“Save a dance for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe’s good enough for me.” He spurred his horse and galloped away.
“I don’t like the way he looks at me,” she told Mrs. Kelsey and Mrs. Beckham while they walked to a stream to fetch water.
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Kelsey asked.
Daire splashed water on her face, then grinned. “His stares at me the same as Captain Burgess when he was drooling over the pork belly you were smoking.”
The threesome laughed.
Mrs. Beckham said. “The celebration will be a public affair. Stay where people can see you and you’ll be fine.”
* * *
“Independence Rock means we’re half way,” Captain Burgess announced.
“It looks like a loaf of bread that needs to be punched down,” Daire said. Mrs. Beckham laughed.
The youngsters gathered near violin and squeeze-box players whose melodies inspired foot tapping initially and dancing eventually.
A group of roughly twenty Indians wearing an odd mixture of traditional and European clothing, watched the Independence Day celebration from a distance.
Dr. Beckham nodded toward them and told Rivka plus a neighbor, “No celebration in those faces.”
“I’d bet our carrying on appears as celebrating the end of their way of life,” Mrs. Kelsey said.
Rivka nodded agreement. “New versus old has caused wars and hatred throughout the history of mankind.” She sighed. “And hunger. The children’s eyes are sunken in those gaunt faces. Their bodies are nothing but skin and bone. I’m taking some of our beef and bread over to them.”
“I’ll help,” the doctor said.
Two smiling women came forward and were handed the food. With children following, they moved behind the row of otherwise sullen Indians. The Beckhams hurried back to their wagon.
“You won’t get your pans back,” Mrs. Kelsey said.
“I’ll manage,” Mrs. Beckham said. “Maybe they can sell them to secure more food.”
The neighbor added, “They’re a thieving people. We think four horses were stolen last night. Best keep an eye out. With those hate filled looks, there’s no telling what they might do next.”
* * *
Daire noticed Preacher Strauss and Capt. Burgess talking.
“How’s our pace?” Preacher Strauss asked him.
“We’re on schedule but the Rockies up ahead are unpredictable. We may have to travel some Sundays.”
Preacher Straus stood stiffly and declared, “I’ll not be putting a yoke on my oxen on any Sunday. Both man and beast need a day of rest.”
Captain Burgess said, “As long as we stay on schedule. We get behind and many will die trying to get through freezing weather and snow covered trails. I’m sure the Lord wouldn’t be in favor of that.”
“By keeping His day holy, I’m sure he’ll allow us the time and good fortune to maintain our schedule.”
* * *
One week after the July fourth celebration, the wagon train stopped to rest near a wide stream.
“We’re almost to the mountains,” Captain Burgess said. “We’ve got good water and grass here so we’ll stay for a couple days to rebuild wagons and let the cattle eat.”
Daire, with similarly aged teenagers Jessa and Timothy crossed the stream to search for berries.
“Where are the Anderson children?” Jessa asked.
“Spending the day with Mrs. Beckham.”
After two hours, Jessa said, “I’m hot and there doesn’t seem to be anything out here but more heat.” She glanced around. “Let’s climb to the top of that rise. If we don’t see anything, we’ll go back.”
“Down there in that little valley.” Timothy pointed from the hillock. “Junipers. Might have berries.”
“That’s a couple miles. We’re getting far from the wagons,” Daire said.
“I’ve got my pistol.”
“I’m not sure…” Daire said.
“If we see anything,” Jessa said, “We’ll run back to the wagons. At least we won’t have come out her for nothing.”
As they arrived at the Juniper trees, five Indians appeared around them. Timothy took out his pistol and fired. The tallest grabbed at his chest and collapsed. The percussion cap of the next round jammed the cylinder so he couldn’t fire a second time. Two of the Indians were on him in a flash, taking the gun and holding him down while they tied his hands behind his back plus a leather neck strap. The girls were secured similarly. Jessa screamed and was rewarded with a kick to her belly. She doubled over and fell to her knees.
Daire yelled, “Leave her alone.”
An Indian, about her age, approached. He twisted his upper body away from her then backhanded her across the face. She too, fell to her knees. Despite her dizziness, she managed to remain standing after being jerked to her feet by the leather neck strap.
The three captives were hauled away in the opposite direction of the wagon train.
* * *
Daire estimated they were at least seven miles from the wagon train. She and Jessa were tied together, back to back, with leather neck and wrist straps. When the Indians dragged Timothy some distance away, Daire struggled for a number of hours to free her wrists and recover her knife. She quickly cut through her and Jessa’s bonds. They heard Timothy’s repeated screams.
“We’ll send back help for Timothy,” Daire said as she began running.
“How will we find the wagon train?” Jessa said, as they ran.
Daire glanced skyward. “The stars will tell us.”
After four miles of running, Jessa collapsed. “I can’t run any further. I’ll hide and wait for someone to find me.”
Daire tugged at her arm. “Don’t quit now. We keep going and we’ll be back with the others.”
“I can’t. You go.”
Alone now, Daire ran another mile.
Too late, she heard footsteps. He grabbed a handful of hair and threw her to the ground. Hands on hips, he stood over her in triumph; his sweat covered upper body glistening in the moonlight. When she tried to stand he brought an open hand from as far back as he could reach to slap her across the face. A blinding flash was accompanied by momentary dizziness. He struck her again and again, alternating hands. His face now covered in fury, he shoved her onto her back and forced her legs apart. One sweaty hand grasped her throat and the other pushed his pants down. She did her best to ignore the pain when he entered her. Daire shoved her hand between his legs; violently crushing his sack with all her might. He screamed and rolled off, curling himself into a ball. Daire retrieved her Bowie knife. With both hands, she jammed it into his neck. He clawed at her face, trying to gouge her eyes. She felt his nails digging into her lower lids then scraping across her face and neck. His body quaked three times and stopped moving. Daire leapt to her feet, ran three steps and stopped. Returning to the body, she pulled out her knife which made a sucking sound, wiped it on her skirt and returned the blade to its sheath. She took a deep breath, looked around and continued running.
After another mile running at a torrid pace, the adrenaline from the fight wore off. The pain from her torn and blistered feet was sending pain up her legs. Daire briefly considered stopping to check them.
She thought, “If I see how bad they are, I might want to quit.”
Every footfall was now accompanied by sharp pain. Each foot print was accented with drops of blood. She looked to the east. Day light was approaching.
Her body developed an economy of effort which balanced her breathing with the motion of her legs and arms. Her cheek felt damp.
Putting a hand on it, she realized it was bleeding.
“His clawing at my face and neck,” she thought.
She came to a small stream. Splashing water on her face and a handful into her mouth she looked over her shoulder and noted the bloody footprints. Her body involuntarily shivered but she resumed her torrid pace.
Daire heard voices ahead of her. Sh
e dove into the tall grass which lined the trail. She turned an ear toward the sound.
“English. Thank God.”
She ran onto a river bank.
“Over here. Help me,” she yelled while waving her arms.
On the other side, men were calling to each other and three of them splashed across. The moment the first man reached her, she collapsed into his arms.
* * *
Daire awoke on a cot in the Beckham’s tent with Rivka at her side and Mrs. Kelsey standing over her.
“Did you see how bad her feet are?” She heard Mrs. Kelsey say.
“Good Morning,” Rivka said. “How are you feeling?”
“Glad to be alive.”
“You have nasty cuts. Dr. Beckham said to stay off your feet for a few days.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“Nearly twelve hours.”
“Jessa and Timothy?”
“Both alive. Timothy barely.”
“They found Jessa tied to a tree,” Mrs. Beckham said.
“She’d been repeatedly abused,” Mrs. Kelsey said.
“And Timothy?”
“Has burns all over his body. He may not live,” Mrs. Beckham said.
“I tried to get Jessa to run with me but she quit after a few miles.”
“I’m sure you did your best,” Mrs. Beckham said.
“Only the strong survive out here,” Mrs. Kelsey said.
“I killed one of them.”
“The Bowie knife?” Mrs. Kelsey asked.
Daire nodded.
Mrs. Kelsey smiled.
“That’s also how I cut our bonds.”
“I’m proud of you,” Mrs. Kelsey said putting a hand on Daire’s cheek.
* * *
Six weeks later, an old Indian slowly walked to the edge of the circled wagons. He removed his hat and pantomimed eating.
“He’s starving,” Daire said.
The instant Timothy saw the old man, his pulse increased, he panted and trembled. Timothy kept rubbing his neck as if he wanted to be sure there was no longer a leather strap around it.
A shot rang out. The old man crumpled to the ground.
“There was no call for that,” Dr. Beckham screamed at a middle-aged-man.
“He could have been one of the Indians that burned Timothy and did you-know-what to Jessa,” the shooter said.
“He was a hungry old man. That’s all. Was no reason to kill him.”
“Tell that to Timothy.”
Timothy continued trembling while staring at the collapsed form.
Mrs. Beckham grabbed his face with both hands and turned it to look at her.
“Timothy, you calm down,” Mrs. Beckham said. “You’re safe now.”
His nodding could barely be discerned from his trembling as he walked away.
“There’s big fights at the Hendricks,” Dr. Beckham said.
“About Jessa?” Daire asked.
“Her family is humiliated she’s carrying an Indian’s child.”
“It wasn’t her fault.”
“I tried to tell them,” Mrs. Beckham said, “but they’re ashamed. The way they carry on, you’d think she did it on purpose.”
Jessa and Daire stood and looked over the gently-lowing-cattle which grazed fifty-yards from the wagon train’s evening encampment. A drover approached on horseback.
“Howdy Ladies.” He slid off his saddle and removed his hat. “I’m Charles Wagoner.”
She gave him a curt nod of her head. “Jessa Hendricks.”
“Daire Devlin.”
“Miss Hendricks, I hear tell there’s been some friction twixt you and your family.”
“They won’t even talk to me.” She returned her gaze to the cattle. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have commented on family matters.”
She folded her arms across her chest.
The drover fidgeted with the brim of his hat. Daire walked a few steps away from the two but remained in earshot. “Miss Hendricks, I own six-hundred-sixty-acres north of Ft. Boise. Fifty of these cattle are mine. I’m adding them to the herd I own up there. I done asked around and everyone says you’re a right fine lady. There’s a decent cabin on my land and I have enough money to build you a proper house.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a future.”
Jessa spoke in an anger tinged voice. “Are you touched or something? I’m with child. An Indian’s child.”
He ground the toe of his boot into the dirt. “We’re all God’s children, Miss Hendricks. I’s born in Texas and that’s what those what raised me taught me.”
“You’re a fool. Get away from me.”
“Sorry to have troubled you.” He mounted his horse and trotted away.
“He seems a nice man,” Daire said.
“Did seem sincere,” Jessa said with a shrug.
“If things don’t improve with your family, maybe you should consider his offer.”
* * *
A week later and after suffering another week of contempt from her family, Jessa in the company of Daire, appeared at a campsite where four drovers sat on the ground next to a fire.
“I wish to speak with Mr. Wagoner, please.”
He stood and they walked away from the others.
Jessa cleared her throat and said, “I might never see my family again if I leave with you.”
“Seems like they ain’t real anxious to have you around.”
Jessa glared at him. “They’re still my family.”
Charles did his best to smile. “I’m an orphan ma’am. Our children would be our family.”
She shook her head, turned slightly away from him but remained where she was.
The drover looked at Daire who nodded in Jessa’s direction
He cleared his throat. “It’s beautiful country up there. Good clean air to raise children. None of that stink like the cities.”
She remained motionless.
“Miss Hendricks, why did you come out here?”
“I was giving thought to a possible future.”
“And…”
After a pause, she continued, “I have lots of anger in me since I was attacked. I may not be the most pleasant person to have around.”
“Miss Daire says you’re one of the nicest folks she knows. Coming from her, that’s good enough for me.”
Jessa spun her head in Daire’s direction.
Daire nodded. “It’s true…no matter what your folks are saying. There’s lots to do on a ranch. You might find some peace in that.”
The pregnant girl took a deep breath. “When will we be in Ft. Boise?”
Charles smiled. “Sometime tomorrow.”
“Is there a preacher in Ft. Boise?”
His expression brightened. “Yes Ma’am. Nice Church as well.”
“If anything you’ve told me is a lie…”
“I wouldn’t. If anything ain’t like I’m tellin’ it, I’ll bring you back to the wagon train. Y’all got my word on that.”
“If anything you’ve told me is a lie,” Jessa said with hands on hips. “I’ll flatten you like a buffalo stampede.”
* * *
A sudden snowfall dumped eight inches of snow on the trail, and was accompanied by below freezing temperatures and brutal winds. A group gathered around a fire, trying to keep warm.
“It may remain cool as we head into the Blue Mountains,” Captain Burgess said, holding his hands out toward the flames. “Our progress has slowed considerably. May not have made five miles today. I’m going to talk to Preacher Straus about traveling on Sunday.”
“He’ll pitch a fit over that,” Mrs. Beckham said.
“Daire,” Dr. Beckham asked, “is that blood on your skirt?”
“My cuts,” Daire said as she lifted her skirt a few inches to show cuts around her ankles. “It’s the ice you know.”
“What ice?” Dr. Beckham asked.
“It form
s on the bottom of our dresses as they drag on the snow.”
Dr. Beckham looked at his wife. She raised her skirt to reveal her left ankle with a similar injury. Mrs. Kelsey did the same.
“No one told me this was going on,” he said.
Mrs. Beckham said, “Most woman suffer in silence from this.”
Mrs. Kelsey laughed. “As we do about most things.”
His brow furrowed. “If these injuries become diseased, I may be removing feet.”
“We’ve been discussing the problem. Time to begin wearing bloomers,” Mrs. Beckham said.
“I agree,” Mrs. Kelsey said.
“They’ll likely be some resistance to that,” Dr. Beckham said.
“Daire, Mrs. Kelsey, and I will wear them beginning tomorrow.”
Mrs. Kelsey chortled. “Wonder what Preacher Straus will think about that?”
* * *
“Women shouldn’t dress like men,” Preacher Straus implored the following morning.
“That’s why we’re wearing bloomers—not britches,” Mrs. Beckham said.
“It’s wrong, I tell you.”
“Come talk to me away from these folks,” his wife said.
Daire watched as Preacher Straus’s eyes widened as his wife raised the front of her dress to show the bloody damage the ice had caused.
“Is there no other way?” he asked.
By the next day, roughly one-third of the woman wore bloomers. The balance of the women would leave a trail of blood stains and tears going into the mountains and a number would lose their feet as the doctor had predicted.
* * *
On Sunday morning, a crowd gathered for church service.
“I’ve done some hard, hard praying about this,” Preacher Straus said. Tears welled up in his eyes. “We’re going to have a brief service this morning and” he looked skyward, “Lord, please pardon us…we begin traveling as on any other day.”
The Pioneer: A Journey to the Pacific Page 7