“Da, that’s A.H. Unthank from the inscription on Register Cliff!”
“It could be, Conor.”
“I guess we won’t be meeting him in Oregon City,” he said sadly.
“No, Conor, I don’t think so, but you can honor him by collecting a few of these wildflowers for his grave and saying a little prayer. Then when we meet his kin in Oregon City, you can tell them what you did.”
Conor spent the next minutes doing just that. After he said his prayer, he felt better.
“Alva, if you’re listening, I’ll make sure your family knows you’ve been taken care of,” he said aloud, and he placed the small bouquet of wildflowers in front of the marker.
Emily’s Sacrifice
Chapter Twelve
July 22, 1852
Emily Hinton looked down at her shoes as she walked beside the wagon. They were so covered in trail dust she couldn’t tell what their original color had been. After these shoes wore out, she had one pair left, and they were her dressier ones that she intended to save for Oregon City. She knew the shoes she was wearing wouldn’t last another hundred miles, and then what would she do? She most likely would have to buy moccasins at Fort Hall. She shuddered at the thought of wearing the common-looking footwear, but many of the other women had purchased moccasins at Fort Laramie from the French traders and their Sioux wives.
The brim from her pretty yellow bonnet shielded Emily’s face from the sun, and she wore dainty white gloves to protect her hands. Some of her gloves were useless now, after holding the ropes in an attempt at keeping the wagon from tumbling down Windlass Hill. Two days ago, it had been overcast; she had not worn her hat and gloves, and her face and hands had gotten pink.
“Miss Emily, what were you thinking? You should always wear a hat and gloves when you’re outside!” Nellie remonstrated, and then proceeded to blot Emily’s face and hands with cold nettle tea.
Buster trotted happily next to Emily. He was her constant companion. He even slept with her—something Ernest didn’t care for at all. She looked at Ernest leading the stock that pulled their wagon. A general feeling of unease crept into her body. She wasn’t sure why she felt like this. She knew Ernest was keeping things from her. When she tried to find out what he wasn’t telling her, he would become evasive. Last night they had quarreled again.
“I declare, Mr. Hinton, you spend more time with Mr. Brown than with me. What is it that you talk about?”
“Emily, it’s men’s business. None of your concern.” Ernest was sanding the splintery handle of one of the shovels.
“What kind of business, Mr. Hinton?”
“The kind of business that most women don’t worry about, Emily.”
Emily looked at Ernest testily. “You’re not playing cards are you, Mr. Hinton?”
Ernest sighed heavily. “We play occasionally, Emily. Nothing wrong with that. It’s a gentlemen’s game.”
“I hear tell that Mr. Brown is a gambling man. Are these card games played for money?”
Ernest had slammed the shovel against the wagon. “Emily! I am your husband, and what I do with my money is my business!” His voice was loud “Now stop with these questions!”
Emily’s face flushed and she stared at Ernest until he looked away and left the camp.
They hadn’t spoken today, and Nellie had noticed and asked Emily what was wrong.
“I wish I knew, Nellie,” Emily had replied.
Abel Brown came around often, and the more she got to know him, the more she distrusted him. He was too smooth. He always had the right words, but she felt like he was hiding behind a handsome façade. The few times she had tried to draw him out in conversation and talk about his past, he had shifted the topic to something impersonal. He was a mystery, and more than that, he was enamored with her. He made subtle advances when Ernest wasn’t looking, and he flirted with her shamelessly, especially when he had been drinking. Finally, she confronted him.
“Mr. Brown, you are taking liberties with me and it’s making me uncomfortable.”
He laughed delightedly. “Why, Miss Emily, I apologize if I have done anything to cause you distress. Rest assured it will never happen again.” But it did, many times, and she had even spoken to Ernest about him.
“Emily, that’s just his way. His background is different from yours.”
“Just what is his background, Mr. Hinton? I can’t get him to talk about his past or his family at all.”
“He’s a very private person, Emily. He’s not close with his family, and he doesn’t like to talk about them. Best to just let it be.” After that, Emily made it a point to avoid Abel Brown until one day when Ernest was busy trading with Indians and Abel had sauntered into camp.
“Good afternoon, Miss Emily. Beautiful day today, isn’t it?” Abel tipped his hat and walked closer to where she was making biscuit dough. After a brief glance in his direction, she continued with her chore.
“Mr. Brown, Ernest is away at the moment. Why don’t you try back in an hour? I’m sure he’ll be back by then.”
“It’s you I came to see, Emily. Why don’t you clean your hands and sit with me for a while.” He took her hands out of the bowl and wiped them with her apron. She jerked her hands away and backed up a few paces.
“You shouldn’t be here, Mr. Brown. I think you should leave now.”
“Don’t be rude, Emily. Where’s that southern charm I’ve seen you display so many times? Come on, you can be nice to me.”
He closed the distance between them until her back was against the wagon. Then he leaned towards her, his hands on either side of her. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. His eyes, a yellow brown, smoldered. She looked around frantically, but no one was in sight. Then he chuckled.
“It’s just you and me, Emily, and it’s time we got better acquainted.” He pulled her to him roughly and covered her mouth with his. She struggled against him, but he was strong and his arms held her tightly. After what seemed an eternity, she was able to push him away. Then she slapped him as hard as she could. She felt gratified at the sight of her handprint on his cheek. She grabbed the pitchfork propped against the wagon and brandished it towards him.
“Get away from me, Mr. Brown, or I swear I’ll kill you!”
Abel Brown stepped back quickly, holding his hand to his cheek. He had personal experience with angry women and he knew what they could do. “Settle down, Miss Emily. I’m just being friendly.”
“I don’t like your kind of friendly. Now get out!” She jabbed the pitchfork towards him.
Abel was slowly backing up, keeping a close eye on the pitchfork. “I think I should go, Miss Emily. It’s been a pleasure.” He tipped his hat, turned, and walked out of camp.
Emily watched him go, and suddenly she felt her knees begin to give out. She sat on the bench and realized she was shaking. Her first thought was to tell Ernest. She wanted him to beat Abel Brown to a pulp. Then she almost laughed aloud. Ernest wasn’t a fighter. He would never last against the likes of someone like Abel Brown. Ernest had been raised to be a gentleman farmer.
There was something sinister about Abel Brown. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that Abel would kill Ernest and call it self-defense. No, it was better to keep it to herself. She would just make sure that she was never alone again where Abel Brown could take advantage of her. She just had to be careful. Her fingers went to her swollen lips. Not for the first time she wished she was a big burly man. “I’d teach him a lesson he’d never forget,” she said vehemently. For the next half hour, while she finished the biscuits, she imagined all the ways she would get back at Abel Brown.
Emily’s hands clenched tightly as she recalled that afternoon. She had never mentioned it to Ernest, and Abel had kept his distance. The wagons were slowing down and pulling into a shady area by the river. It was time for the mid-day meal and watering of the stock. As Ernest guided the wagon into its place, she noticed Rebecca Benson walking around their wagon. She was barefoot a
nd seemed to be limping. It wasn’t uncommon to see women barefoot, and Rebecca certainly was sturdy, but Emily was sure something was wrong.
While Nellie prepared the meal, Emily walked to the Benson camp.
“Hi, Rebecca.”
Rebecca started when she heard Emily behind her. She was sitting on a bench applying some ointment to a large blister on her right heel. “Oh, hello, Emily! You startled me!”
Emily chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was so quiet. That’s a nasty looking blister!”
“Yes, I was wearing Ma’s shoes and they’re too small for me. I should have just gone barefoot.”
“Are your shoes worn out?”
“The last pair lasted a long time. When the sole got big holes, I put cloth inside, but eventually even that didn’t work. Ma told me to wear hers since she’s riding most of the time now with the baby so close.” She dabbed at the large and swollen blister. “But Ma’s feet are smaller than mine. I didn’t realize I was getting such a large blister. James made up this ointment for me to apply. Sure hope it works!”
Emily looked closely at Rebecca’s foot. “I may have a solution for you, Rebecca. I’ll be right back!”
A few minutes later Rebecca was exclaiming over the beautiful shoes that Emily had presented to her.
“I can’t accept these, Emily! They’re beautiful, and they’ll be ruined on the trail.” She held one up, admiring its ivory kid leather and side laces.
“Nonsense! I expect they will be ruined, but better the shoes than your feet! Now try one on. I think we may wear the same size.”
Rebecca slipped one on the foot that was not blistered. She laced it up and it went well past her ankle. Then she stood up and smiled broadly. “It fits! Emily, how can I ever thank you?”
The two women hugged warmly, and then Emily walked back to her wagon. Ernest was leading an ox back from the river. He looked at Emily and she smiled at him brightly. “Lunch should be almost ready, Mr. Hinton.” He smiled back, relief spreading over his face. “I’m famished, Emily,” he said, and they walked companionably back to their wagon.
The Lie
Chapter Thirteen
Fort Hall
August 1, 1852
Mile 1217
Sam Benson looked at his father’s serious face. He knew he could be in deep trouble. Amber, their horse—their only horse—had been stolen from him by an Indian youth about thirteen—his own age. Sam had taken the mare up river to water her during their midday stop. It was a warm day, and he was resting against a tree when the redskin came up behind him.
Sam jumped up, still clutching Amber’s lead rope in his hand. He was scared. Here was one of the bloody savages and he was defenseless. True, the savage was young and had no weapon either, but he looked so fierce that Sam was petrified. The Indian took a step forward and Sam stepped back against the tree. He looked wildly around for help, but no one was near. He had thought about yelling, but at that moment, the Indian did some fancy footwork and Sam was on the ground while the youth held the lead rope. Then he deftly leaped onto Amber’s back, scowled at Sam, and rode off without a backwards glance. Sam scrambled to his feet and started to give chase, but the horse and rider quickly outdistanced him. Humiliated, Sam watched them disappear over a hill.
He wondered what to tell his Pa. Could he tell him that a boy with no weapons and no accomplices had taken the horse from him? Sam’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. He had to think of a better story. Suddenly he had an idea. He would say that Amber had run off with some wild horses the scouts had first spotted a couple of days ago. Amber was in season, and the stallion had been calling to her.
Thomas Benson was angrily contemplating his son’s story about how their only horse had run off. At the same time, he was working out how to get her back. Sam perched on the edge of the lie. He could go either way—deeper into the hole he had dug or up into the light. All he needed to say was, “that’s not exactly the truth,” as if truth could be measured on a scale from one to ten, with ten being totally true. Sam looked at his father, gauging what he thought he wanted to hear. He heard himself tell the lie again.
“It’s true, Pa. I was watering Amber when Conor and his friends came crashing out of the bushes yelling and screaming. They were playing Indians. Amber was so frightened she reared up and jerked the rope from my hands. I tried to catch her, but she was too fast.” Sam saw the resignation on his father’s face.
“I can find her, Pa. I’ll borrow the Flannigans’ horse and go look for her.” Sam watched his father carefully. He could see that his father believed him, and he began to relax. Sam had no qualms about stretching the truth if it served him. Many times he had invented stories to avoid consequences.
“No, Sam, you stay here. Next thing I’ll have a lost horse and a lost son. I’ll ask the scouts to be on the lookout for that wild band. When they’re spotted, I’ll get some help to catch her. Now go get Tom. I want you two to fetch some water for your mother.” Sam ran off in search of his brother, secure in the knowledge that his story was believed and that he wouldn’t have to face retribution, or worse, embarrassment for his carelessness.
Thomas Benson looked worriedly at the horizon. I wonder how far that fool horse has got, he thought. It would be a tremendous loss if they didn’t get her back. Horses weren’t cheap, and Amber was a good horse for riding and for plowing. Then there was the fact that she was in a halter, trailing a lead rope. She could get caught up in all kinds of things and not be able to free herself. I should ride out and take a look, he decided. At least my mind will be eased that I did what I could to find her. Once the decision was made, he told his wife and set off to the Flannigans’ wagon to ask Michael for the loan of his horse.
He found Michael Flannigan bent over the foot of his horse. The mare had thrown a shoe, and Michael was attaching a replacement. He stood up as Thomas approached.
“You look like a man on a mission,” Michael said, noting Thomas’s furrowed brow.
“My horse ran off. I think she’s after that band of wild horses the scouts spotted.”
“I heard the stallion last night.”
“And did you hear Amber calling back to him? She’s in season, and she’s been a handful. She got away from Sam, and I’m hoping she isn’t far off.”
“Tessa was answering the stallion, too,” Michael said, indicating his mare. “The grass has been pretty good for a couple of days, so they should be close.”
“I was hoping to borrow your horse to go look for Amber.”
“I’ve just finished replacing Tessa’s shoe. She should be fit to ride.”
“Thanks,” Thomas said, grabbing the blanket and saddle from the back of the wagon. When Tessa was saddled and bridled, Michael handed Thomas a lasso.
“Good luck. If you’re not back, I’ll help Sam get your wagon under way when we head out.”
“I appreciate it,” Thomas replied, and he and Tessa rode toward the horizon.
A little while later, Sam was surprised to see Michael Flannigan walking towards him.
“Hi, Mr. Flannigan. Have you seen my pa? We’re about to leave.”
“He’s looking for your horse, Sam. I’m here to see that everything’s okay for your departure. Have you checked the team?” Michael Flannigan’s eyes roamed over the oxen and the harnesses, making sure everything was secure. If he had noticed Sam’s face, he would have known that something was wrong. Sam’s eyes were round and his face was pale. He knew his father would never find Amber, and he was out there alone. It was a dangerous situation with all the Indians around. What if something happened to him?
“Everything looks good, Sam. I’ll let your ma know what’s going on. You should get yourself ready to drive the team.” Michael walked to the back of the wagon to talk to Ruth, Sam’s mother. Rebecca and Tommy were busy dousing the fire and cleaning up the younger children after their midday meal. Sam’s apprehension mounted when he realized he was responsible for the team.
“Mr. Flannigan,
I’ve never driven the team by myself before. I don’t think I can do it. Will you help me drive them?”
Michael noted Sam’s fear and felt sorry for the boy. “I can’t do that, Sam. Conor is laid up with a sprained ankle, so there’s no one left to drive my team but me. I’ll tell the captain to check up on you when he comes by. You’ll be fine, and your pa should be back soon. Get Tom to help you.” Sam watched Michael Flannigan walk away. A feeling of doom settled over him as he realized he was responsible for this. He should have told his father the truth. Even if he found the wild band, he wouldn’t find Amber with them. Now it was too late. He hoped his father would return safely.
The afternoon was warm and dry, and the train made good time, but there was no sign of Thomas Benson when the wagons made their circle for the evening near Fort Hall. Sam was beside himself with worry. What if his father never returned? What if he had been captured by the Indians—or worse! He and Tommy unhitched the team and fed and watered them. As soon as he could, he ran to the Flannigans’ camp. Michael Flannigan was busy with his stock and Conor wasn’t able to help out while his ankle was on the mend. Brenna was helping her da as best she could.
“Where’s my pa?” Sam asked frantically.
“He’s not back yet,” Michael replied gently. He could see the boy’s agitation.
“Do you think something might have happened to him?”
“Give him a little more time, Sam,” Michael replied.
“This is all my fault!” Sam cried.
Michael looked at the boy. He could see Sam’s grief taking hold of him. “Don’t blame yourself for this, Sam. Horses are strong. If they want to go somewhere, you can’t hold them back.”
“No, you don’t understand!” Sam was near hysteria. “Amber didn’t run off. She was stolen by an Indian and I didn’t do anything to stop it!”
Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 Page 10