by Hazel Rumney
Louise walked from the bar to the table, holding the enamel coffee pot, careful not to splash the contents on the floor.
Mr. Olive looked up at her and smiled. “What a sweetie you are. The train just may have to wait a couple of minutes for me. Or make that, for us.” He smiled again and cupped his hand around Louise’s breast.
She emptied the pot of steaming coffee onto his upturned face, and Mick swept the table aside as if it was no more than a dried mesquite leaf.
Two steps forward and Mick wrapped his arm around Mr. Olive’s head and twisted. It was not as difficult as throwing a calf to the ground. The gambler lay on the floor in much the same position as he had taunted Mick earlier—tongue dangling from the corner of his mouth and eyes rolled back in their sockets. He twitched once and did not breathe again.
Neither Mick nor Louise spoke. A gust of wind shook the flimsy building. In the distance, the train’s whistle moaned. The wind gusted again, and this time peppered the window with sand and small pebbles.
On the day Mr. Olive died, Louise made the engineer’s sandwich and took it out to him. When she came back into the store, the chairs and table had been uprighted, and Mr. Olive’s body was not in sight. Only shards of eggshells and an irregular shaped damp spot sullied the floor.
A year and a half later on a fine spring morning when the High Plains sky was the color of a robin’s egg and a north breeze ushered winter tumbleweeds toward Oneida, the population of Pimple increased by one—Louise and Mick Warren’s son, Ellison, came into the world.
Two days after baby Ellison’s arrival, St. Louis railroad detectives closed the file on the death of an unidentified man. The man had arrived at the rail yards approximately eighteen months earlier in a cattle car with forty steers. The corpse was trampled to a condition that his own mother could not have recognized him. A silver-cased watch monogrammed with a cursive O was found near the remains, and a still-loaded .44 derringer, fouled with straw and manure, lay at the opposite end of the cattle car.
John Neely Davis, a writer of western and Appalachian fiction, lives in Franklin, Tennessee, with his wife, Jayne. His most recent western novel, The Chapman Legacy, was released by Five Star in June of 2018.
BULLWHACKER
BY ROD MILLER
The woman muttered under her breath, using words she would never say aloud. She cursed the oxen that had wandered off in the night. She cursed the rain that made the trail up Little Mountain a boggy mire, more stream than road. She cursed the tattered wagon sheets through which water seeped and dripped, fouling the scant supplies that must see her through the winter in the valley she hoped to reach this day, and cursed again the storm hindering that arrival.
And she cursed the man who, months ago, way back on the Elkhorn River, had done his best to prevent her joining the migration, declaring her wagons unfit for the road, her oxen not up to the trail, and a widow woman with a passel of children a burden on the company.
In a fit of ire, she had told the wagon master she would not only make the trip to the distant valley without his help, she would get there ahead of him. But now, the storm, the scattered stock, the muddy trail gave lie to her promise.
June, 1848, Elkhorn River, Unorganized Territory
Cornelius Lott tugged the seat of his pants out of his backside cleavage. He wadded his floppy felt hat and raked his fingers through scant hair. He scuffed a foot through the dust, walked over to the biggest of the animals, and slapped it on the shoulder.
“Ain’t no way, Mary,” he said. “These here critters is the sorriest bunch of cattle I’ve ever seen. This one here’s the onliest one looks like he can pull his own weight, and that not far. Rest of these ain’t no good. How do you expect to get these wagons across the plains when you ain’t got but four oxen barely worthy of the name yoked to half-growed steers and a cow?”
Mary Smith said nothing.
Lott slapped the ox on the rump in disgust. “And speaking of wagons. These of yours ain’t in no better shape than the cattle. ’Specially this farm wagon. Damn thing’ll fall apart ’fore you’ve gone half a mile. And what about that rattletrap ambulance hitched to the back of it? Which of these useless cattle you expect to pull two wagons? And that other’n ain’t much better—looks ready to collapse just standin’ there.”
The sorry state of her means of conveyance was not news to Mary. The twenty-seven-mile trip from Winter Quarters to the Elkhorn where the wagon trains were assembling revealed the weakness of her preparation. Already, a wagon axle had cracked climbing a creek bank, a bow on a yoke split, and a spoke had shattered on a wobbly wheel. And it was true the teams were mismatched and poorly trained. Even the loose stock—two milk cows with calves, and half a dozen sheep—seemed more prone to wander than submit to herding.
“Land sakes, Mary! You ain’t even got a man to run this outfit!” Lott blustered, tucking plump thumbs behind his braces and giving them a tug.
John, at fifteen, and the oldest male in Mary’s “family,” stepped forward. Nine-year-old Joey threw his hat to the ground and, with doubled fists and red face, started for Lott. Mary grabbed the back of his collar with one hand and placed the other on John’s chest.
With another tug at his galluses, the wagon master blustered on. “That there pimply boy ain’t growed up enough to lead, and that hot-headed runt ain’t worth a mention.”
The boys strained forward, but Mary kept them in check.
“Them, and them three girls, that half-witted woman, and them two old women you brung along ain’t gonna be nothin’ but trouble. Never mind what the brethren say, I’m damned if I’ll let you-all hold this company back.”
Now it was Mary’s face that flushed red. She studied the small crowd gathered to see what the commotion was about, then spoke.
“I will have you know, Cornelius Lott, that me and mine will be no burden to you. How do you suppose my Hyrum and I got from Kirtland to Far West? How do you suppose I got from Far West to Nauvoo, with Hyrum locked in jail? And how do you suppose I got from Nauvoo to Winter Quarters with Hyrum dead in his grave?”
Mary punctuated every sentence with a determined step in Lott’s direction. She stopped a scant foot from the man and raised a pointed finger to within an inch of his nose.
“Do not be attempting to school me in the ways of wagon travel, Cornelius Lott. You are not to worry one iota about me or my family or my wagons or my livestock. And if what you mean by a ‘man’ to take charge is anything like the likes of you, I will happily take my chances with me and mine alone.”
She emphasized the point with a thrust of her finger into the man’s chest, then turned on her heel and walked away. Lott, flushed and flustered, sputtered for a response but found none.
Mary turned again to face him. “Know this. I will make the trip to Great Salt Lake City with this company, and I shall do it without your help. Not only will I arrive there in good order, I shall do so ahead of you!” She stood her ground and the crowd parted as Lott walked away.
The family Mary spoke of was no family in the traditional sense of the word. Joseph—Joey—was her son by Hyrum, and Martha Ann, just turned seven, also resulted from their all-toobrief marriage. The other children, John and his younger sisters, Jerusha and Sarah, were the three youngest of Hyrum’s children from his first wife, who died from complications following Sarah’s birth. Two older girls from that union were married and gone.
In addition to the children, Mary had inherited three other women upon marrying Hyrum. “Aunty” Grinnels and Maggie Brysen, spinsters in their fifties, were part of the Smith household before Mary’s arrival, helping to care for the children. The third woman, Jane Wilson, was a distressed soul, prone to fits. Hyrum, being a charitable sort, had taken responsibility for her care.
Now that responsibility was Mary’s. And, later on the emigrant trail, that obligation would give Cornelius Lott yet another reason to confront Mary.
Jane was fond of taking snuff. And, noticing her supply diminished late one afternoon as t
he wagons circled for camp along the Platte River, she walked the mile or two up the trail to another wagon camp in the expedition to visit a friend and replenish her snuff box. Jane told Mary she would spend the night there, and rejoin her come morning.
Lott walked among his charges in the gray light of dawn, assuring all was in order before giving the command to roll out. After his customary dismay at the state of Mary’s stock and equipment, he asked if all was well.
“That it is, Mister Lott.”
With a snort, he grabbed his galluses and leaned toward the woman.
“All well? You tell a lie, Mary Smith. I have it on good authority that a woman of your party is missing! Jane Wilson is gone, likely wandering alone in the wilderness. And who can say what tragedy may have befallen the poor woman? No thanks to you, this train will be delayed until she—or what remains of her—can be found!”
In his ire, he chose not to hear Mary’s explanation.
“Well, then, Mister Lott, you may stay and search to your heart’s content. But as for me and mine, we shall take to the trail and Miss Jane will join us in good time.”
With a poke from her prod, Mary the bullwhacker “hawed” her team around the parked wagons waiting ahead of her. John and Joey followed with the farm wagon with the trailer hitched behind, and the girls shepherded the loose stock along after. No one paid any attention to the florid-faced wagon master’s hollering and stomping—save a few members of the company who turned to tightening the lashings on wagon sheets, checking the keys on ox bows, and finding other mundane tasks behind which they could conceal their amusement.
As Mary predicted, Jane rejoined the train and plodded along the Platte Valley with the rest of the Smith caravan as the days stretched into weeks.
It was somewhere in sight of Chimney Rock that one of Mary’s uncertain draft animals finally failed her. But it was not a cow called to service under the yoke that faltered, nor one of the half-grown steers. For no apparent reason, one of the strongest of her oxen, the offside wheeler on her lead wagon, staggered and collapsed. The hulking beast gasped its last, tumbling to its side, and Mary watched in horror as the reflected sun faded in its glazed-over eye.
The woman dropped to her knees and sat with head bowed, whether in prayer or despair the members of her family could not say as they gathered. The other wagons in the train creaked to a stop and the circle of onlookers grew. Barely a breath was drawn among the bystanders until the wagon master elbowed his way through.
Lott pulled off his misshapen felt hat, wiped a palm over sweaty forehead and pate, then dried the damp hand on the seat of his pants.
“Mary Smith, I warned you about this very thing. Here we sit idle on account of your poor preparation. That we have made it this far before you fulfilled my prophecy is the only surprise here.”
Mary rose to her feet and brushed the dust from the skirt of her dress.
Lott pitched in. “Now, woman, unless you have a better idea, drag this animal out of the way and yoke up a milk cow, or one of those sheep if you’d rather. Be quick about it and you may catch up to our camp by nightfall. But we’ll not wait.”
No member of the company spoke up, but Lott heard much mumbling and muttering as his charges shuffled and scuffed.
“Well?” he hollered. “Get a move on!”
“Wait,” Mary said. Her voice was soft, but reached every ear.
“What is it, woman?”
Mary studied the faces in the circle. She stepped closer to Lott. “I have a better idea.”
Lott’s only response was a furrowed forehead and arched eyebrows.
“You said, ‘unless I have a better idea.’ Well, I do,” Mary said.
The furrows in Lott’s forehead deepened and his lips tightened and turned down.
Mary’s eyes locked on Lott’s without blinking. “I want this ox healed.”
The wagon master’s eyes widened and his jaw worked at a reply, but none came.
“You hold yourself up as a pious man, Brother Lott. Lay hands on that ox and command him to rise.”
Lott stammered and stuttered and sputtered and spit as crimson crept upward from his collar, coloring his entire visage. “I will not!” he finally managed. “It is sacrilege! It is blasphemous!”
“It is the Lord’s will.” Mary looked around at the stunned faces around her. “Does He not say, ‘Ask, and it shall be given you’?” She again fixed her gaze on Lott. “I believe you will find that in Matthew, Elder Lott. And does not James tell us, ‘Is any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him’? And does he not go on to say, ‘the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up’?”
“It don’t say nothing about no ox! It is an outrage to even suggest it. Besides, that critter ain’t sick, he’s dead!”
“Do you lack faith, Mister Lott? Surely the Lord’s mercy extends to animals. I cannot quote chapter and verse, but there is a Proverb that reads, ‘A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast.’ Are you not a righteous man?”
Lott’s hat hit the ground. “Enough of your spouting scripture, Mary Smith. We’re burning daylight here. Now, the rest of you, get a move on!”
Nobody moved.
Mary again scanned the faces in the crowd. “Josiah Fielding,” she said, settling on the face of her cousin. “You are the closest this family has to a man at present. Will you lay hands on my ox?”
Josiah hemmed and hawed, nodded sheepishly, and looked to a friend who likewise signified his willingness.
“I forbid it!” Lott said.
The men ignored the wagon master and walked slowly toward the ox, removing their hats as they went. Lott followed, tugging at their shoulders and remonstrating them with every step. The crowd drew closer, forming a tight semicircle around the fallen ox, shushing Lott. Fielding and his friend knelt beside the prostrate animal, laid hands on its horny head, and prayed fervently for the Lord’s blessing. The prayer ended with a command to the ox to rise and walk and an “amen” repeated by the onlookers.
Only Lott failed to voice the benediction, instead emitting a derisive snort.
The ox responded with a snort of its own, drew in a long wheezing breath, rolled to its stomach and tucked its legs, hiked up its hind end, then the front, rattled the draw chain with a shake of its head, and looked for all the world ready to pull.
Mary, a smile teasing the corners of her mouth, said, “Well, why are you people standing around? You heard Mister Lott—get these wagons rolling.”
Never mind Cornelius Lott’s difficulties with Mary Smith. The man enjoyed a long—and deserved—reputation as a competent, capable leader. His assignment as wagon master of this train in the larger migration was neither surprising nor undeserved. Almost without question, the emigrants in his charge valued his leadership, followed his orders, and held to his advice. His malice toward Mary Smith was viewed as a curious and atypical oddity.
Given Lott’s orderly approach to all things and attention to detail, it was a wonderment to all that while Mary’s inferior draft cattle slogged along day after day and mile after mile, it was Lott’s oxen that next delayed the train.
It happened in the gray light of dawn one morning along the Sweetwater as the company approached Independence Rock. When the cattle were roused from their bed grounds and herded into camp to commence the day’s work, several of the wagon master’s oxen were not among them.
Expecting his teams had wandered away in search of greener grass, Lott assembled a party to search the surrounding plains. The oxen were soon located, dead on the ground.
No clue as to the cause of their demise was evident. Perhaps it was a bellyful of alkali-tainted water. More likely, the bullwhackers thought, in their grazing through the night the animals happened onto a patch of poisonous plants.
Lott was having none of it.
“Mary Smith!” Lott hollered as his mount slid to a stop next to her wagons. “What have you done, you infernal woman?�
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Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Mary had no answer, and could only shake her head.
“Well?”
She slid the kitchen box the rest of the way into the wagon and dusted off her hands. “Pray tell, Mister Lott, whatever are you talking about?”
“You know good and well what I’m talking about! What I want to know is how you did it.”
Lott dismounted and moved toward Mary with long strides. She backed away, but bumped against the back of the wagon. John and Joey heard the ruction and came running, but Mary signaled them to stop short. Others stopped their chores and gathered round. With little attempt to contain his anger, Lott told how his oxen—and only his oxen—had died in the night under circumstances he saw as suspicious.
“How, Mary?” he said. “Was it you, or did you send these boys of yours to do it?”
“I ask you again, what do you think we have done?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me! What did you-all do to my cattle?”
Mary only stared at him. She looked to the boys, but both looked bewildered. She looked back at Lott and shook her head.
“Dammit, woman! My patience is wearing thi—”
“I will thank you to bridle your tongue, Mister Lott,” Mary said as her ire rose along with the flush in her face. “We did nothing to your animals. To even think so is absurd. If no oxen belonging to others were so afflicted, it must be that they had better care in herding.”
Mary paused to catch her breath, then, in a voice so soft most strained to hear it, she offered Mister Lott the use of some of her cattle, poor and trail-weary and unfit for service though they may be.
The wagon master shook a finger in Mary’s face, but despite his working jaw, he could find no words. He turned and strode away, stopped to again waggle his finger at Mary from a distance, then walked away again. Realizing he had left his horse, he hove to and ordered a boy standing nearby to fetch it. Jerking the reins from the boy’s hand, he yanked on the bit and dragged the startled horse away with him.