by Marian Wells
The next morning the two wagons pulled out, leaving behind the wounded driver, Will Harvey, Matthew, Amy, and the Randolphs. Matthew said, “The fellow who runs the trading post is an Anglo. He’s offered me a bed if I help him out. He’s also pointed us in the direction of a Mexican lady who’ll take Harvey in and watch after him.”
“Harvey don’t need no watching,” the driver grumped.
“Well, if you’ve got all summer to recover, I guess not,” Amelia stated. “Seems a little attention will get you back on your feet in a hurry. Maybe in time to be traveling when Downs comes back this way.”
“Maybe so,” Harvey muttered as he carefully shifted his injured arm.
Amy faced her parents. She noticed the hint of excitement in her father’s eyes and remembered the conversation with her mother.
Amelia was frowning. “We can’t just let you go off by yourself, Amy. Downs said there would be a stage through here in a day or so, but it will be a lonesome trip for you—” She stopped and looked at Amy imploringly. Amy turned away and scuffed her toe in the ground, waiting for the lump in her throat to go away.
Finally her father sighed and said, “How about giving me time to learn how to hang on to a horse with this leg. Then we’ll ride up the mountain with you.”
“To Oro City?” Amy studied their faces. She saw Amelia’s relief and her father’s resignation. She also saw the yearning in his eyes as he looked over her shoulder toward the village behind them. Trying to ignore her need to leave, Amy said, “Let’s just not decide for—a week or so.” Both of them were giving satisfied nods.
Amelia and Amy helped settle Harvey in his room, and then they went with Matthew to the trading post.
Bill Whiteside, the owner of the trading post, said, “Come here. I’ll point you the way. There’s a woman down by the church.” He went to the door and gestured toward the tall adobe church with the sharp peaked roof. “Her name is Maria, and she’s willing to take you in.”
He turned with a grin. “Matter of fact, she made that very plain to me just as soon as she saw the wagons pull out.” He eyed Eli’s crutches and added, “I’ll get the wagon and take you down there. Might as well get you settled before the commotion begins.”
Matthew came across the room. “I’ll be glad to help all I can. Ma’am,” he said, addressing Amy, “what are you going to do about the horses?”
“You can pasture them here with my team,” Bill offered. Amy nodded and turned to follow him. He took the reins of one of the mares and led the way to the corral. “I’ll hang your tack in here with mine.” As he lifted the saddles from the mares, she saw his curious glance and guessed he had questions she didn’t want to face.
Her throat tightened and she turned toward the door. “Thank you, Mr. Whiteside. I appreciate the help you’re giving us. My father’s leg seems to be healing nicely, so we’ll be on the road soon. He had an accident—his wagon rolled on Raton Pass nearly two months ago.” She walked ahead of him to the trading post.
As Bill helped Eli into the wagon, Amy said, “What did you mean when you mentioned getting us settled before the commotion begins?”
He glanced down at her. “Penitentes.” He flicked the reins and looked at her again. “I see you don’t know anything about them. Religious folk. Every year about this time they get together and have their own little crucifixion.”
Amy gasped, “Crucifixion! How horrible.”
“Well, it gives a white man the creeps, but—well, stick around for a couple of days and you’ll see what I mean.”
Down behind the church, they followed Bill into the adobe-walled courtyard. A dark-haired woman was sweeping the packed earth with a twig broom. As Amy stepped through the open gate, the woman stopped her sweeping and came toward them. “Maria, these are the Randolphs.”
“Sí señor,” she nodded and turned to Eli. “Welcome. I will show you the way.”
To Amy it was like reliving the trip into New Mexico. The memory of that warm happy time scalded her eyes with tears. She was seeing identical whitewashed walls, with a conical fireplace built into one corner. The firewood was positioned in the fireplace, stacked neatly on end. High above their heads on the wall was a scrap of shiny tin. It was opposite the tiny window, where it could catch and reflect the light.
After the woman left them in the hut, Amelia asked, “Why does this cabin make you unhappy?”
Amy managed a laugh, saying, “It’s just like all the other huts we stayed in. Did you notice the string of peppers hanging close up under the eaves?”
That night Amy spread her blankets on the floor next to the fireplace, conscious only of sudden deep fatigue and the need to escape into sleep.
The next morning when a rooster crowed, Amy heard her father hobble out of the hut, but she squeezed her eyes shut tightly. It was a signal to rise, and Amy knew it was morning. She could only bury her face in the blankets and moan.
She heard the rustle of her mother’s skirts. Amelia stepped across the blankets as she moved between the fireplace and the table.
With a sigh, Amy carefully rolled over and opened her eyes. “Mother,” she murmured, fighting down the nausea as she tried to lift her head. “Oh, Mother, I feel so terrible. What did I eat?”
Amelia knelt beside her and felt Amy’s forehead. “Amy, what is wrong?”
“My stomach.”
“But you haven’t eaten—last night you scarcely touched your supper.” She rocked back on her heels. Amy opened her eyes again. She saw the concern on Amelia’s face, the beginning frown. Amy rolled away with a moan, but Amelia’s hand was insistent. “Amy, look at me. Are you pregnant?”
Slowly Amy opened her eyes. “Oh, Mother, is that what is wrong with me? A baby?” She blinked at the tears spilling over. Amelia gathered her close and rocked her in her arms.
“There, darling. I’m here. I’ll stay with you as long as you need me.”
“Daniel—”
Eli hobbled into the hut and leaned over the two of them. “Amy, what’s happened? Are you crying?”
“She’s fine, Eli. Or at least she will be after breakfast. Eli, what do you think of being a grandfather?”
He was silent for a minute and as Amy tried to lift her head, he asked, “Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?” He headed for the door while Amy and her mother stared at each other.
“Amy, don’t give up now,” Amelia urged gently. “Hope, and keep hoping—for Daniel, for you, for the little one.”
“Little one,” she murmured slowly. She was still struggling with tears. “Maybe that’s all I’ll have of Daniel now.”
Chapter 22
Daniel tipped his head to one side and looked up at the square of daylight. Since dawn the sounds coming through the slit of a window were different. Now hope began to replace lethargy as he listened to brisk footsteps and the thump of a broom.
Quickly he stepped up on the edge of the wooden shelf that served as his bunk. By stretching and pressing his face against the stone wall, he was able to see adobe walls and green trees through the bars.
Fort Marcy’s prison left a great deal to be desired; but today Daniel was grateful for bars instead of glass, for boards instead of a soft bed.
Since early morning he had been aware of a puzzling rustle of sound sweeping through the fort. Now standing on the bunk he began to comprehend the changes. The lazy walk of the guard had been transformed into crisp, firm steps. A moment later he realized cheerful laughter had become clipped commands, and indolence had sharpened into excitement.
He stepped down off the bunk with a wry smile, realizing that, as usual, his breakfast was late arriving.
When it was shoved through the bars, the guard apologized, “Sorry. The cook is busy preparing for the bigwigs.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Don’t know for certain; Major Chivington said—”
“Chivington!” Daniel cried. “Hey, I asked you fellows to tell me when he got here.”
“We
ll, he just came two days ago. It’s fer certain he has more important things to do than review your complaints.”
Daniel sighed and tried to throttle his impatience. “Well, tell me what’s been going on.”
“Sibley’s been pushed pretty near out the other end of the territory by Colonel Canby. Does that make you glad or sad?”
Daniel sighed and again refused the hook. He asked, “How’s the war going in the States?”
“Terrible.” The grin faded from the guard’s face. “Lincoln’s just about to lose it there. One good thing, at least they’re saying so, General McClellan’s now heading up the Army of the Potomac. Some are saying that’ll tighten things up a bit.”
Daniel looked into the soldier’s bleak eyes and said softly, “I pray every day—” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “This slaughter between brothers is a stench and a blemish before God.”
“It’s also scaring us to death,” the fellow muttered. “You Reb sympathizers ever think what it’s going to be like if you get control?”
The same old protest boiled to Daniel’s lips, but he vented his frustration in a quick pace across the cell. He turned to say, “Well, we can throw out the Constitution as a start, because it won’t be easy to live with. The way it reads now, freedom must be for all.” After a brooding moment, Daniel said, “But regardless who wins, I’ve got the job of preaching it straight.”
The guard was scratching his head, a bewildered frown on his face as he asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“That God’s Word is open to only one meaning. There’s something wrong with the way our fellowmen are learning to read if it’s possible to see two different versions of God’s will in the Scripture.”
The guard blinked. “You’re certain they are readin’ it?” Without waiting for the reply, the soldier backed away. “I’ll tell Chivington you want ta parley.”
Daniel finished his breakfast and began to pace the cell. The monotony of pacing freed his mind, and his lonesome thoughts turned to Amy. Going to his wooden bunk, he looked down at the scratches he had made in the wood. “Three and a half weeks. Has it been only that long? Seems an age since I left Fort Union.” He thought about Amy, trying to paint his memory afresh with her laughing face.
Those first days of riding the trail together had been wonderful. He recalled the sunshine, the warm air, and Amy with her blond hair stuffed in his old hat. Daniel began to pace again, this time hard and fast, drumming his boots impatiently against the floor.
While he struggled with the lump in his throat, he pounded his hands together. “Matt,” he groaned, “why—”
The question died on his lips. The searching Presence held him. Slowly Daniel sank down on the bunk and dropped his head into his hands. The Scripture was there. How often he had glibly quoted the words, As ye have done it unto one of the least of these…ye have done it unto me.
“Lord, it’s easy to say that while sitting in front of your own fire.” He looked at the gray concrete walls and reflected, “Guess this is where the words have to be proved out in life. Also I guess I’d never expected this to happen.”
He was still sitting there when the outer door clanged. There were footsteps, two sets of them, and there was the clink of spurs. Slowly Daniel got to his feet. Chivington’s astonished face was pressed against the bars.
“Daniel Gerrett—well, I never!” He addressed the guard beside him, “How did a missionary of the Methodist Episcopal Church happen to get stuck in prison?” The guard rubbed his slack jaw and didn’t answer.
Chivington opened the bars quickly. “Come along, Parson. I’ll have you outta here in a hurry. Where’s your wife?”
“Only the dear Lord knows,” Daniel muttered, reaching for his coat. “I’m hoping she’s headed for Colorado Territory with her mother and father.”
When they stepped out into the open air, Daniel paused and took a deep breath. There was a sympathetic nod from Chivington. “Never know until we’ve been there, huh?” Daniel nodded and Chivington said, “Come this way. I’ll sign whatever needs to be signed and you can be on your way.”
Together they walked into the low-ceilinged adobe building and were pointed to the commandant’s office. While the officer poised the pen over the sheet of paper, he asked, “Sir, what is your business in the territory?”
“I am a missionary in the Methodist Episcopal Church—” Daniel began and then paused. The officer still held the pen suspended while he studied Chivington.
Chivington leaned across the desk. “Why don’t you just put down the information and sign it. Don’t ask any more questions. Sometimes war does funny things to people.” The two men were still nodding at each other as Daniel picked up his coat.
At the door Chivington remarked, “If you want some company, there’s a detachment leaving for Colorado Territory via Taos. Might find they have an extra horse.” He paused and then added, “The Indians are restless right now. Give my regards to Dyer.”
****
It was spring, definitely spring, even in the mountains. Daniel couldn’t get enough of the sunshine, the odor of new life, and the sound of rushing, snow-fed water.
The troops from the Colorado Volunteer Army were just as eager to get home as Daniel, and they rode hard. Daniel discovered they were a silent bunch for the most part. Their haggard faces, fresh scars, and tattered fragments of blue uniform told all that needed to be said. Over the supper fires, with only flickers of light on their faces to underscore their terse stories of battle, Daniel began to fill in the gaps of the battle story as he knew it.
Soberly the men admitted it was Chivington’s action at Johnson’s ranch that had decided the battle. Together they reviewed the agony of it all. And the glory. They bragged, “I heard a Reb saying they’d a won the territory if it hadn’t been for the Pikes Peakers. Didn’t know a good scrap until they met us.”
“In all fairness,” came another voice from the shadows, “I learned Canby’s men hadn’t drawn a wage fer the past year. Doesn’t do much fer a fella’s view of himself when Washington can’t support him.”
“They sure rallied once we got Sibley’s men on the run.” He turned to Daniel, “See, the Confederates holed up in Albuquerque with Sibley, licking their wounds and trying to regroup. That’s when Canby put them to the rush to get home.” He chuckled. “Heard they buried the Confederate field pieces in the middle of the plaza down there. Also heard when Canby came down with his cannon, they didn’t put up too much resistance. Don’t blame them. It’s hard to fight when adobe bricks are falling on your head.”
From back in the shadows a voice joined the rest. “I heard the Confederates talked the Indians into joining the fight. That’s scary. Guess we had more to be fearing than we knew. Indians. If they’d fight in New Mexico, they’d fight in Colorado.”
The day they reached Pike’s stockade, Daniel shook hands with the men and watched them ride out for Fort Garland. “I’ll get this mare to Denver right off,” he called after them as he turned toward home.
With scarcely a glance, he rode past all the little settlements that were part of his circuit. Pressed by time and the thoughts of Amy at home, at night he chose to camp beside the trail. Thinking of the welcome he would receive at any fireside, he shook his head. “Right now I’m more willing to risk Indians than the comfort and delay of a settler’s cabin.”
The day he rode through the long valley toward Oro City, it snowed. Huddling into his coat, Daniel reflected on the capricious weather. “Wouldn’t be Colorado Territory without snow pushing at spring. Hope Amy and the folks are safe at home.” He nudged the horse again.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Daniel turned up California Gulch. He could hear the clunk of the stampmill and the hollow thump of wood as the rush of water and rock shot through the sluices. Several of the men along the stream straightened to lean on their shovels and wave as he passed up the road.
Before he reached the cabin, he sensed the lifelessness of the place.
There was no sign of smoke coming from the chimney. Untrodden snow still buried the path to the door.
As he led the mare to the shed behind the house, he eyed the chicken coop. “From the looks of the thing, someone’s either rescued the lot or Father Dyer ate them all before he left.” Daniel rubbed down the mare and fed her. Dreading the empty cabin, he delayed until his hands and feet began to tingle with cold.
As he walked around the cabin to the door, he stopped and stared. A wagon had backed up the slope to the door. He could see the wheels were blocked. As Daniel hurried toward the wagon, four men began wrestling an enormous packing crate out of the wagon. “Wait,” he called, “you’ve made a mistake.”
One fellow turned and shoved his cap back on his head. “Aren’t you the parson? Well, I thought so. We’ve had this thing in the storage fer a month now. Jamison’s been itching to get it outta there. When he saw you coming up the trail he sez, ‘There’s the parson. Get that dad bloomed thing outta here so’s I can move without knocking my knees off.’ I sez, ‘Sure, Mr. Jamison,’” He shrugged. “Here we are. It’s your baby now.”
Daniel went to open the door. “What is it?”
The two grunted and groaned as they shoved the crate across the room. It nearly filled the cabin.
The fellow turned. “Want I should knock that crate apart?”
Daniel nodded and the man seized his hammer and a crowbar. With two whacks the side dropped off. The drayman stepped back and his helper tugged at the wadding.
“Say, that’s pretty nice fer these parts.” There was new respect in the eyes of the drayman as he looked up at Daniel. “Not anybody else, not even the house down the way, has one of these pianos.”
Daniel recovered his voice. “Where’s the paperwork on this? You’ve got the wrong name. We didn’t order—”
The man thrust the sheaf of papers into Daniel’s hand. The writing spelled it out. The order was addressed to Mrs. Daniel Gerrett. The order had originated in St Louis, Missouri, but at the bottom there was another name: Lucas Tristram.