by Carré White
Um…he’s certainly…fetching…
In the morning, I woke, pulling on a pair of leather ankle boots, and found the privy. When I returned, the fire had been lit, as Mary hovered over an iron skillet, frying bits of bacon.
“Is there something I can do?”
“Oh, you can get the plates out, my dear, and forks.”
I dug through a basket, retrieving these items. “How did you sleep?”
“Terribly. My back is already giving me fits. The ground is far too hard for me.”
“I confess; I fell asleep quickly. I must have been exhausted.”
“Well, if I were only twenty years younger, this would not be an issue.”
We proceeded to make breakfast, the aroma of food lingering from the various cooking fires. Helen came by with Laura, the baby cooing happily. I had worked on the doll yesterday, but more needed to be done to complete it. I would give it to them as a surprise tomorrow. When things were washed and put away, we loaded up the tents, and Abner brought over the oxen, which he yoked to the wagon. The assemblage of conveyances began to file out, one by one, until we formed an immense line, more than a hundred or so in the caravan.
I took turns walking with Mary, and Abner walked as well, while Mary held the reins, although the animals were adept at following the wagon before them. They would occasionally produce a deep, repetitive, drum-like utterance, as they plodded on, mile after mile. The coolness of the morning gave way to a noticeable change in humidity, a bank of clouds gathering towards the west, the direction we were heading in. We followed the Platte River, trundling along a well-rutted path used for years now by homesteaders.
The wagon master would pass by occasionally, working his way up and down the line on a quarter horse gelding. The animal was buckskin in color with a black mane and tail. I smiled at Samuel frequently; our wagon had taken up a spot towards the middle of the pack. He would tip his hat when he saw me, sitting straight in the saddle; his thighs flush against the horse’s flank.
At one point, after we had stopped for lunch, Samuel came upon me while I walked, my bonnet shielding my face from the harsh afternoon sun. He dismounted, holding the reins, nearing.
“Afternoon, Ms. Hoffman.”
“Hello.” A wave of shyness came over me, which was strange. “It’s going to rain.”
He squinted, staring into the distance. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Will we keep going, if it does?” He nodded. “What happened to that wagon we passed?” A mile ago we had seen a disabled wagon, as one of the teams had encountered difficulties.
“Broken axle.”
“Are they fixing it?”
“No, ma’am. They didn’t bring an extra.”
“What will happen?”
“They’re headin’ back.”
“Oh, my. How awful.”
“That’s why you gotta come prepared. We’ll be crossing the Platte a coupla times. Lots of wagons are gonna need fixin’ after that.” The rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. “We’re headin’ right for bad weather.” He adjusted his hat; his eyes were now hidden in shadow.
I’d been staring at his profile. The short beard gave him an appealingly masculine look. He was the epitome of rugged outdoorsman, his sturdy, muscled form entirely at ease in a saddle. He was the opposite of what I had seen in gangly farm boys or well-dressed men of the city, in their four-in-hand neckties and fitted frock coats.
He must have sensed my appraisal, as he glanced my way smiling. Our eyes met, while my foot suddenly sunk into something soft. I had stepped in manure, which now coated my boot. “Oh, drat!”
He laughed, humor flashing in his eyes. “Best to watch where you’re going. It’s pretty darn filthy out here.”
But I hadn’t, because I had been staring at him instead. “What a mess.” I rushed to the grass on the edge of the road, wiping the boot vigorously, trying to remove the offending muck. While I was thus employed, Samuel had mounted, trotting ahead, his horse’s tail swishing from side to side. It was a shame that our conversation had been cut short.
At the onset of rain, I took a seat next to Mary and Abner, while lightning splintered the sky, as fat drops of rain fell upon the canvas tarp over our heads. The trail drenched quickly, water filling the deep ruts that had been laid by wagon wheels. It began to hail a short while later, and the procession stopped completely, because those riding horses needed to find shelter. Hail the size of walnuts began to pummel us, the tarp became loose in places, and Abner was forced to scramble, reattaching the canvas to protect our bedding and provisions.
“Oh, Lord in heaven!” shouted Mary, holding her bonnet, as a gust of wind nearly displaced it.
“Get inside the wagon!” Abner gestured towards us. “Now!”
We huddled together amidst the deluge of wind, water, and hail. It was over within minutes, the dark, destructive cloud floating into the distance. When the severest of the weather had passed, we took our seats again and plodded on, the oxen having emerged no worse for wear. By evening, we found a flat, grassy meadow and set up camp.
Despite having to sleep in tents and the monotony of the travel, I enjoyed the journey, finding the fresh air exhilarating. My stays had always been a bit tight, but, after days of walking, I was breathing far easier in my clothing. I ate a hearty breakfast, a solid lunch, and dinnertime was frequently buffalo or steak. Abner and several men would hunt earlier in the day, and we were treated to pheasant, wild turkey, and occasionally rabbit.
After supper, we sat around the campfire, often with newly acquainted friends and shared wine, while the men drank whiskey. One of the immigrants had brought a violin, and he played it in the evenings, the sound melodically somber and sometimes bittersweet. If we had a particularly good day driving, surpassing seventeen miles, we would gather for parties, the miners dancing a drunken jig, while the violinist played a happy tune. If we encountered bad weather or the road was challenging, slowing us down, there would be no celebration, as the atmosphere was markedly subdued.
On the eighth day, as I strolled towards the privy, a weapon discharged, and someone screamed. Startled, I stopped in my tracks, while people ran to see what had happened. I followed them, coming upon a surreal scene, as a woman lay upon her husband, who had been shot in the head.
“He’s going to die! He’s going to die!”
There was a large hole in his forehead that oozed thick, goopy blood mixed with grayish brain matter. It ran down the side of his face, falling to the dirt beneath him. His wife rocked back and forth, clinging to the man, while wailing helplessly.
“What’s happened?” Helen had come up behind me, holding Laura, who clasped the doll I had made her.
“I haven’t a clue.”
The wagon master appeared. “Let me through! Stand back!” he hollered. “What happened?”
“I didn’t mean to do it,” said a man’s voice. “Honest to God, I didn’t mean it.”
Due to the crush of people, I wasn’t able to see who had said that.
“I swear it was an accident. I was cleaning my weapon. I’m dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Fellows.”
Tom Meek and William Baker arrived, looking concerned. Tom asked, “Who are the witnesses? Someone must’ve seen what happened.”
“Can’t you save him?” Mrs. Fellow’s dress was stained with blood. “You’re standing there worried about witnesses. Why doesn’t anyone help my husband? Why?” Tears were in her eyes.
“Mrs. Fellows,” said Samuel gently. “He’s dead, ma’am. There’s nothin’ we can do for him.” He glanced at William. “We’re gonna need to dig a grave.”
This was not what she wanted to hear, as she screamed at the top of her lungs, the sound piercing. “How can this be? How can this happen? What will I do now? My children lost their father!”
A man emerged from the crowd, and I recognized him as Jeremiah Kelley. He was a missionary preacher, and he frequently led church on Sundays. “Stand aside. I…” he caught sight of the dead ma
n, “oh, my heavens! My condolences on your loss, Mrs. Fellows. I’m terribly sorry this happened to you. I can give your husband Last Rites, if you wish.”
Mrs. Fellows continued to cry, while another woman approached. “There, there. You should come with me. I’ll make you some tea.”
Tom and William were on either side of the man whose weapon had been responsible for the accident. His wife and children looked on with concern.
“We need to take him away,” said Samuel.
“No!” cried the widow, who clung to her husband.
“How awful,” murmured Helen. “What a stupid man for killing him like that. Now we all have to worry that it could happen to any of us.”
Samuel had overheard that. “Please, be mindful with your weapons! Be careful when you’re cleanin’ ‘em. This here is a senseless death. It was entirely preventable. I need to have a word with you.” He pointed at the culprit. “I need witnesses. If you saw anything, speak now!”
“I did,” said a voice. “I saw it. It was like Henry says. It was an accident.”
Another man piped up. “He was cleaning his weapon, and it just went off.”
“We need to bury Mr. Fellows,” said Samuel. “Then I’ll have a meeting with the witnesses.” He glanced around. “The show’s over. Those children shouldn’t be watching this.” He pointed to a couple that stood several feet away with little ones milling around.
As men came to take the body away, his widow continued to cry. My heart ached for her, especially the senselessness of such a death. Helen and I turned away from the scene, walking in another direction. The atmosphere at camp was somber that night, and there was no music, as an uneasy pall hung over us. After supper, I went for a stroll, wandering around the perimeter, where the animals were tethered for the evening. They had eaten out an entire patch of grass, and the horses had been allowed to graze as well. The images from earlier flashed through my mind, and it occurred to me that I had never seen someone shot before. I’d glimpsed family members in coffins at wakes, but never something as gruesome as this.
“What did I say about wandering around alone?” asked a voice I recognized immediately.
I turned to find Samuel, whose mouth was set in a grim line. “You look tired.”
“I am.”
It had been days since I had last spoken with him, and a thrill shot through me. It was odd to have such a reaction, but it couldn’t be helped. “Is that man buried?”
“He is.”
“His poor wife. What do you think she’ll do now?”
He shrugged. “She can either continue on or go back, I guess.”
“How can she go back alone?”
“I suspect there’ll be homesteaders turnin’ around soon enough.”
“Really?”
“They always do. I sometimes lose five to ten wagons. People realize it’s not as easy as they hoped. We’ve had a peaceful ride so far, but it gets rough after Fort Kearny.” He sighed. “My first fatality of the season.”
“You should come sit.” I indicated an abandoned crate. “Sit here.” He stared at me for a long moment, and I thought he wouldn't sit, but he did as I asked. My hands rested on his shoulders, strong fingers began to knead weary muscles. “These are all tight.”
“Oh, lordy, that feels good.”
His head fell forward, his hat tumbling to the ground, but he didn’t seem to care. While the horses snorted and the oxen mewled, I continued to press my fingertips into his shoulders, enjoying the feel of him far more than I should.
“So, was it an accident?”
“What?”
“The shooting.”
“Yeah…”
“I wonder if she’ll continue on.”
“More than likely.”
My hands were now lower on his back, pressing and massaging. His scalp was hidden by thick hair, not a gray strand in sight. He wasn’t as old as I thought he was.
“You’re headed for Denver City, right?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Been there before. Brought hundreds of miners in last year.”
“That’s how my sister arrived. Maybe she was in your group.”
“There’s more than one wagon train out here. People left two weeks before we did and then a week after us.”
“Do you think we’ll see any of them?”
“Just their bodies, if they died.”
I sucked in a breath.
“Sorry about that. That was too blunt. I mean; it’s not likely.”
My fingers were around his neck now, feeling the softness of the skin. He smelled a bit like lye soap and perspiration, as none of us had had a proper bath since the beginning of the journey. A commotion across the camp brought his head up.
“I better see about that.” He snatched his hat from the ground. “I’m mighty obliged for the…massage, Ms. Hoffman.”
“Paulina.”
“That’s a pretty name.” Appreciation shone in his eyes.
I experienced a moment of utter bliss then, basking in his company, feeling the pleasurable weight of his attention. The low murmur of talking surrounded us, but we were somewhat hidden behind a wagon. He stepped closer, and, for one breathless moment, I thought he might embrace me.
“Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.”
The air was laced with electricity, a palpable energy that pinged between us. He must have sensed it too, because he seemed reluctant to leave.
“Well, then…I…guess I had best go.” He slowly turned from me.
“Good night, Samuel.” I walked away as well, glancing over my shoulder to find him staring at me.
He looked like he was going to say something, his mouth opening, but a shout brought his attention in the other direction. “Dangit! What’s that about?” He left me then, because his presence was needed elsewhere.
Disappointment registered, and the feeling was entirely unwelcome. It was clear that I found him appealing, far too appealing. It was a shame that we had not been able to spend more time together.
Chapter Four
“Now, I’ve been all around this encampment and I’ve never laid eyes on you before,” said a surprisingly sharp dressed man in a pressed sack coat and necktie. His thick mustache pointed upwards on the edges.
I sat with Helen, watching Laura on a blanket nearly a week after Mrs. Fellow’s husband had been shot. We had lost four families since then, two having suffered broken wagons and the others wanting to return home. They had decided to make the trek back to St Joseph, Missouri together.
“I’m Quincy Carter, at your service.” He removed his hat, bowing.
Such gallantry was rare, especially on the wagon trail. I got to my feet, smoothing the dusty skirts of a calico dress. “Paulina Hoffman.”
He took my hand, kissing the fingers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Helen seemed unimpressed, squinting at him from beneath the hood of her bonnet. “Are you one of those snake oil salesmen?”
“No, ma’am. I’m actually with the railways. Union Pacific to be exact.”
That was impressive. “Are they finally going to expand the line west?” If only they would hurry it up.
“The man I work for is quite influential. He’s a United States senator. I’m actually on a fact-finding mission. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“That would be wonderful. It’s so needed.”
“It is indeed.”
“Well, it won’t help me any,” grumbled Helen. “We’ll be in Oregon long before they’ve laid the tracks.”
“If it’s any consolation, they’re working on the first draft of the Pacific Railroad Act. Progress is being made. Once the land grants and loans are sorted out, there’ll be no stopping the expansion.”
“It’s kind of you to tell us this. Have you any other news?”
“Being an election year, there’s far too much talk about all things politics. Then there’s the hubbub about secession. They don’t eve
n know if Lincoln’s going to be elected. But, this subject is hardly of interest to young ladies. Wouldn’t you rather talk about travel or literature? Who are your favorite authors?”
“I admire Harriet Stowe.”
His expression faltered. “Oh, no, my dear. Why would such a pretty young lady want to read about slavery? If you want adventure, James Fenimore Cooper or the poems of Longfellow would be far more entertaining.”
“I suppose.”
“I’m planning on a stroll through camp tonight.” His gaze was direct. “Would you care to join me?” He spoke in such a way that it was almost as if we were in another place, a city, perhaps, surrounded by the auspices of civilization rather than a dusty enclosure filled with tired immigrants and smelly animals.
“I would be pleased to walk with you, Mr. Carter.”
“Excellent.”
Helen looked amused. “Have a splendid time.”
“I’m sure we will,” I giggled.
The enclosure was quite wide, as all the wagons had been brought around in an enormous circle. We skirted the edges, sometimes walking outside, but only by a few feet. This offered greater privacy, because we were hidden behind the conveyances. We spoke on many topics, with the focus on how tedious the journey had become and the desire to eat something other than buffalo or beef steak, which seemed to be consumed at almost every meal. Having already walked for miles today, my feet ached, and my progress was slow, but Quincy didn’t seem to mind.
“I need a moment, if you will.” He indicated the latrine. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Of course.” I turned towards camp, where several men sat before a fire. With nothing better to do, I loitered, waiting for Mr. Carter.
“That’s what you said the last time, Sam,” laughed a man.
“He’s got Penny waiting for him in California.”
“And Susan in Oregon.”
“Lucky cuss.”
“Not true, fellas. Not true at all,” said a voice I recognized.
I neared, noting they were drinking. A jug of whiskey was at their feet.
“Women are drawn to him like bees to honey.”