Gabriella

by Earl Murray

  Uncle Walter agreed wholeheartedly with my idea and discussed the matter with Mr. Quincannon. He reported back to me that Mr. Quincannon understood my alarm and would make no more contact with me, either, until such time as I thought it prudent. It’s going to be difficult, but it’s for the best.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  18 APRIL 1846

  Early this afternoon we reached Cottonwood Creek, a small stream similar to Council Grove Creek that is an oasis of trees and flowering shrubs. Along the water’s edge grow quantities of gooseberry, raspberry, and wild plum, all blooming in profusion. J. T. Landers believes he has reached heaven, as the warm sunshine of the past few days has produced a number of wildflowers as well.

  A small herd of antelope grazed just out from camp and Edward delighted in the discovery. They were fleet creatures with tawny coats and curved black horns, and a large patch of white hair on their rump that flared out at the first sign of danger. A truer test of skill did not exist on the plains.

  He decided it was time to sharpen his shooting eye, but knew better than to pursue them on horseback. He had learned his lesson on that score with the antelope of Kenya, and Mr. Quincannon had assured him that these creatures were as fleet as any hooved animals God had created, no matter the continent. This made Edward certain that it would be an unequaled feat to approach one on foot and bring it down.

  Bom and Barton accompanied him, as well as Mr. Stiles, his taxidermist. I knew that Edward would subject them to endless stories of his African expeditions and the game he had stalked there. Mr. Stiles, who hunted with him in Africa, would certainly testify to the accuracy of the accounts.

  I watched from my pony for a short time. The antelope could not be persuaded to remain within rifle range, and even when a shot could be taken, the animals were running so fast that Edward’s spent ball came nowhere near its mark.

  His frustration grew, and with it, his determination not to be bested. I could see him in the far distance, walking towards another herd, waving for everyone to follow him.

  Barton’s mood had been foul, even before leaving. He had grown tired of Edward’s persistent nagging and had acquired a very sore shoulder from constant target practice.

  He asked me to intervene and persuade my fiancé not to take him.

  “I believe you should just tell him yourself that you don’t want to go,” I said.

  His concern was that he was being forced to prove himself. “I know we’ll be out chasing those creatures for a week,” he said.

  “Edward will eventually bag one,” I said, “and you as well. Then think of the esteem you’ll gain in his eyes.”

  “I am not a hunter, nor do I ever care to become one,” Barton said. “I’ll simply learn how to handle firearms to the best of my ability and hope to please him any way I can.”

  I suggested that perhaps Edward thought learning hunting skills to be in his best interest. Barton argued that he had purely selfish motives in mind.

  “If he teaches me to shoot, then he can take me to all the contests back home and have me brag on him, and how his prowess as a hunter and teacher has allowed me the skills of a gentleman,” he said. “I can assure you that I’ll never brag on him and he’ll never make a hunter out of me.”

  I took the rest of the afternoon for myself. After finding Walter and Avis napping in their tent, I left for the creek. Mr. Landers was but a speck in the distance, busily collecting plants, and the men were lounging in their tents, many of them asleep.

  I made my way downstream, enjoying the clear day. The creekbed was alive with birdsong. Small birds flitted among the trees and shrubs, singing nesting songs. A slight wind touched the treetops and against the pale blue overhead a hawk drifted in lazy circles.

  Nearly a mile from camp I discovered Mr. Quincannon standing in the creek with his back to me, wearing not a single stitch of clothing. His lean body glistened in the sunlight as he splashed water over his back and shoulders and generally enjoyed himself in the refreshing current.

  I settled behind a berry bush and watched him. In England, I had hinted to Edward that we might bathe together, knowing full well it was improper for a woman to suggest such a thing, but believing my need and his to be the same. He had told me it might be a good idea, but not on that particular day. He never brought it up again.

  After his initial courtship and following my commitment to marry him, he had been sexual with me sparingly, usually on a whim, and never in a romantic way. I cannot understand his apparent lack of interest in holding me or showing any affection. I don’t see how it can become any worse.

  I worry that perhaps he has heard that I bore no children for my first husband and has decided, as that man had, that I am no good. I must dismiss that as I long ago decided that Richard Mann wasn’t worth the trouble of concerning myself over and now begin to wonder if Edward doesn’t fit into the same category.

  I watched Mr. Quincannon in the stream, waiting for him to turn around, which he almost did a number of times but never quite got to it. I remembered our dance back at Round Grove and how his eyes had showed his interest in me, and how his strong arms had drawn me close to him. I delighted in wondering how it would be for us to dance once again, without any garments of any kind, in a field of soft grass with the wind blowing at our backs.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of men talking.

  Sir Edward had returned.

  I watched Mr. Quincannon leave the stream and grab his buckskins. I turned away and began to alternately walk and run back towards camp, hiding in brush and groves of trees as best I could. Luckily, Edward had stopped to talk with Mr. Quincannon or he and the others surely would have caught up with me along the trail.

  Back at camp, I collapsed in my bed. My heart beat frantically and I wondered if it was at almost being discovered by Edward, or the picture of Mr. Quincannon in the stream. After a while I drifted off to sleep and later sat up as Bom spoke from outside the tent.

  “Miss Hall, Master Sir Edward would like to see you.”

  I straightened my hair and brushed bits of leaf and twig from my clothes before leaving the tent. Bom nodded and led the way to where Edward sat at his table, sipping tea.

  Bom held a chair for me and I sat down. Before I could get settled, Edward stood up and suggested we go for a walk.

  I struggled to keep pace with him until he finally slowed down and lit a cigar. We walked along the creek, in the direction where I had come upon Mr. Quincannon bathing.

  “I realize that things aren’t going well,” he said. “I decided to take up your request that we converse over the matter.”

  “I hope it will make things easier,” I said.

  He stared at me. “You don’t look well.”

  “It’s been a difficult week.”

  “I trust that’s part of the reason for your behavior,” he said, “and I certainly hope you have come to your senses.”

  “I should think that you would agree that you haven’t been exactly civil,” I replied.

  “Come now. It hasn’t been me flinging mud and raising my voice.”

  “None of it would have happened had you not forbade me to ride my pony.”

  “You would be better off giving that horse away.”

  “Nonsense! And I won’t.”

  “Why do you want that pony so badly? It’s little better than a mule.”

  “You know better than that, Edward.”

  “What do you hope to accomplish? Do you want to become an Indian? Promise me, once we get back to England, that I will hear no more of that animal.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll be leaving your stallion behind as well.”

  “Most certainly. I can get a better horse than that anytime I please.”

  “Then why not get rid of him up ahead at Bent’s Fort, since you think so little of him?”

  “This bickering is foolish,” he said. “We are soon to be married, and as such, should be civil to one another. I know it’s difficult f
or you out here, but think of it as a mere test, a small speck in time, a speck you must endure until we reach Fort Vancouver and catch a ship back home.”

  “I don’t mind it out here, Edward. Strangely enough, I believe it’s you who is encountering problems.”

  “I have no problems, my dear. I have an irritation, and his name is Quincannon. But we’ve been over that.”

  “Mr. Quincannon and I have had no discussions for a number of days now.”

  “Not any that I’m privy to, I’m sure.”

  “Are you saying that I’ve been meeting him secretly?”

  “I’m not able to watch your every move,” he said.

  I found the discussion exasperating and told him I wished to rest before dinner. As I turned, he stopped me and said, “You must consider my position, Ella. I have a great responsibility here and I want a measure of respect from you.”

  “Respect works both ways, Edward,” I said.

  He began chewing on his cigar. “I want you to understand that I care deeply for you. It’s hard for me to say, granted, and perhaps I cannot show it the way you would like, but nevertheless the feeling is there.”

  I found it interesting that he never touched me at all, nor did he look into my eyes as he spoke.

  “It would be of great pleasure to me,” he continued, “if you would henceforth obey my commands without objection of any kind. Is that too much to expect?”

  “Why do you want me for a wife if all you care about is ordering me around like one of your soldiers?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t look at it like that, Ella. After all, it won’t be long until I’ll be managing your business affairs.”

  “You want to oversee my art career?”

  He puffed on his cigar. “Not so much that as the holdings we will share.”

  I began to think. He could only mean the land that my father had left to me upon his death.

  “Are the holdings those that my father owned?”

  “You own them now, don’t you?”

  “Is that why you want to marry me?” I demanded. “You think you’ll get the land I inherited?”

  “I’m in a position to make better decisions than you,” he said coolly. “It would benefit us both.”

  “I don’t see how it would benefit us both.”

  “I don’t think you understood what I meant,” he said.

  “I believe I did.” I turned away from him and started back towards camp.

  PAWNEE CREEK

  Quincannon’s Journal

  22 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY

  We reached the Arkansas River early yesterday and are moving along well. The water is not yet bank-full, as snow is still falling in the high mountains. I took a while to look at the river, having missed seeing a good flow of mountain water. It’s not as strong as the Yellowstone or the Missouri way north, but respectable in its own right.

  We stopped to celebrate by jumping into the water, all except Garr and his men, and Walter and Avis Dodge, of course. I think Miss Hall wanted to join us. I could see it on her face. She told me that I looked good in the water and started giggling. I don’t know what that was about, but I felt like pulling her in with me.

  We’ll make Pawnee Creek before nightfall and Bent’s Fort in another week, if the carts hold up and the mules stay strong. The grass has been excellent, owing to the lack of buffalo. Lamar has been scouting out from the column and brings back news that the Pawnees have made a large hunt to the northeast, driving the herds ahead of them, and that a mixed band of Cheyenne and Arapaho are hunting to the northwest. If the two factions meet, look for a pitched battle.

  I worry about Comanches, but guess they’re hunting to the south. Lamar won’t scout that direction and I don’t blame him. There’s not much a man can do if caught out in the open.

  Two days ago we found a skeleton in the sandy bank along the river. It looked to be a woman with long hair and a patch missing from the top of her skull, her bones dug up by the wolves. She was likely scalped and certainly took a hatchet blow to the side of the head. It’s hard to know how she got off by herself and why they didn’t just abduct her. Maybe she was already dying and they didn’t want to bother with her. Someone found her and dug a hole in the sand, but not good enough to keep the wolves from their work. It couldn’t have happened this spring, though. The bones are too bleached.

  Though dusty and matted, the woman’s hair was red. A real trophy, I guess. I noticed Miss Hall staring and wondered what was going through her head. She didn’t seem afraid, but saddened. There seems to be a lot on her mind these days.

  Lamar and I gathered the woman’s bones, with help from my men. Garr and his “soldiers” stood at a distance and watched. They seem totally unaffected, but then they really haven’t witnessed anything yet.

  Another bunch that sat at a distance and watched was a pack of wolves that showed up for the first time. Avis Dodge told Walter that she believed them to be the same pack that ate the woman. She must have a keener sense of knowledge than most.

  Who knows, though? They could well be the same pack. We’ve gotten into their territory and they’ll be a common sight from here on. They’re not nearly the size of the big mountain wolves farther west, but smaller and light gray, and range clear into Mexico.

  They’ve been following us since Walnut Creek and Lamar says that buffalo can’t be far off. I’ve seen that before: A pack shows up and a hunt follows in a few days. The wolves know it’s far easier to take the leavings from a caravan than work to bring one down themselves.

  It will be a nice diversion from prairie dog. There are thousands of them along the river but it takes too long to get enough to feed a large group. Garr had kept Robert Colville busy hunting them for his chefs to prepare, as he now considers antelope much too gamey for his tastes.

  Colville has had his problems hunting them. A pack of coyotes, much slyer than wolves, have decided that they are interested in obtaining easy meals. Colville will shoot a prairie dog and one of the pack will quickly lope in and grab it.

  Garr won’t allow ammunition wasted on coyotes, so Colville spends a lot of time pulling out his hair.

  The coyotes make considerable noise after dark, yapping and singing to the moon, but it’s the wolves that give their depth to the night. Avis Dodge—I guess I should refer to her as Lady Avis—is more concerned with them than the mosquitoes. Since the hard rains, the air is thick with whiny buzzing, and the nets can hardly hold them back. Still, she worries every night that she’ll be eaten by a wolf and jabs Walter every time one howls.

  I don’t know how he holds up, what with his crazy wife and that bad knee. I get a chance to talk to him once in a while, whenever he takes a walk alone. He’s said more than once that he wishes we weren’t on opposite sides of the Oregon issue. I have to agree; he doesn’t seem like such a bad sort.

  The other night he confided that he and Avis were growing farther and farther apart, and that he didn’t know how to handle it. He said that Avis had told him she wanted to take this trip not only to act as chaperone to their niece, but also to see if a change of air would help their marriage. I couldn’t offer any suggestions. All I can say is that he must care a great deal for his niece to suffer as much as he does for her sake.

  I’m not content being in the same camp with her and not conversing. I feel I know her well enough to call her Gabriella, or Ella—whatever she prefers. But I’ll stick to Miss Hall for everyone’s sake.

  I still think about the dance with the settlers. In fact, whenever the raging warrior dream comes to me, I remember how she looked in that blue dress and slippers and feel a whole lot better. I often think there’s no good reason to allow Edward Garr to cause such a strain on everyone, but then I know that pushing the issue would bring certain confrontation. Though I’d never back down, I’m not used to dueling.

  And speaking of those with a short fuse, I can’t believe what recently happened with J. T. Landers. I didn’t know he had it in him, but the little m
an turned a scowl into a loud yowl yesterday when we stopped for the noon meal. I mentioned that the grass looked good and he tore into me.

  “What do you really know about grass?” he asked me.

  “It’s green and good for mules,” I said.

  He informed me there was a lot more to it than that. He borrowed a horse and we went for a ride. He began to show me things I hadn’t thought about.

  A distance from camp we rode through forage that touched our stirrups, tall grasses of various kinds waving in the breeze, interspersed with wildflowers, a few shrubs, and an occasional cactus plant.

  “This is good grass,” he said.

  I couldn’t argue. It was much taller and more lush than that growing along the river.

  “You’re seeing a natural system in pristine condition,” he said. “This is how nature intended these plains to look.”

  He explained the various varieties of grass and showed me how to tell them apart, putting them in categories from the best to the least desirable from a grazing standpoint. After listening to him, I could understand his reasoning, and learned how to make the most of our grazing stops as we journey ahead.

  “Your mules can graze half the time on some grasses and get twice the nourishment,” he said. “That way we move faster and the stock stays healthy.”

  We rode back toward camp and just like he said, within a mile of the camp, the vegetation changed remarkably.

  “Do you see how the major grass species near the river have been grazed out and that different plant species have come in to replace them?” he asked.

  He explained that the taller, more robust grasses that we had seen a distance away should also be found close to the river, but that they had been grazed out, allowing smaller grasses to gain a foothold, along with a lot more brush and cactus.

  “This has happened since the caravans started coming through,” he said. “The mules and oxen have ravaged the river bottoms continuously for the last twenty years and everything has changed.”