her, not quite sure how to take her.

  “Jones, you too.”

  Jesselynn coughed to hide the groan she’d almost let slip. Rufus was about the last man she wanted to stand watch with. While the bullet hole in his arm was healing well, it hadn’t helped his disposition any. He and his brother were weasel-mean clear through.

  “Just you keep that fancy pants away from me,” Jones muttered with a sneer in Jesselynn’s direction.

  Jesselynn could feel her right eyebrow arch. What in the world is the matter with him? He got it in for me just ‘cause I let someone else bandage his arm? We saved his brother after all. Wasn’t my fault the two of them were fighting.

  Meshach shifted closer to where she sat on the wagon tongue. They’d had the bad luck to be camped right behind the Joneses in the circle of wagons. Not that anyone wanted to be on either side of them. In spite of Wolf having cautioned them, the language was enough to make a washerwoman blush.

  Patch came and sat at her knee.

  “That’s enough.” Like a rifle crack, Wolf’s command split the air.

  Jesselynn felt more than heard Patch’s growl. Meshach cleared his throat. The two sounded much alike.

  “Git ‘im away from that nigger and then see—”

  “I said enough.” The whisper was far more intimidating than the bark.

  Rufus shut up but rose from his seat and ambled off behind the wagon.

  Jesselynn still wasn’t sure what all the shouting was about, but she knew it had something to do with her.

  “I switch wid Marse Jesse.” Meshach didn’t ask—he stated.

  Wolf shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Jesselynn waited until the others had gone before hissing at Meshach. “What was that all about?”

  Meshach shook his head. “Better dis way.”

  Across the circle Henry Bronson was tuning up his fiddle. Jesselynn breathed a sigh of relief. Since she had first watch, she wouldn’t have to worry about young lady Elizabeth making doe eyes at her.

  Wolf knew the urge to kick Rufus Jones out of camp was not to be acted upon. But the thought of knocking the meanness out of him had plenty of appeal. Why hadn’t he seen what a passel of trouble those two brothers were? Young Highwood had done nothing but help the two, saved the life of one actually, but they still had it in for him.

  Instead of joining the dancers around the fire, he saddled his horse and rode out to where the cattle and horses were grazing. The stars looked low enough that if he stood tall in his stirrups, he might pluck one out of the sky. A thin band of light still outlined the western horizon. Animals were better company than people anyway.

  The thought of taking this wagon train clear to Oregon galled worse than a burr under a saddle. Especially after that crack tonight. There’d be more blood let on this train before the end of the trail, of that he was sure. Granted young Mr. Highwood was a trifle on the effeminate side, but he was still a boy, and some took longer to fill out than others. From what he heard and saw, the boy knew his medicine. Knew an awful lot for his age. Whatever his age was.

  If he was with my people, he would have gone on his vision quest by now and most likely been on a raid to another tribe’s camp. Stealing horses was a step in growing to manhood.

  He sat listening to the crunch of animals grazing, the occasional snort of a horse, the stamp of a foot. The fiddle sang of love and loss from behind him, the notes holding on the slight breeze like smoke. He sorted the odors on the wind that carried the pleas of the fiddle. Fresh cow manure, spring grass, dried horse sweat, fire smoke, fried venison, again thanks to that young black of Highwood’s. He’d said Benjamin could find deer and rabbit when others failed, and he’d proven himself repeatedly. But now that they were beyond the dense civilization of eastern Kansas, the game would be more plentiful.

  He’d rather throw down his bedroll out here than in camp any day.


  “That old goat,” Agatha grumbled as she stirred the morning mush.

  “What are you talkin’ about?” Jesselynn stretched her arms above her head and yawned fit to crack her jaw.

  “Brushface asked her to dance, and she din’t take to it.”

  “Why not? Mr. Lyons seems like a very nice man.” Jesselynn dropped forward to touch her hands to the ground, anything to stretch out her back. “And besides, you shouldn’t call him that.” She must have slept on a dirt clump or something. By the time she roused Meshach for his watch, she could have slept on solid rock—with thorns in it.

  “Speak of the angels—”

  “Devil, most likely.”

  “Aunt Agatha, he’ll hear you,” Jesselynn hissed under her breath.

  “Morn’in.” Nathan Lyons tipped his hat in greeting.

  “Morning, Mr. Lyons. Fine day.” Jesselynn watched her aunt out of the corner of her eye.

  Agatha’s harrumph could be heard several wagons away.

  Jesselynn glanced at Ophelia, who rolled her eyes and shrugged. When Agatha turned to fetch something out of the wagon, Jesselynn sidled over to Ophelia. “What is goin’ on here?”

  “Mr. Lyons, he go out of him way to be nice to her, but she . . . oh, she get all riled up.”

  “I see.” But she didn’t see a thing. Life would be so much easier if she could just ride and not have to sort out all the people. Like that pile of worthless bones, Rufus Jones. Whatever had gone on last night was sure to come around and cause trouble again. If only she understood what it was all about.

  Halfway to the noon rest stop, Mrs. Brundsford caught up to Jesselynn walking beside her lead ox. “Mr. Jesse, I hate to bother you, but could you come look at Mrs. Smith’s littlest boy? He ain’t been well for the last couple of days.”

  “The little guy with red curly hair?”

  “That’s the one—Roddy.”

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “A’fore he was just listless, you know, wanting to be held all the time, whiney. But today he’s burning up with fever.”