First Dawn

by Judith Miller

  Her father smiled, but he didn’t acknowledge she might be correct. And though the hired man had done little around camp, Macia was quick to note he was first in line for supper. The simple fare of bacon and eggs tasted better to Macia than anything she’d eaten in ages— including the fancy farewell meal she’d been served at the Kincaid home the evening before they departed Georgetown. Even the coarse rye bread spread with butter that her mother had purchased from Mrs. Hepple tasted better than the buttermilk biscuits prepared at home by their old cook.

  It had grown dark by the time Macia washed the dishes in the creek water and dried them with an old linen towel. She hooked the wet towel onto a nail at the rear of the wagon before crawling inside and wedging herself into the small space beside her mother.

  “How will we ever survive this ordeal, Mother?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know, but we will. God will protect us.”

  Macia stared upward. The star-filled sky was hidden by the rough piece of canvas that covered the wagon. She was at least thankful she wasn’t forced to sleep on the ground like Harvey and her father. Soon her mother’s soft snores mingled with the hoots of owls perched in the cottonwoods along the creek. A coyote howled in the distance, and she wondered if her father and Harvey feared for their lives or trusted that Mr. Wilson would protect them. She pictured wild animals circling their wagon, slinking low with their stealthy bodies blending into the shadowy darkness that surrounded them, and wondered if they could jump inside the wagon. The thought of being attacked by one of the drooling fang-toothed animals caused her to shudder. With a quick yank, she pulled the blanket until it covered her head. Her lips quivered as she prayed they would all be alive come morning. If God truly wanted their family to survive in this barren land, He surely had His work cut out for Him!

  Weary from a full day of travel with no more than a brief stop at a settler’s dugout, Macia shaded her eyes and gazed across the plains. Now void of its lush springtime greenery and occasional summer blooms, the prairie had cloaked itself in the dull shades of ecru and brown—a sign that winter would soon be upon them.

  Macia shifted her weight. She was tired from sitting in the buggy, although she was certain that Harvey would gladly exchange places with her. As the day had worn on, her mother had become quiet and withdrawn, and Macia wondered what she must be thinking.

  “At least we won’t be forced to live in one of those awful dugout dwellings we saw near that last creek,” Macia commented.

  Her mother merely nodded as the buggy jostled along the rutted path. She sat up straighter and stared to the west. “That must be it.”

  “Where?” Macia asked. “I don’t see anything.”

  Her mother pointed. “There! Near that ridge!”

  Macia reined in the horses until the wagon had come alongside them. “Is that it, Father? Is that Hill City?”

  Before he could answer, Mr. Wilson hollered over his shoulder and announced Hill City was in the distance. “I’m going to ride ahead to the livery. I’ll meet you there.” And with that, he spurred his horse to a trot.

  A broad smile curved her father’s lips, and Macia wondered how he could be happy. From what she could see, there was little cause for joy. In fact, there didn’t appear to be much of anything except a few houses and several sad-looking buildings that appeared as if they might be part house, part shop. Surely this couldn’t be the town.

  “Perhaps Mr. Wilson has never been here before. Perhaps we’ve turned the wrong direction.” Please don’t let this be our final destination.

  Her father jumped down from the wagon and surveyed their surroundings as a woman with a child resting on one hip stepped outside a small soddy. “Welcome!”

  Without waiting for her father to take charge, Macia greeted the woman and said, “We’re looking for Hill City.”

  “You’ve found it. This is Hill City.” She turned away and directed her attention to Macia’s father. “Are you the new doctor?”

  “Indeed,” he replied.

  “I been watching after your place ever since Mr. Hepple brought your furniture up here last week. Feeding the pigs, too.” She tilted her head at the crates of chickens tied to the sides of the wagon. “He should’ve brought the chickens when he brung the pigs. I would have been glad to take care of ’em for you.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I’m Dr. Samuel Boyle, and this is my wife, Margaret, and daughter, Macia,” he said while helping them down from the wagon. “And that’s Harvey back there with the cows.”

  “I’m Betsy Turnbull. My husband Levi’s gone to help the Bentleys. They got a place about five miles to the north—problems with a young’un that was bit by a skunk. You folks have come well prepared. Not like the rest of us.” There was a forlorn look in her eyes.

  Macia truly did not want to stand around conversing. She was anxious to get settled into her own room as soon as possible. “Do you know where our house is located?”

  The girl gave her a queer look and pointed down the street. “Why, that’s it right there. The only wood house anywhere nearby—unless you count the few made of logs. Ain’t many of those, either—not many trees in this part of the country.”

  Macia watched her father and was certain he was guarding his reaction. No doubt he was as stupefied by this place as the rest of them. And yet he said nothing. When she could bear the silence no longer, Macia addressed Betsy Turnbull. “That can’t be the house. Mr. Hill told my father the house was a grand two-story home with spacious rooms—more modern and lovely than any home in these parts.”

  Betsy bobbed her head up and down with enthusiasm. “And it is! Why, you have wood floors and glass windows, and there’s a sod barn out back for your animals. That barn is bigger than my house. And your furniture will look ever so grand once you get it all arranged. Mr. Hepple said he placed all of it in the parlor and dining room, and I’d be proud to help you.”

  “How kind you are,” Mrs. Boyle said. “And what a sweet little girl. Your first?”

  “My third. The other two died shortly after birth, but Sarah’s a healthy little girl.” The baby grinned in spite of the flea bites that covered her chubby arms and legs.

  Seemingly not knowing how to respond to Betsy’s sad revelation, Mrs. Boyle turned to her husband. “I suppose we should go and take a look inside the house.”

  “You folks gonna want to take over the post office duties? Me and Levi’s been doing it since Doc Smith’s widow left town, but Levi said not to count on the money ’cause you folks would likely want the extra income for yourselves.” The weight of poverty was obvious in her tone.

  “If you and Levi want to continue with the post office duties, I’m certain you’ll hear no complaints from anyone in my family,” Dr. Boyle replied kindly. “Why don’t you come along with us and you can tell us about your life here in Hill City.”

  Betsy appeared overjoyed by the invitation and headed down the street alongside Macia. “I suppose you grow lonely out here, don’t you?” Macia asked.

  “Sometimes, but the town’s building up, and there’s usually folks around if I want some company. Ain’t like the Bentleys—living so far out with no one around for miles and miles.”

  Macia didn’t argue, though she wondered how this woman could possibly remain optimistic: she lived in a flea-ridden soddy, had endured the death of two babies, and was clothed in a tattered calico dress. “So you’re happy living in Hill City?”

  “Why, of course. Who wouldn’t be? Levi’s got a quarter section of land near the river, and we’ve had some decent crops the past two years. And now it appears I get to keep tending the post office duties. You’ll like it fine once you get used to it. Winters get mighty cold and the summers are hot, but this here is fine country.”

  Macia gave the woman a pitying smile. There was little doubt Betsy Turnbull was completely daft—obviously driven insane by the uncivilized surroundings.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Nicodemus, Kansas �
� October 1877

  The hours of daylight on the prairie decreased as fall set in, and most of those hours were filled with a continuous wearying labor. And though the digging and lifting, the hauling dirt and cutting sod required enormous physical stamina, none of it required much intellect. As his body toiled, Thomas found himself lost in his own private thoughts—rehashing the decisions he’d made in early September. Should he have left Nicodemus back when those first settlers had grown angry with him over his late return from Ellis? And should he have struck a bargain with Ezekiel Harban? Both could have proven to be dangerous choices—and still could!—for a man unwilling to divulge his past.

  There had been opportunities—he could have joined up with one of those wagon trains that had passed through. Not that he was looking to find anything more than what he’d already found in Nicodemus. Truth be told, he wasn’t looking to find anything. Instead, he wanted to lose himself among this small group of settlers, to fit in as snugly as a hand fits into a glove. So comfortably that no one would ever guess he wasn’t one of them.

  But it didn’t appear as if his acceptance would come easily, for as time marched on, Charles Francis made it abundantly clear he would oppose Thomas at every turn. Charles approached each task as a competition. If Thomas borrowed Herman Kemble’s shotgun and returned with a jackrabbit, Charles remained on the prairie until he could bring back two. When Thomas returned with two birds and a snake, Charles stayed out until he came back to camp with three birds and two prairie dogs.

  Though Ezekiel had earlier admonished Charles for his childish behavior, the older man now appeared somewhat amused by the antics; occasionally, he would even encourage the competitive behavior. Thomas had spent many hours weighing out Ezekiel’s change of attitude. And after much thought, he had decided the older man was using the competition as a means to evaluate Charles and his ability to suitably provide for Jarena—testing the young man’s mettle before consenting to their marriage. This moment of clarity had come to Thomas only two days earlier. That was when Thomas had reentered the competition. Although he wasn’t vying for Jarena’s hand, he had decided he would assist Ezekiel anyway. After all, he, too, wanted to be certain Charles was a worthy choice for Jarena. At least that’s what he told himself.

  “Gettin’ colder every day,” Ezekiel said as he stepped outside and leaned down to warm his hands over the fire he’d kindled early that morning. He and Thomas would continue to work on the sod brick extension to their dugout this morning, and if bad weather would hold off just a little longer, they’d be done by the time winter was upon them.

  “But we’s made good progress,” Thomas replied. “If Charles keeps helpin’, we be done in no time.” He gave the older man a sidelong glance.

  “I don’ think Charles cottons to the idea that you gets to be around Jarena all the time. He still thinks it’d be more fittin’ if you went and lived with a couple of them other single men.”

  “Guess he needs to remember it was you what struck this bargain for me to live with you and your fambly.”

  Ezekiel gave him a toothy grin. “Oh, he knows that—don’t change his thinkin’ none, though. He tol’ me last night he’d be over here to hep today. Think he’s worried Jarena will see we can get along without ’im.”

  Thomas nodded and decided he wouldn’t object to Charles’s assistance today. Moving the sod bricks from the field to Ezekiel’s dugout was heavy, tiresome work, and he would encourage Charles to help him. “I’s goin’ on over to the field. Tell Charles ya’ve noticed I’ve been deliverin’ six sod bricks at one time.” Thomas hoped Charles would accept the challenge.

  “Charles ain’t built quite so sturdy as you—don’ think he’ll be able to tote six of ’em at one time. But he did fetch a big load of buffalo chips jest yesterday. Said he didn’ want Jarena gettin’ cold this winter. Course, I don’ think one load’s gonna be enough to keep us warm all winter.” There was a gleam in the older man’s eye as he mentioned the load of buffalo chips.

  “So you’re thinkin’ if I go out and fetch two loads, Charles’ll go back out and haul even more.”

  “Could be.” Ezekiel leaned down to pick up one of the sod bricks.

  Thomas spied Charles walking toward them a few moments later.

  “These things is mighty heavy,” Ezekiel commented as the young man approached. Thomas detected a hint of a smile as Ezekiel massaged his lower back.

  Charles dropped the hand barrow to the ground and rushed forward. “Let me help you, Mr. Harban.”

  “Why, thank ya, Charles. I was thinkin’ maybe you could haul some dirt in that barrow of yours and help me ta fill in between these sod bricks—unless you’d rather go out to the field and fetch more bricks. Thomas has been hauling ’em the last few days, and I gotta admit he’s doin’ a mighty fine job.”

  Just then, Jarena appeared from inside the cave-like dugout with a basket of laundry. “I’m going down to the river and fetch water. Thought I’d wash some clothes since you’ve already got a good fire going.”

  Charles nearly fell over his feet as he hastened to pick up the two buckets sitting beside the entrance to the dugout. “I’d be pleased to fetch the water for you.”

  Ezekiel frowned at the young man’s offer. “I thought you was gonna help with the sod bricks. Jarena’s able to carry a couple buckets of water from the river. And so are the twins! Where are they, anyhow?” Deep creases furrowed Ezekiel’s weathered forehead. There was little doubt that he was unhappy to lose Charles’s assistance. Before Thomas could say a word, Ezekiel turned a steely gaze in his direction. “Don’t you even think of offering to go after water. We got more important things to do ’round here.”

  While Thomas carted the heavy pads of soil throughout the morning, Charles remained at the dugout. And although Charles had indicated a preference for helping pack dirt between the sod bricks, Thomas noted he was spending more time near Jarena and the boiling kettle of clothes than working at the dugout.

  Thomas grunted as he unloaded another pile of sod bricks in front of the dugout. “Don’t appear like you’re gettin’ much help from Charles—might do better to have him work farther away from Jarena.”

  Ezekiel smiled slyly. “You jest might be right on that account. Charles! Why don’ you get on out to that field and pick up some more bricks. Thomas is gonna stay and help me pack dirt. Believe his back’s getting the best of him. You’s likely stronger than him.”

  Charles whispered something to Jarena before grabbing the handles of the wheelbarrow. “Never was any doubt in my mind that I’m stronger than him.” He directed a look of disdain at Thomas as he rushed off to prove his point.

  But Thomas didn’t nibble at the bait. Instead of hurrying off to compete with Charles, he moved toward Jarena with a self-satisfied grin, pleased with the recent turn of events. “Anything I can help you with?”

  Jarena gave him a surprisingly sweet smile as she looked up at him from beneath her thick dark lashes. “If you wouldn’t mind stirring the clothes for a short time”—she pushed the wooden paddle in his direction—“ my arms are growing mighty weary.”

  Her hand brushed across his arm, and the pleasure of her touch surprised him. He looked at her and wondered if she had sensed the same delight. But she avoided his eyes, and soon his vision was completely blurred by the steam that rose from the kettle and mingled with the crisp autumn air. While he stirred the boiling water, Thomas surveyed the small community. It consisted of nothing more than burrowed-out dugouts furnished with the rudimentary belongings the settlers had been able to bring with them or had pieced together since their arrival. To the distant traveler, the smoke curling from atop the scattered hillocks was the only evidence a town existed. Thomas wondered how long it would be until Nicodemus actually looked like the town that had been promised to the settlers.

  Jarena plunged several pairs of work pants into the water, causing a foggy barrier to momentarily divide them. “Why is it you avoid my questions about your past, T
homas?”

  He tensed at her question, thankful she couldn’t see him through the misty vapor. After exhaling a long breath, he struggled to relax his rigid features. “You exaggerate. I don’ avoid yer questions. I don’ have nothin’ to tell. My family is dead, and I don’ like to talk about them. Even you’ve said it’s hard to talk about your mammy since her death.”

  His words appeared to give her momentary pause, but still she persisted. “You could at least tell me where you call home. You know we’re from Kentucky, and I have little difficulty speaking of my home.”

  Why did she keep pressing him for information? He glanced at the field, where Charles was loading bricks. Was Charles encouraging Jarena to ask these questions? Was he hoping to plant seeds of doubt in Jarena’s mind in order to gain an advantage—hoping she would mistrust Thomas and think he wasn’t worthy of her affection? For a moment he wanted to rush to the field and confront Charles Francis. Yet he knew Charles was right. He didn’t deserve a girl like Jarena. He didn’t deserve any girl. In fact, he was lucky to be alive. Pursuing Jarena was pure foolishness that would only put her in harm’s way.

  He clenched his hands into two tight knots. “There’s nothin’ I wanna talk about!”

  Her eyes widened and she appeared hurt by his angry outburst, but he didn’t apologize. Instead, he strode off without looking back. Better that she think him rude and abrasive now than someday suffer the pain of losing another loved one.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Hill City, Kansas • October 1877

  Macia bent over one of the many open trunks in the dining room and ruffled through the stacked blankets and clothing. Finally, she touched upon a piece of stitched cotton fabric. Her quilt! She pulled on the cloth as a knock sounded at the front door.