Indian Encounter
Chapter Three
Mile 150
In the early morning, the last wagons in the four lines moved up to the front positions. This rotation system would work until the road narrowed when they got to the mountains. Even though the wagons on both sides of theirs were a hundred feet away, Brenna liked having wagons on the right and left. She felt safer. If truth be told, the Indian stories scared her. She’d never seen an Indian up close, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to.
The Benson family was on their left, one wagon back. She could hear Annie, the youngest, crying. Rebecca’s mother was in the wagon with Annie. Soon, the crying stopped and Brenna knew Annie was no doubt nursing. It was difficult keeping the eighteen-month-old occupied. She was too little to walk alongside the wagon, and the days were long for an active toddler to be cooped up in the small enclosure. Sometimes Rebecca carried her in a makeshift harness strapped across her back. Soon there would be another baby, and Annie would have to learn to cope with that. Rebecca was shepherding the other two girls, keeping them close by. Thirteen year-old Sam, Brenna noted, had been given the job of herding the oxen and keeping their wagon at a safe distance behind the wagon in front of it.
The Hintons’ wagon was behind theirs, much to Conor’s delight. He made no attempt to hide his infatuation with Miss Emily. At eleven years old, he was growing up, and he wanted to help his Da. He was taking on more responsibility, and Michael was teaching him to lead the oxen.
“You just have to watch them, Conor. Don’t let them stray or they’ll try to graze. Keep them moving.”
Brenna was relieved, since it meant less babysitting for her. She loved her little brother, but she was glad to see him growing out of some of his immature behavior. His curly black hair was like hers—only short. Still, it corkscrewed in all directions, giving him an unkempt but angelic look. Yesterday he had gotten burned from the sun, and his pink cheeks made his startling blue eyes stand out even more. One of Rebecca’s sisters obviously liked Conor, and that annoyed him. Now that their wagon was so close, Mary Benson was always dancing over to Conor to ask him questions and walk beside him. He would scowl and look down, ignoring Mary, but she seemed oblivious. Brenna liked Mary. She was a delightful girl. Her sunny disposition and bright smile warmed the coolest of days. She talked non-stop, but her conversation was light and easy, and sometimes remarkably insightful, as it was today.
“Brenna, why is Conor so quiet?” she asked cheerfully, her soft brown eyes looking up at Brenna as they walked companionably next to the Flannigans’ wagon. Brenna looked ahead to where her younger brother walked next to the team.
“Oh, he’s concentrating,” Brenna replied, smiling down on the eleven-year-old, whose chestnut braids reached almost to her waist. “He’s trying to learn how to drive the team, and it’s hard work.” Brenna watched some of the men struggling to keep the teams moving at a steady pace. The oxen wanted to graze on the rich grass. They were allowed to graze morning and evening, and they were watered once more during the day—usually early afternoon. Conor was too young to drive the team alone, so her father Michael Flannigan was with him, encouraging his son’s efforts.
“Why don’t any of the girls get to drive the teams?” Mary queried.
“Because it’s men’s work,” Brenna replied.
“And cooking is women’s work?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Cardell cooks for himself,” Mary reflected.
“Yes, but Mr. Cardell doesn’t have a wife.”
“Why doesn’t he have a wife?”
“I don’t know. I suppose he never found a woman to his liking.”
“Do you think he gets lonely?”
Brenna cocked her head to the side, considering the question. James Cardell kept to himself, mostly. She had noticed him tending to his chores in the evening, and cooking over a small fire. “Maybe he gets lonely, or maybe he likes peace and quiet,” Brenna replied.
“Yeah, I think you can feel lonely sometimes, even in a big family like mine,” Mary said sagely. Brenna looked down at the small girl marching steadfastly next to her.
“You’re right, Mary.” Brenna reached down and hugged the narrow shoulders. “If you ever feel lonely, you can come and talk to me.”
Mary’s face brightened. “Thanks, Brenna! Now, I’d better go and make sure Conor isn’t getting lonely!” She skipped ahead to catch up to Conor. Brenna smiled fondly. She hoped her brother would warm up to Mary. In the meantime, she knew the girl would be cheerfully persistent.
The wagons were slowing next to a stand of trees and brush following a creek. This would be a good place to stop for the midday meal and water the stock. Brenna helped her mother prepare the lunch, and afterwards, her mother sent her off to the creek with a few pieces of laundry, a washboard, and a bar of lye soap. Brenna was heading downstream, well away from where the stock was drinking thirstily. She heard someone coming up behind her, and when she turned, she saw Mary hurrying to overtake her.
“Where are you headed, Brenna?”
“Just downstream a ways. I have a little laundry to do.”
“Can I help?” the girl asked eagerly.
“Sure,” Brenna said with a smile; she was glad of the company. After a few minutes, they found a suitable spot—not too deep—with large boulders along the shore to pound the clothing dry. The water rushed over smooth rocks covered with green mossy algae. At this point, the creek was only twenty feet across and two feet deep in the middle. The high brush was thick on the other side. Brenna and Mary busied themselves with the few items, scrubbing the bar of soap over the soiled material. Mary took her shoes off and waded in.
“Brrrr—this water is freezing cold,” Mary cried, and she laughed delightedly when Brenna scooped a handful of water and tossed it at her. As she backed up, her foot slipped on a mossy rock and she tumbled backwards into the water. When she tried to stand, her bare feet slipped on another rock and she only succeeded in putting herself deeper in the water and farther from shore.
“Brenna! Help! I can’t stand up!” Mary’s terrified voice called as she tried unsuccessfully to right herself.
“Mary!” Brenna screamed, as the small girl was carried downstream by the rushing water. Brenna ran along the shore, trying to think of how she could catch the thrashing girl. Suddenly a dark form stepped out of the thick cover on the opposite side of the creek, just downstream of Mary. A strong arm reached out, grabbed the gasping girl, and helped her balance in water that was now up to her chest. The dark man helped Mary to the bank where she crawled on hands and knees, coughing up the water she had swallowed and inhaled in her struggles. Brenna rushed up, gasping for breath.
“Are you alright?” she cried, throwing her arms around the shivering shoulders.
“Yes,” Mary choked, drawing in deep breaths. She stood up shakily, and Brenna supported her. They both faced the dark native who had been calmly observing the girls. Brenna had never seen an Indian before, but she knew that this dark young man was one of the savage scalp-taking redskins. He was taller than Brenna was, and scantily clothed. He looked to be about eighteen or twenty years old, and his black hair trailed down his back. Redskin is not very descriptive, Brenna thought. His skin glowed like burnished copper. He watched them curiously. The deep-set eyes, Brenna noted, were the darkest she had ever seen, and the high cheekbones and sharp brow shadowed them. Brenna’s heart pounded in her chest. What would he do to them? Just as she was considering the worst, Mary piped up.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely, taking the Indian’s hand and giving it a squeeze. The young man looked startled, and then he slowly smiled. Brenna incredulously watched this interplay. Then he said something incomprehensible, looking at Brenna intently. Brenna shook her head, not understanding. He reached out towards her, and she flinched and stepped backwards. He paused, and then when she stood still, he gently took a lock of her hair, rubbing it between his thumb and fingers, and said the word
s again.
“Curly!” Mary proclaimed, laughing. “He’s never seen curly hair before!”
Brenna was paralyzed with fear. Did he like her hair enough to want her scalp? The Indian looked at Mary curiously.
A shout from upstream carried down to them, and the young man straightened. He placed his hand briefly on Mary’s head then turned and crossed the creek, disappearing into the brush. Brenna exhaled loudly. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath. She knelt down in front of the soaked girl, raking her eyes anxiously over Mary’s shivering form. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” Brenna said. Just then, Ben came running up. His eyes took in Mary’s sodden clothing and Brenna’s anxious expression.
“What happened? Is she all right? Where’d that Indian go?” he asked, looking around nervously.
“She slipped in the water and couldn’t get her footing,” Brenna explained. “The Indian saved her.”
“H...H…He was n…n…nice,” Mary stammered, shivering violently.
“I’m taking her back to her wagon so she can get some dry clothes on,” Brenna said.
“Come here, Mary,” Ben scooped her up in his arms. Brenna looked at him gratefully.
“Next time, stay closer to the camp,” he said, glancing at Brenna and moving off toward the wagons.
Brenna flushed darkly. Her relief turned into irritation as she tried to keep up with Ben’s long strides. She was still composing a scathing retort to his insensitive comment when they neared the Benson’s wagon. Rebecca hurried towards them, her eyes taking in the girl who looked happy and warm in Ben’s arms.
“She fell in the creek,” he said, setting Mary down.
“Thanks, Ben. I’ll get her dry,” Rebecca said, smiling warmly up at him.
“I’m not cold anymore,” Mary said, looking adoringly at Ben.
“Good! I’ll come back and check on you later,” He said, pulling one of her braids playfully.
“Please do,” Rebecca said, giving Ben a dazzling smile. Then she turned and helped Mary to the back of the wagon. Brenna took all of this in, realizing that Rebecca was flirting with Ben. Ben, however, seemed oblivious. He turned to Brenna.
“What were you doing down there?” he asked, but his clenched jaw belied the casual tone of his voice. Brenna blinked twice, and then exclaimed, “The laundry! I left it there!” She turned and started back to the creek when Ben grabbed her arm.
“You’re not going back there alone,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll go with you.” The two of them walked together back to the spot where the laundry lay on the creek bank. Brenna gathered it up with the soap and the washboard. She was glad for Ben’s company. The encounter with the Indian had unnerved her.
“Thanks, Ben; I’m glad you came along when you did. The Indian seemed friendly, and I’m grateful he was there to help Mary, but he still scared me,” she said solemnly.
“I watched you two heading down here. I wanted to tell you not to go far, but I figured you knew better.” Brenna felt her face flushing again.
“I was looking for a shallow place to do the laundry. I wasn’t expecting to see any Indians!” she retorted angrily. He stepped in front of her, put his strong hands on her forearms, and shook her gently. His eyes, normally a light blue, were dark.
“You need to be more vigilant,” he said tensely. “You’re not in your backyard in New York City anymore. We don’t know anything about these Indians. Count yourself lucky that this one was friendly.”
Brenna looked up into his eyes. She had never been so close to him before. He seemed different—not the easy-going Ben she thought she knew. His gaze was intense and unblinking as his hands squeezed her arms tightly. “Promise me that next time you’ll think twice before doing something so foolish.”
Brenna angrily wrenched herself away, her heart pounding. Her electric blue eyes seemed to shoot sparks as she gave him a venomous look. “I’m not responsible to you, Ben Hansson,” she shot back at him. “Who appointed you as my protector?” Her heart was pounding, and she struggled to control her voice. “Don’t you worry about me. I can take care of myself.” She stomped off toward camp. Ben watched her rigid back as she walked away from him and he slowly exhaled and relaxed his clenched fists.
The rest of the day was uneventful, but the news of the Indian encounter spread like wildfire through the camp. That night, Mary entertained the travelers with a much-exaggerated version of the story. Brenna watched in amazement as Mary acted out in great detail her near-death experience and the heroic rescue from the dark native. Brenna observed the girl’s animated face in the firelight. She was a born actress. Someone else was watching Mary intently. Brenna looked at Conor. He was engrossed in Mary’s story. She smiled, thinking that maybe he wouldn’t be so aloof towards Mary anymore.
Then she saw Ben sitting behind Conor. He wasn’t watching Mary. He was looking at her. Brenna blushed and looked away, but not before Ben saw what he was looking for. A slow smile spread over his face. He folded his arms over his broad chest. It’s a long way to Oregon, he thought. A long way.
The Crossing
Chapter Four
Platte River crossing
“Calm down, Miss Emily. You may as well get used to these river crossings. I’m told this is one of the easier ones.” Nellie looked nervously at her young mistress.
Emily Hinton’s brows knit together over her deep brown eyes. Her perfectly groomed dark coiffure was neatly tucked into a frilly blue bonnet that shielded her face from the sun. The pretty dress she wore flattered her figure but was impractical for the trail. Emily didn’t care. She was going to look presentable, even in this God-forsaken country.
“One of the easier ones?” Emily scoffed. “Why, look at that rushing water, Nellie. I will surely drown if I try to cross!”
Emily Hinton could barely bring herself to watch the wagons crossing the Platte River. She wasn’t just nervous about the crossing—she was petrified! She had always been unreasonably afraid of water. She couldn’t trace this fear back to any traumatic event from her childhood. When her brothers and friends played in the pond, she hung back, unsure of what lay beneath the surface. She had never been a timid child. She was bold in other areas. She loved riding horses, and she and her mare were often at the front of the hunting parties. Her sometimes-risky behavior was often admired by the other young men and women. She was outspoken in mixed company and often got disapproving looks from her mother. Her father, however, was indulgent and secretly smiled at her self-confidence.
Nellie sighed loudly. “Miss Emily, I know how stubborn you can be. There’s only one way to get from here to the other side of this river. Mr. Hinton is going to insist you cross. You’re just making it harder on yourself.”
Emily’s jaw was set firmly and her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. She had refused to attempt the crossing earlier in the day when it was their turn. Her husband had moved their wagon to the side to let the others cross. He looked frustrated and preoccupied, and he wasn’t sure how to convince his wife to make the crossing.
“Emily, we have to cross this river,” Ernest had implored.
“No, Mr. Hinton, I will not. You never told me this journey would require crossing rivers!”
Emily had been difficult from the beginning of their marriage. They had been wed less than a year, and she was only eighteen. Ernest knew she still resented his taking her away from her family and the Ohio farm where she had grown up, but he was her family now, and she finally and reluctantly had consented to accompany him on the overland trail to Oregon. It was her father who had decided for her.
“He is your husband, Emily. You go where he goes. I don’t like it one little bit, but I can’t make him see sense.”
Ernest Hinton recalled a conversation weeks before with his friend Abel Brown in a saloon in Missouri.
“Her father doted on her—gave her everything she wanted,” he confided to Abel. “I don’t believe he has ever refused her anything.”
“What attracted you to her, Ernest?” Abel asked.
“You mean aside from the obvious?” Ernest laughed. Abel joined in. Emily was a beautiful woman.
“I believe it was her spirit. She has always been independent, and that has sometimes been a problem for me. I love that in her, but I don’t quite know how to control it.” He tipped the glass, draining it of the last swallow of the amber liquid.
Abel masterfully hid his contempt as he listened to his young companion. Aside from Emily’s physical beauty, he admired her fiery spirit that animated her features. She’s above and beyond anything you could ever hope to control, Abel thought disdainfully.
Ernest regarded his wife’s profile as she watched a wagon crossing the river. Her chin jutted out stubbornly, and her brows met in angry furrows. Nellie stood next to Emily looking uncertain. Ernest felt like wrapping Emily in his arms and shaking her at the same time. His feelings were often conflicted when it came to his wife. She could drive a man to distraction. He decided it was time to be firm.
“Emily, we have to cross now. We can’t make these people wait on us again.” He was referring to her habit of painstakingly packing everything from the tent each morning while the other travelers waited for them to take their place in line.
A few nights ago he had complained about this to her. “Why do we have to make this tent look like a parlor every night? Most of these people are happy if they’re moderately comfortable.”
“Moderately comfortable is not acceptable, Mr. Hinton.”
Ernest looked exasperated. “All this furniture—your frilly doodads,” he was referring to her collection of intricately crocheted doilies.
Emily’s face darkened. “These things are my treasures, Mr. Hinton, and you won’t bully me into abandoning one more item.” She was referring to the end of the first day when she had been pressed to leave the cook stove and a small organ on the side of the trail when their wagon lagged behind the others. The captain had insisted they lighten their load or be left behind. She had unsuccessfully tried to sweet talk Captain Wyatt. Ernest had watched her batting her eyelashes and putting her hand on his sleeve.
Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 Page 3