by Stephen Bly
The tall, broad-shouldered young man glanced at Lerryn and then back at Retta. “I guess I’d better not, li’l sis.”
“That’s okay. I just said that to see the frown on Lerryn’s face.”
Lerryn turned away from Brian and stuck out her tongue. Then she spun around. “You could walk with me for a while,” she cooed. “Mama can’t see around the corner.”
“I reckon I could.” He grinned.
Retta stood still as the wagon train continued to roll past her.
She felt she didn’t need anyone to go with her. Papa was right over the rise. Besides, they were all tired. We’ve been gone two long months, and everyone is tired.
Retta plowed across the prairie toward the rise and the unseen river beyond.
This was the grandest adventure of her life, and it was kind of boring. One straight line. Sixty wagons, eleven men on horseback, and a two-wheeled cart. They rolled twelve miles west and camped for the night, over and over.
Lord, it takes us ten or twelve hours. I can walk it in three. I wish I had a horse to ride.
If she had a horse, she could ride with the wind like Ansley.
And my hair would flag out, and the boys would look at me, and they would...
Okay. Even with a horse, no one would notice me.
I don’t care.
I still really wish I had a horse to ride.
Chapter 3
By the time Retta reached the top of the rolling knoll north of the wagon train, the far western sky was cluttered with a flotilla of dark clouds, and her mind jumbled with thoughts. She looked back.
She knew they we’re doing something special.
Papa says we’re creating history. William says someday steam trains will take people clear to Oregon City and Sacramento. We’ll be a part of the past. But, Lord, I didn’t know history could be so slow, so dull.
Every day was like the one before, except the flies and gnats were getting worse. If she had to write in her diary about buffalo chips one more time, she thought she would scream.
I think maybe a little more excitement would make better history.
To the north wispy, tall slough grass marked the wide river’s edge. She spied the black and white milk cows and extra oxen and the outline of a man on horseback. She hiked straight at the man. When he spotted her approach, he turned and rode toward her.
“Darlin’, what are you doin’ out here by yourself?”
“Papa, Colonel Graves warned a serious storm is moving in fast, and he’s stopping us for the night. He’s calling in the cattle and horses.”
Mr. Barre stood in the ox-bow stirrups of his center-fire saddle. He pulled his red bandanna from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I’ve been watchin’ those clouds myself. I’ll ride over and tell Andrew. We’ll move them back. You want to ride with me?”
Retta scooted around to her father’s left side. “Oh, yes!” She dropped her chin. “Of course, if I had my own horse, I could help you, and Prince wouldn’t have to carry two.”
He wiped his forehead again and sat back in the saddle. “Not many girls have their own horses. Your mama is dead set against it, but I’ll try to soften her, darlin’. Maybe when we get to Oregon.”
Western clouds now blocked the sun, but she shaded her eyes with her hand anyway. “Ansley has her own horse.”
“Darlin’, the MacGregors have quite a bit of everything. Most of the young boys on this wagon train don’t even have a horse of their own. I saw Ben Weaver out walkin’ a little while ago. Ben doesn’t have a horse.”
She stared at the tall grass by the river. “Did he turn back to the wagons?”
Mr. Barre pointed to the northwest. “No, he was checkin’ out the brush up there.”
Retta couldn’t see anything but the banks of the river and thick brush with light green leaves. “I think they lost a cow.”
“Really? Mr. Weaver never told me about that.”
“Maybe I should go tell Ben to turn back before the storm hits,” she suggested.
“Okay, darlin’. Hurry up and then come on back and ride with me. Andrew and I will graze this bunch back to the wagons. You can catch up with us ... unless you want to walk back with young Benjamin.”
“Papa!”
“Now, darlin’, your papa knows your heart. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know, Papa. But I want to ride with you.”
She hiked past the cattle. Just as she reached the thickest part of the brush, Retta stopped and picked up a stick. It was almost as tall as she was and at least two inches thick. The bark had been peeled off, and there were two horizontal grooves sliced into it.
Someone lost a perfectly good walking stick.
I wonder if it was from my wagon train ... or maybe one that is ahead of us. This is a very good coyote stick. If one comes close to me, I’ll teach it some respect, I will.
Retta used the stick to shove aside the brush and crawl through toward the water’s edge. The North Platte River was about one hundred yards across and looked shallow. She studied its winding course.
It was in no more a hurry than their wagon train. Nothing out on the plains seemed in a hurry. Except clouds. She swatted a mosquito on her forehead. And bugs!
Within minutes the prairie sky was half-filled with swirling dark clouds. The winds stirred up dust even in the brush beside the river.
She didn’t see Ben or a cow.
I can’t see much at all with this dirt in my eyes. I don’t think he lost a cow anyway. He just wanted to get away so he wouldn’t have to pick up buffalo dung. But he didn’t make it. I won. I won, Ben Weaver. No matter how cute your smile is and how much you ignore me, I won. So there! And you can find your own way back to the wagon train.
The thick brush ahead of her rustled with sticky dark green leaves. She jabbed the tall stick once again to open a hole and plunge through. The wind blasted her face as she fought her way through the tangled brush. Several times she stooped to shove past limbs. When she finally came out of the brush, she could not see her father, brother, or the cattle.
Retta hiked up to the knoll. Clouds now covered the entire sky. She felt the sting of blown dust. When she reached the crest, she squinted at what she thought was southwest. Her heart leaped. She grabbed her chest with her hand and clutched the stick.
“It’s gone,” she blurted out. “The whole wagon train is gone.” It can’t be gone. They were going to stop. They have to be right there. Unless... unless I got turned around.
They can’t leave me!
Where are they?
Lord, this is definitely not the adventure I was looking for.
Retta took a deep breath and held it as she clamped her lips tight. Then she puffed out her cheeks.
I am not lost. Retta Barre does not get lost. I am not frightened, and I will not cry. I’m sure the wagon train is just over the next rise.
Even though the wind was at her back, she dropped her chin to her chest and squinted her eyes, the tall walking stick thrust in front of her like a club. At the top of the next dusty knoll, she stared down on an empty sea of brown grass.
She puffed out her cheeks again and bit her lip. I am not lost. They must have raced on to a good camping spot. Maybe the colonel decided to go off the trail. Maybe they’re camped by the river after all. It would be better to camp there. I’ll just hike...
She spun around to face the sting of the wind.
The wind was coming from the west and she was hiking east. That’s the problem. I just got turned around in the brush. I’ll go into the wind.
Retta tramped straight west, her hand across her forehead to block the wind from her eyes. The other hand dragged the stick alongside her.
Papa will be worried sick. He’ll be going up and down the river. I’ll just stay down there until Andrew or Papa comes by. I hope it’s Papa. I didn’t cross the river, and I’m headed west, so that’s the right direction.
I don’t get lost.
It’s your entire fault, Ben Weaver. I did
n’t have to go look for you. I wonder if he’s lost? It serves him right. I’ll probably have to rescue him.
The sky darkened as if the sun had set. Thunder rolled from some place to the north. She hoped the rain would settle the dust.
That will be good. I do hope Mama feels like cooking a hot meal tonight. She’s been sick too much. If it gets too wet, we’ll have a cold supper. My clothes will be very, very dirty. I need to comb the dirt out of my hair. Hah, it’s good it’s me out here and not Lerryn. She would cry because her precious wavy hair is messed up. Well, there’s something good about thick, short, straight hair. I can comb it fast and not worry about it.
When she reached the next rise in the prairie, she stared into the wind. There was nothing in sight.
No cattle.
No wagons.
No river.
I am not lost!
The river was to the north. She swerved south.
I’ll walk north until I get to the river and then go west. I know my way around. Papa says I have a very good sense of direction.
He also said she didn’t have much discretion.
Why does he always have to be right?
As thunder boomed closer, clouds lowered, and the wind died down. She felt a sprinkle or two on her face. She would show up at the wagon looking like a wet dog. Her mama will make her change clothes. She’d probably make her go straight to bed and hang her clothes in the wagon to dry.
I might not even get any supper.
I wish I were in bed right now.
She crested a knoll and still could not see the river.
I am not scared.
She puffed out her cheeks again and pressed her lips tighter.
Lord, I might be just a little bit scared. Please help me.
The thunder closed in on her. Lightning flashes danced on the dirt west of her. When she reached the next knoll, she saw a line of tall brush only a hundred yards ahead of her.
See! I can find my way around. There’s the river. Thank You, Lord. I’ll follow it into the wind and be there shortly.
“’Where have you been, darlin’?” Papa will say.
“I was looking for the Weaver boy like you asked me to. What’s the matter with boys? Can’t they find their way on their own?”
“And he will laugh and tousle my hair and wink at me.”
Lord, my papa has the nicest wink in the whole world. Do you ever wink, Lord, like my papa? Maybe You are winking at me now.
Retta turned west and trudged into the wind and light rain as she shoved her way through the brush next to the river.
The sky darkened. She continued to push upstream. The raindrops trickled down her forehead and cheeks. She rubbed her neck and brought away dirty fingers. The wet brush now smeared her face and pansy-plum dress like a paintbrush. She popped out into a clearing no bigger than a chicken yard. “I’m a mess, Lord,” she hollered into the storm. “But I’m not lost.”
There was a whimper, a cry.
But it wasn’t hers.
The young voice sent a cold flash down Retta’s back. She spun around and raised the stick above her head.
A small boy in deerskin trousers, with long black hair halfway down his bare brown back, sprawled in the brush, clutching his foot.
An Indian!
He screamed in terror.
But Retta couldn’t hear him. She screamed even louder.
Lightning flashed and thunder exploded over the river. For a split second, both of them stared at the storm. Then Retta screamed again and dove into the brush. She stumbled and turned around. “You get away from me,” she hollered.
But the boy dragged his injured leg, clawing his way across the riverbank away from her.
Retta lowered the stick. He’s as scared as I am. He looks terrified. Of me? How can an Indian be scared of me? She stepped closer and squinted her eyes. A real Indian. Up close. He’s just a little boy, but he’s an Indian. I win. I’m the first one in our wagon train to see an Indian up close.
He tried to crawl back into the brush.
Retta scratched her head above her ear. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Tears tracked across his dusty face. He picked up a rock as if to throw it at her.
Retta held up her hands. “No, I won’t hurt you. Do you need help?” She stepped closer.
He didn’t back away but pointed to the stick, shouted some words, and pointed at his chest.
“This is your stick? It’s a very nice stick.”
Retta handed the boy the stick. He grabbed it and clutched it with both hands. She watched as he struggled to use the stick as a crutch and pull himself to his feet.
“I can help you if you want,” she offered again.
The minute he put weight on the injured foot, he collapsed in tears.
She walked very slowly toward the boy. Her voice was soft, almost drowned by the now-distant thunder. “Let me help you. Where is your home? I didn’t see any tepees or cabins or anything.” She squatted down beside him. “Here, put your arm on my shoulder.”
She took his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
The grip was wet, sticky, and hesitant.
Retta pointed to the stick. “Hold that in one hand. Lean on me with the other. Let’s stand up.”
Slowly she got the boy to his feet.
“Now which way? Where is your family?”
The boy hung his chin on his chest.
“Oh, are you embarrassed because you twisted your ankle? You know, I fell down today myself. Right in front of my mother. Everyone in the wagon train has heard about it by now.” She stared west into the storm. “Should we go this way?”
The boy sniffed and nodded.
The rain increased, and Retta felt her dress get wetter as they limped through the brush next to the river.
Lord, I don’t even know what Indians like to talk about. What am I supposed to say? “Like I said, I fell down and hurt my ankle a little, but I had on these nice shoes. Well, they were nice when we left Ohio. I guess they look rather worn now.” Retta glanced down at the boy’s bare feet. “Perhaps shoes don’t impress you.”
She thought the boy walked a little better.
“Did I scare you? We sort of scared each other, and then the lightning scared us both. Funny how one thing that seems quite scary is suddenly put in its place. I talk a lot when I’m nervous. And I’m really, really nervous. You see, you’re the first Indian I’ve ... I’ve, eh, touched. And you don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”
She noticed the rain trickle down the boy’s brown chest.
“You really shouldn’t be out in a storm without a shirt on. Oh, dear, I don’t even know if you have a shirt. I guess your mother knows best. But that’s the way mothers are. My mother’s been feeling poorly for several months. Do Indians ever get sick?”
Even though he walked considerably better, he continued to lean on Retta’s shoulder.
She reached up and patted his hand. Then he patted hers back. “I don’t even know your name. My real name is Coretta Emily Barre, but everyone calls me Retta, except Mama. Papa usually calls me ‘darlin’.’ What’s your name?”
The boy pointed to Retta and let out an excited string of unfamiliar words.
Lord, this conversation is about as exciting as a wagon train rides. Neither of us knows anything the other is saying. But I did get to meet a real Indian. If we can’t find his family, I’ll take him back to the wagon train. Maybe Mr. Bouchet can speak to him.
“Retta Barre brought a real Indian to camp,” he’ll say. Even Ansley MacGregor hadn’t done that.
The brush thickened as the riverbank grew steeper. The leaves of the brush continued to soak their faces. When she broke through the brush, the river bed turned abruptly north, leaving a huge sandstone cave gouged out in the river-
bank. It was sheltered from the wind and completely invisible from the wagon train’s side of the prairie.
And it was full of people.
All
with brown skin and long black hair.
All wearing buckskin.
Retta held her breath and puffed out her cheeks.
I don’t think I’m supposed to be here!
Chapter 4
A man with a red bandanna tied around his forehead ran out and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. “Hurry,” he shouted to her. “It is a bad storm. There is room for you with us.”
Retta shook her head. I am not scared!
A woman with a baby in her arms stepped out into the rain. She approached and reached for Retta’s hand. The baby started to cry as the rain pelted its little brown face.
Retta felt the rain trickle down the back of her dress. Thunder and lightning crashed behind her. She spun around to see the sky light up like at noon and then go dark. She clutched the woman’s wet, warm hand.
In the sandstone cave, Retta huddled next to the woman, who sat down on a bundle and returned to nursing the baby. At first Retta stared straight out at the storm and didn’t move a muscle.
The man who spoke English and an old woman were examining the boy’s foot. The old woman rubbed a black tar like substance on the boy’s ankle.
I don’t want to be here, Lord. This isn’t my place. This is a bad dream. I want to wake up and hear Lerryn snore. I want to pull my quilt over my head and hide until we get to Oregon.
Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness of the cave, and she allowed her gaze to wander. The sandstone sloped to a narrow crevice in the back. The floor was deep, fine sand. Along one wall she saw long lodge poles, deer-hide wrapped bundles, buffalo robes, a very large cast-iron pot, and some pottery jugs. She spotted three boys, two girls, a very old woman, two young men, and the woman with the baby. And at least seven horses.
She refused to stare at the people who stared at her. She looked at the horses instead. The storm was so dark she could hardly see their faces anyway, until the lightning flashed. She shivered as her dress hung wet and heavy.
The man with the bandanna stepped up to her. “Bear Heart thanks you for helping him. I believe he got lost in the sudden storm and hurt his ankle.”
Retta nodded. Lord, I don’t know how to talk to Indians. Please, Lord, don’t let them scalp me. These are ... these are wild savages. But, well, they don’t look too wild.