Coffin To Lie On

Home > Other > Coffin To Lie On > Page 6
Coffin To Lie On Page 6

by Risner, Fay

It was almost dark when Miranda parked the wagon in a grove of black hawthorn trees. She climbed down and walked around to limber up.

  Anselm tied his horse to a branch and came to her. “I believe dis iss de place to build de log cabin. De trees vill be shade from the sun. De flat land around de grove vill make a good place for de orchard. De nearby creek vill furnish plenty of water all year long until I dig a vell. Vat do you dink?”

  “I agree. This is a good place. I can have a vegetable garden near the house and the water is handy when I need it,” Miranda agreed as she studied the black hawthorn trees.

  She wasn't familiar with them. Fruit the size of buckshot covered the branches. Miranda reached up and picked a hand full of sweet black berries. They only had one seed so they were easy to eat and fairly tasty. She'd figure out how to make jelly and cobblers with the berries.

  Anselm pitched a tent he bought in Portland close to the wagon for their shelter until they had a house. Miranda said it would be a time saver to quit taking the camp apart every morning.

  Miranda set her cast iron kettle and coffee pot on the ground near the fire Anselm built. The fall night air was cool. The fire felt good. The kettle was still half full of rabbit track soup left over from lunch. She heated the soup and pulled it away from the fire.

  Anselm cut enough wood poles to build a make shift corral to hold his cattle and horse. When he was about ready to stop for the night, Miranda placed the kettle on the fire to warm.

  They forced themselves to eat and were ready to go to bed right after Miranda cleaned the dishes. Anselm took the time to whistle the whippoorwill tune to see if he received an answer. When he did, they were both thrilled. It was like something familiar from home was with them when they heard the birds answer.

  After they crawled under the covers, Miranda said, “Anselm, I have something to tell you.”

  Anselm yawned loudly. “Wat?”

  “We're going to have a baby,” Miranda said quietly.

  “Dis iss good,” Anselm said, sluggish with sleep.

  “You don't mind?” Miranda asked.

  Anselm bolted upright. “Vat did you just say?”

  Miranda giggled at how thunder struck he looked. She repeated slowly, “I am going to have a baby.”

  “Ven?”

  “Maybe seven or eight weeks from now,” Miranda said calmly.

  “So soon. Vhy didn't you tell me dis before now. Ve haf to hurry up and build de house before de baby comes,” Anselm exploded.

  “Calm down. Everything will be all right. You said Clarence was going to make sure everyone had a roof over their heads. It will happen,” Miranda said calmly.

  “Ja, dat iss right.” Anselm laid down and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he bolted up again. “I don't know anyding about birthing. Vat vill ve do.”

  “That's taken care of already. Sarie Lee said to get her when the time comes. She will stay with me until I can manage alone.”

  “Dat iss good.” Anselm gathered her in his arms and closed his eyes.

  Miranda was happy for the first time in a long time and full of hope for her expanding family. They had so much to look forward to now. A baby topped the list. Anselm was full of dreams and eager to begin their new life in Willamette Valley.

  The first night on their new land didn't start as they would have liked. Anselm was tired when he stopped for supper. He tied his horse to a low limb on a hawthorn tree and forgot to put him in the corral with the cattle. Most of the time that wouldn't have been a problem.

  About midnight, a gut wrenching scream woke them. Anselm bolted up. “Vhat vas dat?”

  Before Miranda could answer, the horse let out a high pitched neigh. “Anselm, something has happened to the horse.”

  Another scream sounded so very close. Anselm grabbed his rifle. “You stay here.”

  After the rifle went off twice, Anselm came back to the tent. “De horse iss gone.”

  They went back to bed, but Anselm tossed and turned as he waited for daylight. Now Miranda leaned against the covered wagon and listened to Anselm whistle Old Dan Tucker as he trotted across the prairie after his runaway horse.

  When her husband disappeared from sight, she went over in her mind what he told her to do while he was gone. He warned her he might be away for some time. He said she shouldn’t make a fire after dark. Even a day time fire shouldn't be very smoky. That would disclose her location if Indians happened to be in the area.

  If only the horse hadn’t run off, thought Miranda. She rubbed a few strands of brown hair back along side her head as she took in her surroundings. She liked what she saw better than any of the countryside they had traveled through.

  At least, it was a sunny day full of bright promise. Miranda busied herself doing laundry in the creek which she spread over some bushes to dry.

  She made a cake in the camp fire oven while she waited for Anselm. Toward evening, she held her hand over her eyes and studied the distant horizon, hoping she'd see Anselm with the horse in tow. That was when she plan to start supper.

  By the time dark took over, Miranda decided Anselm probably camped out somewhere until morning. That is if he caught the horse yet. No need to start a fire to cook. She'd worry about fixing a meal when Anselm came back.

  Anselm heard in Portland the valley had its share of wild animals. Since they tended to prowl at night, Anselm told her to get in the wagon before dark and stay there until he came back or until daylight. Which ever came first.

  Twilight set off the whippoorwill cries. Such a lonesome call they seemed to make now that she was by herself. In the middle of nowhere and alone, Miranda felt as lonesome as those whippoorwills.

  For the first time in a long time an overwhelming homesickness came over her. She had second thoughts about this trip. She longed to see her family again. She wished she hadn’t agreed so quickly to pick up stakes and leave Minnesota. Perhaps after the other farmers left, Anselm would have lost his desire to go west. Now she would never know for sure.

  Four months was long enough for her to be away from her folks. She wondered if her mother and father were well. Were they missing her? They would be so proud to know she was having their grandchild.

  After a walk around the grove, Miranda watched the western horizon fill with red streaks as the sun sank. It would be dark soon so she'd better take Anselm's advice while she could still see what she was doing.

  She started for the wagon and froze when she realized how close she was to the source of their problem. Stretched out in the grass lay a cougar, teeth bared in an ugly grin and eyes sightless, with a gaping, bloody hole Anselm had shot in his side. She felt sorry about that beautiful animal’s death. If the large cat had only stayed away from the clearing for the night, he’d be loping among the trees now, searching for a meal.

  Just the sight of the dead cougar made a frightened knot in the pit of her stomach. They were asleep in the tent, which wasn't a very safe place, when that hungry cougar was on the prowl. He might have picked them to prey on, before he was through hunting.

  The remembrance of his blood curdling scream as his long, sinewy body lunged out of the tree on to the back of the dozing horse was enough to bring Miranda and Anselm out of a sound sleep.

  Anselm shot the cougar before he injured the horse, but the bay's fright was enough to make the horse break loose and run away.

  Just the thought of that wild animal's horrifying scream hasten Miranda's climb into the wagon. She eased down on the pile of quilts, hugged her legs to her, and relaxed back in the small space between the coffin and stack of canned food. She untied her bonnet and slipped it off her head.

  On edge now that she didn't have anything to occupy her mind, she got up and peeked out the canvas opening again. With her ear cocked, she listened intently for horse hooves or her husband’s good natured whistling. It had been a long day since he took off across the prairie, following the horse tracks. Now her idleness and loneliness made time crawl.

  Tree frogs commenced to
sing. Wings fluttered on sleepy birds trying to balance on the tree limbs. Whippoorwills called each other around the wagon. That made Miranda recall the time on the trail when the Indian's signaled each other before they attacked.

  With a start, Miranda remembered the chicken crate. She should put the chickens in the wagon with her. She made it this far with four of the six hens and one rooster. She didn't want to lose her start, before the hens laid and hatch out her new flock.

  She climbed out of the wagon and picked up the crate. She eased the crate in to the wagon, causing some of the sleepy hens to make a growling protest. Once Miranda crawled in, she pulled the piece of clothes line and closed the opening. She carried the crate to the front of the wagon.

  Night blackened the inside of her wagon, making her thoughts even scarier as she filled with panic. Were there Indians prowling close by? Would they accidentally come upon the wagon hidden in this grove of trees?

  A shrill screech close to the wagon startled Miranda. The sound sent waves of smothering panic through her down to her toes. She tightened her hand over her mouth to keep from making a sound. Was that another cougar? No, that's probably not what it was. The repeated, high pitched screeching sounded different somehow.

  She suddenly wished she'd learned more about the critters in the wilderness before she started this journey. She peeked out the crack. The eerie sounds came from high in the tree nearest the wagon. Whatever it was didn't plan on leaving anytime soon. Her nerves were on edge. Her breathing was erratic. She couldn’t put up with that racket all night. She had to do something to stop it.

  Miranda rummaged through the small crate she'd rested her elbow on and came up with a tin can. If her aim was good, that should do the trick. She untied the line that gathered the canvas and stuck her head out the opening.

  With a tight hold, she drew back and hurled the can up into the tree. The leaves rattled until the can connected with a limb and noisily descended, hitting the ground with a thud. A quick flutter of wings preceded a small, scared bird gliding in front of the large, yellow moon that peeked above the tree tops.

  Taking a deep breath, Miranda felt relieved and angry at herself as she closed the opening and tied the line. That horrible noise came from a small, harmless screech owl. She wasted a precious can of food to scare it away. She didn’t hold out much hope for whatever was in that can to be edible by morning. Even if she could find it in the tall grass.

  A coyote barked a series of short yips in the distance. Miranda tensed again. Another coyote with longer yelps answered from the opposite direction. Was that the signal of Indians or just nightlife on the prowl?

  How was she supposed to protect herself against Indians? Anselm took their only rifle with him. Not that it really mattered since she didn’t know anything about firing a gun. Anselm offered to teach her before they began this journey, and she laughed at him. Why would she need to know how to shoot? She could never harm one of God’s creatures. Of course, she was thinking about wild animals and not savages.

  She remembered the anxious look on Anselm’s face. Miranda realized there was much he'd left unsaid, possibly for fear she'd refuse to come west with him.

  Anger at her husband welled up in her. She didn’t know the worse she could expect to happen, because Anselm hadn't seen fit to tell her. Her husband left her in this helpless position totally unprepared. What if something happened to him out there, and he never came back? What would happen to her in this land of wild animals and savages?

  Chapter 10

  Miranda edged to the opening and peeked out the small hole. She strained to see amid the twinkling fireflies. She hoped the shifting shadows dancing about the clearing were created only by the moonlit trees swaying in the night breeze.

  She tightened the gathering line in the canvas opening to shut the rest of the hole and plopped back down. She had to stop thinking dreadful thoughts and get her mind on something pleasant if she stayed sane through this dark, lonesome night. What had Anselm been telling her as they jarred along trails rough enough to loosen her eye teeth?

  They were going to homestead land that would be theirs. They would have bountiful crops of fruit in a few years from their orchard and a herd of cattle. Thoughts of a new home with a roof over her head during bad weather and protection from wild animals help calm Miranda's unsettled nerves. Her eyes grew heavy. Her head nodded and rested on her chest.

  All at once, the whisper of grass bending and straightening up along side the wagon brought Miranda out of her stupor. Her eyes widened in fright. Her breathing became next to nothing. She strained to listen attentively, and dreaded to know what was out there.

  Near the back wheel right under her, she heard a succession of sniffs and the sound of water trickling. An animal, checking out the wagon, had just marked his territory. A whine followed a low growl. That meant there were two animals. Miranda put her hand tightly over her mouth again to keep from making a sound.

  Easing forward, she put a finger in the crack to widen the canvas opening. She gasped as she looked out at moving, yellow glares of too many eyes to count. Wolves! Some of them discovered the dead cougar. In a frenzy of ferocious growls, they fought over tearing the carcass apart.

  At the sight of the wolf pack, a lump of fear rose in her throat, making it hard for her to breathe. She shrank back in her spot. With all that sniffing around, those keen smelling animals were bound to realize she was inside the wagon when they didn't have the cougar to occupy them. What would she do then?

  Determined to protect herself, Miranda frantically fingered the supplies in the dark, feeling for a make shift weapon. She wished she could remember in what order she packed everything at the last camp.

  Something shifted and bumped loudly against something else under her hand. Sounds outside the wagon stopped. Miranda closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for her safety. Now those wolves knew she was there. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out how to get into the wagon.

  Grabbing the rope ends, she drew shut the canvas opening again. As it tightened, she heard a savage snarl and made out the dark figure of a wolf lunging at the canvas. Miranda held the opening in a tight grip and braced her body against the canvas. The force of the wolf was almost more than she could endure, but the canvas held. At least one of her ribs didn’t. She heard the bone crack and felt excruciating pain course through her chest.

  The rustle of trampled grass mixed with threatening growls when the wolves retreated at the sound of her painful scream. Miranda peeked out.

  The pack paced cautiously back and forth at the edge of the clearing. They hadn’t left and had no intention of leaving. She'd have to find something to use to fight off their attacks until daylight. Maybe then they would leave, or maybe Anselm would be back in time to help her.

  Suddenly as hard as she'd had just longed for Anselm to hurry back, she wished for him to stay gone until morning. He'd be no match for all those wolves while trying to hold on to his skittish horse. He might even lose the mount again in the dark and have to go after him another time.

  Again, she ran her hands over the supplies. Her fingers touched cold wood, slender but long and smooth. It was an axe handle, built sturdy enough to hold up under pressure. No sooner had that thought passed through her mind when a wolf reared up with his front paws on the wagon, sniffing the canvas.

  With both hands gripped tightly on the cool wood, Miranda drew back the axe handle and swung down through the slit in the opening with all her might. The wolf yelped in pain as he took off for the safety of the trees.

  Miranda was satisfied she drew blood when the other wolves tackled the wounded animal. A weak or injured member must be no good to the rest of the pack. A growling, snarling battle began. As long as the scuffle lasted, she knew she had a chance to rest.

  Too soon, the carnage ended. With a taste of blood, the wolves were eager for more meat. Miranda rose up from her knees and braced herself with a tighter grip on the axe handle. The wolves came in pairs and kep
t coming, lunging at the canvas time after time.

  The tough material ripped under pressure from the wolves' teeth and toenails and blows from the axe handle as Miranda beat them back. Her angry cries became as fierce as the wolves' savage wails. She felt a dull satisfaction with each blow when she heard painful yelps as the beasts retreated.

  Lost in the moment with no thought of time, Miranda’s arms ached from exertion. Sweat dripped from her frizzled curls, soaked her dress and tacked it to her. Cool night air sifted through the tears in the canvas, making her wet, overheated body shiver. Each twisting movement at the waist sent a new wave of pain through her. A thick fuzziness in her head dulled her eyesight. She willed herself not to pass out. She couldn’t let those beasts win this battle.

  Suddenly, there came a lull. Miranda tensed for the next rush. The pause seemed forever long. The world beyond the wagon was much too quiet. Now in the dim light, she could make out the crates stacked around her.

  She took a deep breath and winced at the pain in her ribs. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she eased herself upright and moved to the canvas opening. She peeked through one of the rips. She could see shadowy trees and bushes. She let out a whoosh of air when she realized that was all there was. The wolves had slipped away to lick their wounds with the exception of one dark furred skeletal carcass.

  Miranda’s fingers slipped off the canvas as she gently collapsed back on the quilts. She folded her aching arms across her ribs and cried. How had she thought she'd ever want to live in this terrible wilderness? Now it was too late to go back. Anselm would never do it.

  Whatever resolve she had to build a new life with her husband and baby was gone. She wanted no part of this land. Her last thought as she blacked out was she'd live here because she had to, but she wouldn't like it.

  Some time later though the fog in her mind came sounds. Already in a panic, she fought to wake up and searched around her with one hand for the axe handle. She recognized the blows of a hard breathing horse. Indians had found her. She looked at the axe handle and wished for a rifle. Despairing fear mounted in her. It crossed her mind, she wouldn't have to worry about enduring this terrible place for long. She’d fought off wolves, but unarmed, she wasn't a match for Indians.

 

‹ Prev