Jane Ellen held the lamp as she examined the wound.
“You need to take the shirt off, or I’ll have to cut out the sleeve.”
“You’re givin’ me a choice?”
She nodded.
Even in the lamplight, his face went white when he tried to raise his arm to pull his shirt over his head. Sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip.
“Jane Ellen.” Jesselynn nodded to her helper and between them they pulled off the shirt, cushioning the injured arm as best they could in the process. Firelight played over muscles that bunched when she touched a hot, wet cloth to the arm.
Trying to be gentle, she ordered her shaking hands to get the job done.
With the dried blood cleaned off, the slash started bleeding again.
“I’m going to have to stitch it.” She paused, half expecting him to argue. But when he only nodded, she motioned for Jane Ellen to thread the needle.
The rest of the wagon-train folks faded away, heading back to their beds for what remained of a short night for sleeping. Jones had yet to enter camp.
“This is going to burn.”
His grunt said only that he’d heard her.
She trickled the whiskey down from his shoulder, the length of the slash. The deepest section crossed the muscle from elbow to shoulder, but while it nicked the muscle, the cut didn’t appear to have severed it.
“You’re lucky.”
Grunt or snort, she wasn’t sure of his response, other than the white skin around his eyes and mouth.
“Had it severed this muscle, you’d have lost the use of the arm or hand.” Holding the lips of the slash with one hand, she inserted the needle through the skin and drew the thread through, back and forth, until the gaping wound lay snugly shut. She knotted the thread, snipped it with the scissors, and stepped back with a sigh. At least somewhere in the stitching her hands had stopped shaking. She applied some of the salve from her medicinals and, taking a roll of two-inch-wide sheeting, bandaged the arm. “If you wear a sling for a few days, it will heal more quickly.”
“Thank you.” He didn’t look at her.
“How is he?” Aunt Agatha returned from settling the new widow into her wagon.
“Good, if we can keep this from goin’ putrid.”
“Leastways, it wasn’t your right.” When he didn’t answer, Aunt Agatha cocked an eyebrow at her niece, who shrugged.
Lord, get me outa here. Her hands burned him far worse than the whiskey or the wound itself. Her touch, firm but gentle, set him to twitching, which only the stiffest resolve kept him from succumbing to. What was happening? Ever since he’d realized she was a woman and the original rage wore off, he’d fought to keep his distance.
He tried working up that initial rage at her duplicity, but somewhere in the last few days he’d lost that as well. And now he was in her debt, all for a knife slashing that should never have happened. All he’d wanted was his horse back. Fool young buck, counting coup by stealing a horse. Cost him his life and the train a good man.
He clenched his teeth against the pain of the needle pulling the thread through his skin. Would she never be done? In spite of his steel resolve, his stomach roiled, and he blinked to clear the black spots from his eyes. Sure, all he needed to do was pass out now.
His arm might as well have been branded.
When she stepped back, the cool breeze of the coming dawn dried the sweat on his chest. He stared at the ground. Could he stand without making a fool of himself?
“Thank you.” Never would she know what the two words cost him.
“You’re welcome. Can you make it back to your bedroll all right?”
He glanced up at her to see her nod at Daniel, who had come to stand beside him.
Right now what he’d really like was a tote of that whiskey she had so carelessly poured down his arm. It might have done more good down his throat. Instead of answering, he lurched to his feet. Without a backward look he staggered once, then gained his equilibrium and strode off toward his simple camp. He could feel her gaze all the way. Calling himself all kinds of names did nothing to ease the holes she burned in his back.
“Well, if that don’t beat all.” Agatha planted her hands on her hips and stared after the retreating wagon master.
Jesselynn felt as if she had been horse whipped. Her shoulders ached, her hands ached too, but more for the touch of him than the weariness. She jerked her mind back from where it had wandered and began putting things to right in her box. Each stab of the needle through his flesh had been like piercing her own. What in the world is the matter with me?
“Good night,” she said to Agatha, who was settling in the wagon. She tucked the box back in its place, and after checking on the herd of oxen and horses that now grazed near the circle of wagons, she crawled back in her bedroll, wishing for sleep for her burning eyes. The warmth seeped into her flesh and bones but did nothing to shut down the rampaging thoughts. She listened for the night noises—cattle and horses chewing the grass, an owl hooting, the cry of a nighthawk. Either of those last two could be an Indian signal. But surely they wouldn’t come this close to camp. Agatha turned over above her with a sigh. Snores could be heard from the wagon in front of them.
Patch raised his head, setting her heart to thundering immediately, and it didn’t stop when he sighed and lay back down. Since he felt his place was next to hers, she sensed his every move. He leaned into her stroking fingers, giving her wrist a quick lick in appreciation.
If one Indian got that close undetected . . . the thought made her stomach flutter. But all he’d wanted was a horse. Was that one horse worth the death of two men, one white, one red? And would this be the last? What if they were attacked by Indians? Other wagon trains had been, or at least she’d heard tell of it. Had Wolf ever fought off an Indian attack? Or was his being half Sioux an added protection for them?
Thoughts raced through her mind, circled, and came back for another attack. She turned over on her other side, Patch snuggled up against her back, his sigh a strong comment on her restlessness. Surely they had prayed for God’s protection on their journey. Surely others had too, yet look what happened to some of them. She’d seen a blackened wagon or what remained of it. Had that been the work of Indians?
When the rooster, carried in a crate attached to one of the wagons, crowed, her eyes felt like burning coals, so intensely had she been staring into the darkness. Slowly, gently, dawn stole across the land, turning black to gray and washing the land in silver. By the time the sun broke the horizon, they were all near to ready for the wagons to pull out.
Didn’t look to her like some of the others had had much more sleep than she had.
The second burial of the journey took more time for the digging, but the end results were the same. The slight mound of dirt would disappear under the wheels of the train.
“You seen that scum Jones?” Agatha asked in an undertone as they set the cooking things in the wagon box.
Jesselynn shook her head. “Don’t care to neither. I just feel sorry for that poor woman to be married into such a shiftless bunch.”
“I know. Poor white trash through and through.” Agatha heaved herself up over the wagon wheel and settled on the seat she had padded with a quilt, thanks to Jesselynn’s insistence. “You riding or walking today?” she asked.
“Depends on what Ophelia would like. Walkin’, I guess. Most likely I’d fall asleep on the wagon. Could fall under the wheels thataway.” Jesselynn touched the brim of her hat with one finger. “You get to be first today, so enjoy.”
While she’d rather watch out across the ever changing prairie, she took her knitting out instead. Since the boys were playing in the back of Ophelia’s wagon, she and Jane Ellen strode companionably along, both with their needles clicking as they turned wool into socks and sweaters for the winter. The cold in Oregon was more intense than that of Kentucky, or so they’d been told.
Jesselynn mulled over the events of the night before, her thoughts
always returning to the feel of Wolf’s skin under her fingertips. Knowing such thoughts were decidedly unladylike was no deterrent. She had to admit he’d been sneaking into her thoughts more and more lately, in spite of her good intentions.
She forced herself to think on the verse Meshach had given them for the day. “Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the Lord . . .” That’s all the further she got from memory. If only she could sit down with the journal and catch up on the letters she’d started for the family. The Lord himself had promised to watch over them. With that thought came another. But what about poor Mr. McPhereson? And his wife and family now left to fend for themselves? The Lord had promised to watch over them too.
She glanced up at the screech of a hawk, lost to her sight in the blue of the sky.
“Hey, you seen what’s ahead?” Billy asked her from the back of his horse.
She shook her head, then looked to where he was pointing.
Far in the distant shimmering haze two rocks rose from the floor of the plain, one like a huge round table.
“Wolf says that’s Courthouse Rock to the north, Jail House to the left. Immigrants been cuttin’ their names in the sandstone for years. Like to be a hunk o’ history right there for all to see. Mr. Wolf says maybe the Whitmans even signed it on their way to Oregon.”
Jesselynn glanced up at the young man riding beside her just in time to catch one of the looks he slanted at Jane Ellen. Ah, no wonder he was paying such close attention to her. Another young pup sniffing around the females. She turned her attention to Jane Ellen to see her studying on her yarn, studying so hard she missed a hillock of grass and stumbled, catching hold of Jesselynn’s arm to keep from falling.
Jesselynn kept a giggle inside. Indeed it must be spring.
Wolf rode back, stopping to talk with Aunt Agatha on the wagon, then rode over to her, his left arm hanging straight at his side.
“Keep a watch out. There’s Indians trailing the train.”
Her heart took up the staccato beat from the night before, but now she knew fear to be the culprit. Fear wore the same metallic taste as blood.
CHIMNEY ROCK
The Indians trailing the wagon train kept everyone on edge.
“What do you s’pose they want?” Jane Ellen glanced over her shoulder, fear eating at the edge of her mouth.
“To drive us all stark ravin’ mad.” Aunt Agatha shuddered as she answered. “If a horse gets loose or an ox, they’ll get it. They’ll steal whatever we don’t nail down.”
“How can you say that?” Jesselynn stepped over the wagon tongue, carrying two buckets of water from Plum Creek that flowed into the Platte River. She hated skimming bugs off the Platte River water. Besides, many had come up with diarrhea from drinking from the South Platte. “What’s come up stolen so far?”
Agatha harrumphed and shook her head again. “You mark my words.” She wagged her finger for emphasis.
Jesselynn looked over to the Lyonses’ wagon, where the children were gathered for their evening lessons. “I bet this is the only wagon train that carries a schoolmaster along with it.”
Agatha harrumphed again, louder this time and, muttering under her breath, strode to the back of the wagon and stuck her head inside, ostensibly searching for something. Ophelia chuckled and shared a private glance with Meshach, who was repairing a piece of harness for one of the other wagons.
Sammy held a bug up for Ophelia to see, and Thaddeus brought one to Jesselynn.
“Grasshopper?”
“That’s right. Daniel is using grasshoppers for fish bait.”
“Dan’l catch fish for supper?”
“I sure do hope so. Buffalo and beans is getting a bit monotonous.” At home the greens would be growing heartily in the gardens and the snap beans they started in the cold frames beginning to blossom. Here they didn’t dare even go out looking for greens since the Indians began following them. Dandelions and poke would go far toward making the supper more palatable.
“We be thankful for good food. Leastways we get enough to eat.” Meshach smiled up at her to take any sting out of his words.
“I know.” She felt like snapping but refrained. The restrictions of camp made everyone restless, just knowing there was danger near and not being able to do anything about it. None of the women and children had been allowed out of camp for the last three days. Even picking buffalo and cow chips had been curtailed.
Wolf wasn’t winning any popularity contest by the tighter rules. “Seems like they blame him.” She said it without thinking.
“Who?”
“Wolf. Like the Indians following are his fault.”
“Make no sense, do it?” Meshach hammered home the final rivet and slung the harness over his shoulder. “Be right back.”
With the supper cooking, Jesselynn dug her writing case out of the storage box and made herself comfortable, or as comfortable as possible on the wagon tongue and the braces that bolted it to the wagon bed. Uncorking the ink, she made several entries in the journal before beginning a letter to her sisters. Since they would be in Fort Laramie in the next few days, she wanted the letters ready to go back east with the mail.
My dearest sisters. That part was easy, but how could she describe life on the trail so they would understand, when they had never done anything more exertive outdoors than go on picnics? Anytime the Highwood women traveled overnight, the carriage had stopped at inns and way stations with beds and hot meals, or they stayed with friends and relatives. Jesselynn looked up at the sky bowl above them, the sun edging toward the horizon, the flat shallow river over a mile wide, the valley, if one could call the slight depression of the Platte River Road a valley, and the wagons in their nightly circle with the herd grazing near enough to hear the oxen chewing their cud. Since the Indians had begun following them, Wolf ordered camp earlier at night because the herd couldn’t graze out farther where the grass was better.
She stared at a heap of possessions that someone had dumped beside the trail—a trunk, a spinet piano, and a breakfront—apparently finding them too heavy to carry any longer. Furniture that had once graced someone’s home now lay weathering in the prairie sun and rain. No one else had room to pick it all up. Thanks to the cave living they’d done all winter, they had no fine furniture to cart along. Just the bare necessities.
She read her opening words again. Dearest sisters. That sure covered it. She shook her head. And brother. How could she have forgotten Zachary? She brushed the feathered end of the quill pen across her chin. What was left of her dashing big brother? His wounds had sounded hideous. Missing his right foot, his right hand and right eye, along with a gash down the right side of his face. How he must be suffering.
She added his name in the salutation and continued.
We are still following the Platte River. Platte is French for flat, and it most certainly is that. Must be like Daddy said Louisiana is but without the levies.
She told them about the Indian trying to steal horses and about Wolf’s injury, not that it had slowed him down for long.
I am feeling hemmed in, which is hard to figure, since we can see forever. It took two days from the first sighting of Courthouse Rock until we drew near, and even though it looked close enough to touch, those who insisted on going out there took a day to get there and back. The air is so clear and the land so flat that distance is impossible to figure. Each day’s journey looks pretty much like the day before. Never thought I’d be able to walk along, knitting and chatting, and not fall over my feet.
We’ve buried two so far, a man and a little boy. The boy’s mother was so stoic, grateful she had a nice outfit to bury her baby in. I wanted to run screaming, since none of the herbs and such I used to help him did any good. Death came so fast. The mother said our Father must have wanted her son up in heaven, but I think He has plenty of babies there already. Burying anyone is hard, but burying children is especially hard. If I didn’t know there was a heaven, I might go stark raving mad.
/> The horses are holding up well, much to everyone’s surprise. I believe the real challenge will come when we get to the mountains. As Wolf says, “We are on the easy leg of the journey now.”
I hope and pray there will be a letter from you when we reach Fort Laramie. Thaddeus no longer asks to go home, and I am beginning to think he has forgotten Twin Oaks. He thinks he is old enough to join the other children in school, which is conducted by Mr. Nate Lyons in the evenings. Don’t ever let on to Aunt Agatha, but I think Mr. Lyons is sweet on her. He brought her some wildflowers he had picked the other day. She still calls him Brushface, but I hope she can look beyond the wild hair and whiskers to see the value of the man within.
She almost wrote more about Wolf, but after rereading what she had written, she realized she had mentioned him too much already. The thought made her pause. Did she write about him because he was on her mind so much?
May our God and Father keep you in his tender care and grant you peace.
With all my love,
Your sister Jesselynn
and all the rest
P.S. I forgot to tell you that my secret is out. They all know I am a female in men’s clothing, and many of the ladies will not forgive me for the deception. So be it. JH
She let the ink dry and folded the paper. She’d have to use another sheet of paper to make an envelope, since she had run out of that nicety.
Aunt Agatha invited Wolf to join them for supper.
Jesselynn made her way to the Lyonses’ wagon and asked him to come too. Tit for tat. The thought made her smile.
“Thankee, but we already got an invite fer tonight.” His eyes twinkled under brushy eyebrows. “We could come tomorrow.” One eyebrow arched.
“That would be fine.” She stopped herself from making the invitation a permanent one. As much as he was helping all those with children, he shouldn’t have to cook his own supper on top of that. Maybe she should mention that to Wolf, and he could bring it up at one of the meetings. Sure as shooting, if she offered the suggestion, it would be voted down on general principles. Unless, of course, she took to wearing dresses.
A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy Page 28