The Passionate and the Proud

by Vanessa Royall

  “Well, they don’t want to kill us, at least not yet…” Garn began.

  The wagonboss interrupted testily, threatened by Garn’s steady and confident supply of comment and information, humiliated by the fear he had just displayed.

  “All right,” he called, “all right. If they can wait, so can we. Everyone stay calm. Women and children will remain inside the circle of wagons. Men, get to work and water the horses and the cattle. Drive them down to the river.”

  “Hey, Mr. Torquist, there’s Indians down by the river too,” shouted little Jimmy Buttlesworth, the miller’s boy. He had taken a position high in a cottonwood and had a good view of the terrain.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Upstream,” said Jimmy. “They’re dumping sacks of stuff in the water.”

  Two dead dogs.

  A dead calf.

  “Poison of some kind,” Garn said quietly.

  But everybody heard him, and they understood what it meant. The animals smelled that water, needed it. They were restrained inadequately in makeshift corrals of rope and sticks and fluttering pieces of cloth. When the sun rose a little higher and the day grew a little hotter, horses, cattle, and oxen would push through those frail barriers and head for the river. And death.

  “The Arapaho can’t befoul a moving stream permanently,” Torquist calculated.

  “But they can do it long enough to cause us plenty of trouble,” said Garn.

  “Strep,” asked the wagonleader, “what’s the water situation?”

  “Half the barrels full, boss. I was goin’ to fill the rest this mornin’.”

  Torquist surveyed the Indians on the ridge, crossed his arms, forced himself to assume a stubborn stance. The people needed his wisdom, his will. He had to pull himself together. “We’ll save a couple of barrels for use in camp,” he decreed. “Men, take the rest over to the animals. It’ll keep them in their corrals. Stay calm, everyone. I shall go to my tent and devise a plan of action.”

  Almost no one remained calm. The men busied themselves watering the animals, knowing full well that a few barrels would not long overcome the sweet lure of the river. The women and children debated the kinds of shelters they might create should the Arapaho attack, and decided that, short of a giant bird that would pluck them from the camp, nothing could save them. Up on the ridge, the Indians had dismounted now. They squatted in the grass in groups of four or five or six, eating cold joints of meat and casting aside the bones.

  Emmalee could see Fire-On-The-Moon, still astride his white pony, patient, implacable, waiting. She realized how lucky she was to have gone to the river before dawn, and when she returned to the wagon and read Mrs. Creel the Twenty-third Psalm, she was very conscious of having walked in the valley of the shadow of death.

  Ebenezer was out telling anyone who would listen what Robert E. Lee, Jeb Stuart, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis would have done to these Arapaho, if they were there and if they had half a chance. Emmalee finished reading, gave Bernice a double dose of medicine—the poor woman was as alarmed by the Indians as she was tortured by pain—and sat down on the Conestoga’s endgate, intending to catch up on her sewing. It did seem a little silly to darn her heavy trail socks when she might soon be dead, but the activity helped to keep danger from her mind.

  Garn walked up just as she was getting a clump of yam untangled.

  “Emmalee,” he said, “you sure look pretty in that red-and-white dress.”

  She saw him looking at her breasts and remembered how she had felt when he kissed them.

  “Thank you,” she said crisply, squinting in the sunlight, trying to get the darning started.

  Garn took off his hat and used it to cast a shadow for her. The needle flashed.

  “Ah, you’re good at that sort of thing,” he said. “Make some man a fine wife one day.”

  “That’s what some people have told me.”

  “But you’re not interested?”

  “Not yet. It depends on the man anyway, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, it does depend a little on you too. But I didn’t come over here to discuss a future you don’t seem to be interested in. The fact is, we’re in big trouble here with these Indians.”

  “Do you think I’m so stupid as not to know that?”

  “I don’t think you’re stupid at all. A little bullheaded maybe, but…well, there’s no time for that now. We’re in deeper trouble than anyone suspects, and I want you to do me a big favor.”

  Emmalee ceased working and looked up. He was serious. “What is it?” she asked.

  He put his hat back on. The silver pieces glittered in the sun. She saw the vacant spot where the missing piece had been.

  “Go to Horace Torquist’s tent,” he said. “I need you to tell him what to do.”

  “But Mr. Torquist is perfectly capable of—”

  “No, he’s not. Torquist is an able man, but he functions well only when the world he sees before him matches an idea of a world he keeps safe in his mind. Those two worlds are pretty different right now. Falling apart in front of everyone, as he did a few minutes ago, hurt him badly too.”

  Emmalee was curious. Garn had, quite casually, rendered Torquist less puzzling. “Why don’t you go see him yourself?” she asked.

  “It’s very difficult for a fellow like Torquist to take advice, especially from a man like me. But there’s a chance he might listen to you.”

  “Even if he does, what do I have to tell him?”

  “Pay attention,” Garn instructed. “That’s what I’m here to talk to you about.”

  A few minutes later, Emmalee stood in front of Torquist’s tent and called his name. After a long moment, during which time she could hear the squeak of bedsprings, the wagonmaster came to the door. He had a faraway, almost distraught look in his eyes and his usually impeccable appearance was marred by a misbuttoned shirt.

  “Miss Alden,” he said, “I’m very busy…”

  Emmalee did as Garn had advised, ignored Torquist’s protestation and pushed inside the tent. It was as neat as ever, except that the bed was unmade. The wagonleader had been lying down, worrying.

  “Emmalee…” he started to say.

  “I have an idea that might work,” she interrupted, getting it out quickly. “Let’s send an emissary up to see Chief Fire-On-The-Moon and see what he wants. You know how these Indians are. They hold themselves like kings. They want to be attended with diplomacy and respect.”

  Torquist thought it over. “I suppose I could do that,” he mused. Emmalee’s heart went out to him. He seemed so fragile in some ways, a mere husk of the man he appeared to be when he spoke to the people. His great dream of a perfect community beyond the mountains was threatened by the Arapaho, and he stood in double jeopardy. In the first place, he would lose his dream; in the second, he would lose the concepts of virtue and rectitude by which his dream was sustained.

  “An emissary might work,” he said in a stronger voice, as if the idea had been his from the start. “We’ve got to do something, or we’ll lose the advantage of time we’ve been able to gain from Pennington. Any ideas as to whom we ought to send?”

  “What about that scout?” Emmalee said. “The one who’s always doing all the talking? I understand he knows sign language and even a bit of the Arapaho tongue.”

  “Good work, Emmalee.” Garn grinned, mounting his black stallion. “If I don’t come back, it’s been nice knowing you. Enjoy yourself in Olympia.”

  Then he was riding up the ridge toward Fire-On-The-Moon. Emmalee could see the Indians get up from the grass and leap onto their ponies, watching alertly as Garn rode toward them.

  Torquist and the scouts stood outside the wagonmaster’s tent.

  “I’ll say one thing about Landar,” said Red Cassidy, “he sure is a hard man to figure out. It looks like he’s out huntin’ his own death.”

  “I hear he’s a gamblin’ man,” said Tip Mexx, poking Hap Ryder in the ribs. Hap had already lost half his pay to Gar
n in a series of poker games.

  “What’s this about gambling?” demanded Torquist, tearing himself away for a moment from his preoccupation with what would happen between Garn and the Indians.

  “I said Landar is taking a gamble.”

  Emmalee was standing close to the tent, watching the ridge too. Torquist noticed her there. “Women and children to the inner ring of wagons,” he scolded. “I swear, nobody obeys around here.”

  It was as if he had completely forgotten her contribution to this enterprise! With considerable irritation, Emmalee, started back to join the women, then realized that she couldn’t bear to miss out on what was happening on the hill. The men of the camp were crouched down behind the outer circle of wagons, armed with pitchforks, axes, and hammers. They were intent upon Garn’s progress, so no one noticed Emmalee as she slipped inside the Conestoga nearest Horace Torquist’s command tent. It was cool and dark in the wagon. She unfastened a couple of lashing and folded away a small section of canvas. She could see the ridge clearly.

  Garn rode straight up to the Arapaho chieftain, holding his hands before him to show that he was not armed.

  Arapaho braves on horseback immediately surrounded him and he was lost from sight. Emmalee could not deny a pang of fear for him, and explained it to herself by thinking that she would be just as afraid for anyone in that position.

  Then the Indians moved away from Garn, their ponies dancing and sidestepping, and Emmalee saw him, still on his black, next to the chief. A few moments later, the two men were riding down towards the pioneer camp, trailed by at least two dozen warriors.

  “I wonder what’s happening now?” Emmalee heard Torquist fret.

  “Be ready, boys,” Cassidy instructed. “But don’t go grabbin’ for your guns until they make the first move.”

  Garn and Chief Fire-On-The-Moon reined their horses in front of Mr. Torquist and the scouts. The mounted braves fanned out into a circle around the men, protecting their chieftain, threatening Torquist’s group. One brave took up a position right outside the wagon in which Emmalee was hiding. She did not dare to move or breathe. He was so close that she could smell the heat of his body, see the intricate diamondlike designs in the silver armbands he wore. This was an alien, and his eyes were sharp and savage. Emmalee held her breath, no longer disbelieving stories about people roasted alive over slow fires. The circle of braves could kill Garn, the scouts, Horace Torquist, and Randy Clay in the space of seconds.

  But they had not as yet made any move to do so.

  Then Emmalee looked at Chief Fire-On-The-Moon and knew that her own death, the deaths of all the others, was only a matter of time. The combination of a rangy, sinewy body, crown of eagle feathers, and lean, sardonic visage made the chief more animal than man, a prince of animals perhaps, but savage all the same. He looked down at Torquist with curiosity and a kind of arrogant amusement that Emmalee recalled having seen recently on the face of someone else.

  No time to think about that, though. Garn was speaking.

  “Mr. Torquist,” he said, slowly and with great seriousness, “our visitor, great chief of the Arapaho nation, is here to partake of our hospitality and generosity.”

  Horace Torquist looked confused. Then he said, “It is our wish to have a peaceful visit with the chief. Tell him that, Landar. Tell him we’re peaceable people. We don’t even have weapons.”

  Emmalee, peering through the tiny opening in the canvas, saw Garn turn to the chief. Using a series of rapid hand gestures, with now and again a word strange to Enunalee’s ears, he conveyed the wagonleader’s message.

  The chief snorted, speaking quickly to Garn, gesturing as well.

  “Fire-On-The-Moon has no wish to harm us,” Garn told Torquist. “But he and his people are very angry that the coming of the railroad, along with the depredations of the buffalo hunters, are making it difficult for his people to sustain themselves.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Torquist, lifting his hands, letting them fall. “But what can I do?”

  Again, Garn and the chief exchanged words and gestures.

  “In return for the passage of white men across his lands,” Garn translated, “the Indians have decided to exact a fee.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the wagonmaster almost happily, “I have money…”

  Garn shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said. “The Arapaho want our cattle, in replacement for the buffalo that have been killed. They need meat for food and skins for clothing and dwellings.”

  Emmalee saw Torquist’s face turn pale. The precious cattle! They were to be the breeding stock of great dairy herds in Olympia!

  The brave sitting on his horse in front of Emmalee suddenly jerked his head in the direction of the wagon, as if he’d heard something. She felt her heart stop for a beat, then it recovered, hammering away like mad. The Indian relaxed. Emmalee almost sobbed in relief.

  “Ask him if there is anything else we might give him,” Torquist was instructing Garn. “Anything except the cattle.”

  “I can’t do that,” Garn said. “It would insult him. He wants only the cattle. In return, he will leave us alone, unharmed, and let us go on our way.”

  Torquist hesitated.

  Sensing difficulty, Fire-On-The-Moon sat up even straighter on his horse and made an abrupt gesture to his braves, who tensed for action.

  Then it happened. Emmalee felt rather than heard someone slip into the wagon. Her poor muscles were already screaming from holding herself motionless all this time, and her nerves were screaming from the tension of the Indian just outside. So she screamed too.

  “God, girl!” Myrtle Higgins said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Wanted to find out what was happening.”

  There was no more time for talk. The brave, startled by her scream, grabbed his knife and slashed a giant swath out of the canvas. There stood Emmalee for all to see, in her pretty dress and with her gold hair spilling down.

  “Jesus Christ, Emmalee,” she heard Garn say.

  I’m sorry was in her mind, but her tongue failed to work. The Indian reached up, grabbed her, and swung her through the air. She landed stomach-down across the back of his pony, so hard the wind was knocked out of her. She was conscious of the horse moving. Even before she’d regained her breath, the brave jerked her upright. She found herself looking into the pitiless, sardonic eyes of Fire-On-The-Moon.

  Fire-On-The-Moon said something in his language and laughed. All the braves joined in. So did Garn, sitting on his horse next to the chief.

  “My compliments to you, Emmalee,” he said dryly. “Arapaho don’t laugh much.”

  Emmalee felt stupid and ridiculous. She was also angry, mostly at herself and her predicament, but also at Garn for laughing.

  Fire-On-The-Moon was saying something to Garn. The chief reached out and ran his fingers through Emmalee’s hair.

  “Tell him to get his hands off the woman,” Torquist said edgily. “I won’t stand for anything like that.”

  “Shut up,” Garn told him, smiling pleasantly, his voice so mild he might have been commenting on the weather. “Shut up. He’s decided that he wants Emmalee.”

  Fully afraid now, Emmalee tried desperately and unsuccessfully to squirm free of the brave’s grasp.

  “If this feathered barbarian is so keen on letting us live,” she said to Garn, “ask him why he poisoned the river.”

  “I already did. It is a sign of his determination. If his people do not get the cattle, neither do we. If they do not survive, we perish as well.”

  The chief had grabbed a big handful of Emmalee’s hair. He didn’t pull it but he held on tightly and made some gestures to Garn with his free hand.

  Garn gestured back, smiling and easy, and patted Fire-On-The-Moon’s magnificent white horse.

  “What’s going on?” Emmalee asked through her teeth.

  Garn was nonchalant. “He says he wants you. I told him you’re mine. I offered to trade you for-
his horse.

  “His horse!”

  “Emmalee, if you say another word, I swear I’ll cut your tongue out,” Garn said, smiling. “And how could you live without it? I just want you to know that it’s going to cost plenty to get you out of this.”

  The chieftain counted his fingers, pointing in turn at his horse, Emmalee, then Garn, who responded by counting his fingers and gesturing too. Emmalee lost track of what was happening. Suddenly the chief grunted, the brave released her, and she fell to the ground, sprawling in the dust, dirty and trembling but otherwise all right. She was sure she’d never get the smell of the Indian out of her red-and-white dress.

  The Indians laughed again, seeing Emmalee there in the dirt, but this time Garn did not join them.

  “Well, Torquist,” he told the wagonmaster, “the Arapaho will let us go without taking anyone or harming anyone. Fire-On-The-Moon holds all the cards, and you’re losing time. He could keep us here under siege, if he wanted. You can buy new cattle out west, but if Pennington gets to the best land first…”

  Torquist saw that he had no choice and yielded.

  “Tell them to take the cattle.” He sighed, a sad-eyed, wild-haired prophet astride the Kansas plains. He might have interpreted this outcome, unpleasant as it was, as a victory, because the lives and futures of his people had been retained. But his purity of purpose could not abide compromise, which he believed to be defeat. And so Horace Torquist retreated again to his tent, bearing a burden of disappointment and guilt that was to gnaw its way into his soul.

  Purple Mountains Majesty

  Death at Arapaho hands would have been relatively quick; the summer sun, the seemingly endless trail, showed less mercy. Hot June gave way to torrid July, each day more unbearable than the one before. Pioneers woke to searing dawns, their bodies soaked with sweat, and spent countless hours trudging beside the ever-rolling wheels. They gasped burning air, could not speak for the dust. From time to time great thunderheads appeared suddenly in the sky, to dump hail and driving rain on the plains. When the clouds rolled away, the sun beat down again, turning the rainwater into vapor. Moisture filled the air like steam; it was even hotter than before the storm.