Far Away Home (12 page)

Aislynn called
to him, “Tell them not to touch them. We’ll bury them.”

Morton sneered
at her, “I’ll tell ‘em. Not for you, for them.” He turned his horse and
splashed away.

After a hasty
burial, the Mormon train moved on. They camped five miles east of South Pass,
the gentlest ascent of all the Rocky Mountain passes and the easiest crossing of
the Continental Divide. Aislynn woke in the darkness with pain gripping her
middle. Attempting to be quiet and trying to maintain her modesty, she stumbled
to the chamber pot. Evacuation was fierce. She rested her chin on her knees,
moaning as her body tried to turn itself inside out.

She could hear
Johnny patting her side of the bed, “Aislynn?”

He crawled to
the end of the bed and found her balanced limply on the chamber pot, steadying
herself against the tailgate.

“What did you
have to eat today that I didn’t?” Johnny investigated.

“The Johnson
children gave me some lemonade after the funeral.”

Johnny moved to
light the lantern.

Aislynn
screamed, “No!” With her propriety under attack, she insisted she would be
fine. “Just leave me be.”

She heard him pull
on his boots. He climbed out over the wagon seat. Aislynn peeked under the
cover. She saw a fire burning by the Johnson tent and watched Johnny starting
one of his own. She felt weak and wanted to crawl into the bed, but she knew
she could not be separated from her new partner.

Johnny climbed
back into the wagon with the skillet in his hand. She squinted in the dark. He
arranged the pillows around the bed and covered them with a sheet. In the
center, he rested the skillet and surrounded it with a towel. “Come up here,”
he ordered.

Aislynn grabbed
his hand, and he pulled her onto the bed. He said, “Put your rump in the pan
and get comfortable. You’re gonna to be here for a while.”

She moved to the
pan and lifted her nightgown. Johnny grabbed it by the hem and said, “This is
only gonna be in the way.” He began lifting it over her head.

“Close your
eyes,” she demanded.

Johnny shook his
head. “It’s dark.”

He covered her
with the quilts and blankets. She felt grateful to be lying down. She
experienced constant cramping. With some clanging and crashing, she heard
Johnny searching through the wagon.

When he
returned, he had chamomile tea and laudanum. “You have to drink; get fluid in
your body. That will flush you out.”

Aislynn said,
“I’m already flushed.” Johnny held her head and poured the tea and medicine
into her. She apologized, “I’m sorry you have to witness this.”

“Aislynn, this
is nothin’. You should see a whole troop of men get the flux at the same time.”

The wagons
rolled and she refused to stay behind. Despite her churning belly and the
discomfort of the ride, she chose to pass the day pounding against the iron
skillet rather than be left behind to the outlaws and Indians. Under the wagon
cover, heat was her intense companion. After Johnny rolled up the sides to give
her air, the dust joined her. Johnny had taken the last position in line so he
could stop throughout the day and help Aislynn drink the tea, which sat in a
kettle under his seat. He dosed her with laudanum, and it helped her doze. By
evening, she felt well enough to wash her raw body parts.

While she
washed, Johnny attended the burial of the youngest Johnson boy. He had been a
frail child. Small bodies dehydrated quickly and frequently succumbed to
diarrhea. In the morning, still weak, Aislynn mounted the wagon seat and
balanced her soreness on two pillows. Her heart ached with the thought of
putting a child in the ground and leaving him alone against the elements in
this wild place.

Along the rough
road running parallel to the Big Sandy River, the wagons climbed. Trees gave
shade; however, they blocked the expansive view to the south. To the north, the
gentle Rocky Mountain passes rippled into heavy peaks that seemed to weigh down
the earth in the thin air, keeping it from floating into the sky. A warm,
morning rain subdued the dust. The altitude made her head spin and her heart
race. She felt feverish and weak but kept her place leaning against Johnny.

By afternoon,
the clear air and strong sun intensified eyesight. Scanning the horizons, a
group of riders became visible on a northern ridge. The Indians sprang from the
earth like ships bobbing out of the waves.

Chapter 11

The train’s
trumpet called them to corral. With their wagon in position, Aislynn and Johnny
jumped from the seat. Johnny threw the milk cans to the ground, and they lay
behind them. Aislynn gripped the two Colts while the little pistol waited in
her pocket. Johnny held the rifles.

A dozen braves
galloped toward the train, leaving a large contingent on the rise. It was
difficult to gauge their distance where shadow and shape distorted space. She
could hear their thunder and felt the earth respond to some forty-eight hooves
pounding it. The Captain told them to hold their fire, and he walked out of the
corral with his hands held high.

When he
returned, he announced, “They just wanna trade for money, silver and gold.”

Five braves
entered the arena. The two approaching Aislynn and Johnny carried brown leather
bundles stained red. The shorter man spoke to Johnny in scattered English. The
taller crouched and laid his package at Aislynn’s feet. He opened it, exposing
chunks of meat soaked in blood.

He was dressed
in tight, buckskin pants flapped in the front with a piece of red cloth. His
long, glossy black hair hung down his brown, naked back. When he stood before
her, she stared into his bare chest. Half-naked men did not figure into
Aislynn’s experience. She rarely saw her father or any of the Nolans without
their shirts. Johnny washed out of her view, and when they were together, he
was covered. Her eyes followed the lines of muscles running through the
Indian’s chest until he pushed a ragged hunk of buffalo meat at her. Startled,
she looked into his face. It was smooth, shiny and sharply carved, like those
she had seen on the statutes at the New York museum she had visited with Tim.
Within the striking face, two cold eyes scrutinized. They held hers as she
reached out for the meat.

Still queasy
from her illness, the smell of the meat took her breath. “Thank you,” she murmured
and curtsied casually.

He flashed an
unexpected smile, elaborately bowed to her and laughed a comment to his
companion. She turned to get a bucket and dropped the meat in it. Facing him
again, she shot him a stern look and reprimanded, “I don’t know what you said
but by your tone, I’m sure I take exception to it.”

Johnny exchanged
some words with the English speaker and handed him a coin. They moved on.
Johnny asked, “Do you still think they’re all dangerous?”

“Of course, and
insolent, too.”

“You don’t even
know what he said.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I asked.”
He raised his brows and sent her a smirk. “He said, ‘She’s civil. Maybe she
doesn’t know we’re Indians.’ ”

“You’re telling
me Indians have a sense of humor?”

“They’re human,
aren’t they?”

Aislynn knew she
was being admonished, “I suppose so.”

The Green River
ran in a torrent, spasming against its banks, threatening to overflow. It was
wide, deep and terrifying. Johnny paid a ferryman to sail them across on a
flat, wooden raft. They poled through the choppy waves and disembarked in
canyon country. Here, the road rose through barren, rock walls. The wagon
brushed against soaring buttes furrowed by wind and water, layered in shades of
red, yellow and brown as it climbed to sage-covered knolls rolling toward Fort
Bridger. 

Aislynn was
cleaning up after their noontime supper when she heard Johnny's howl. He was
washing his hands in the Hams Ford River, and she dropped the plates to run to
him.

“Stay there!” he
called. “It’s a rattlesnake. Don’t know if there are any others.”

Johnny limped
back to the wagon. Aislynn could see two small dots of blood seeping onto his
pants above his knee. “Get into the wagon, take off those pants, and I’ll get
help.”

She found the
Captain and his outriders mounted and ready to break camp. “Captain Morton!”
she placed her hand on his horse’s neck, “Johnny’s been bitten by a rattler.
Please come and help him.”

Morton looked
down at her with scorn, “You take care of him.” He pulled back on his reins,
and his horse took a step away from Aislynn.

“I need help.”

“It’s my job to
get you to Utah. It’s your job to keep up.”

Aislynn’s eyes
scanned the two outriders, hoping to find support. Disappointed, she returned
to Morton, “What do I do?”

One of the
scraggly haired, brown-toothed trail hands replied, “Cut him and suck him.”

The Captain
shouted orders to the train as he circled her with his horse. She turned,
following Morton and trying to regain his attention. “But I don’t know how.”

The trail hand
interjected, “I could stay and teach her to suck a man.” He laughed and wore a
look that made Aislynn shiver.

“Blow the horn,”
the Captain ordered.

Morton halted
his horse, and Aislynn touched his stirrup, “You have to help.”

“No, ma’am, I
have to drive this here train and we’re movin’.”

Jesting, the
trail hand added, “Just suck him ‘til it tastes like him. You do know what your
man tastes like, don’t you?”

Aislynn did not
understand the humor. She ignored the repulsive man and addressed the Captain,
“You can’t leave us.”

He raised his
hand, signaling the train to roll.

With her full
weight, she grabbed his rein and pulled it down. Taken unaware by her attack,
she nearly unseated him. She held fast and sneered, “Your God or mine, Morton,
you’ll have a hell of a time getting absolution for this.”

He straightened
in his saddle. Aislynn saw his foot move; she released the rein. With the kick,
the horse bolted forward. She raised her skirt to her knees and ran to Johnny
through the blossoming dust.

Aislynn climbed
on the bed and gave him a quick kiss. “Where’s Morton?” Johnny questioned.

Tilting her
head, she smiled at him, “I’m going to take care of you.”

She saw the fear
in his dilated eyes. “They’re leavin’.”

“They’re busy,”
she lied.

“I can hear,
Aislynn.”

She collected a
bucket of water, a basin, and clean rags. Then she stropped his razor. Kneeling
beside his wound, she took a deep breath and pushed the edge of the razor into
his white flesh. Blood flowed from the incision. Aislynn dropped the razor. She
pulled up the wagon cover, leaned over the side and expelled her supper.

Sweat formed on
his brow and upper lip. Breathing hard, Johnny suggested, “Maybe you
shouldn’t?”  

Aislynn took a
few deep breaths and murmuring positive words continued slicing. She placed her
lips around the cuts and pulled his blood into her mouth. She spat into the
basin and rinsed with water. She sucked and spat until she thought the
bitterness was gone. She wiped the wound and covered it with a rag.

Outside the
wagon, she stirred the fire and heated the kettle. She made some mild tea and
gave him the hartshorne Sage had prescribed. She rolled up the sides of the
cover. Leaving the wagon, she suggested, “Rest for awhile.”

She sat by the
fire, and her body started to shiver. Sweating, she felt cold. Tiny dots of
light danced in her eyes. She vomited again. Her head fell on her knees, and
she gasped for air.

Fear for Johnny
gave way to fear for herself. She remembered the Indians were close, hidden in
the crevices of foothills. Outlaws. They had not encountered any since the
Black Hills/Cheyenne Road, but she suspected they were about. And animals:
wild, ferocious, “assume they all bite” animals.

She tried to
distract herself by cooking ham and bean soup for Johnny’s dinner. She wanted
to have a fire in the daylight so she would not be alerting any enemies to
their vulnerability in the dark. She stood over the flaming sage, waving at the
smoke, attempting to void its signal. Every time she checked on Johnny, he
reported his pain seemed to be increasing and a different part of his body felt
numb.

She let the
mules lead her to the river, hoping they would scare any snakes away. Before
she knelt down, she beat the grass with a stick. Then, she filled her buckets
with cold water and returned to the wagon.

Johnny was cold
and sweating. She did not know if she should keep him cool or warm. She wiped
him with the cold water and he shivered. She covered him with the quilts, and
he complained of the heat. She fed him soup when he asked for food and tea when
he asked for drink. It was beyond her. She had no experience with a rattlesnake
bite. She strained to remember the things Sage had told her, but in her
preoccupation, little would come.

Aislynn fell to
her knees and prayed to her father, her mother and all her ancestors. She
petitioned Johnny’s grandmother and his father for help. Kneeling in the hot
sun, Aislynn could feel the rivulets of sweat dripping down her back. She could
not tell if they were from fear or heat.

As the sun set,
she watered the mules back at the river, then tied them to the wagon on a long
rope. She fed them and tried to feed Johnny. His breathing became slow and
shallow. His strength weakened, and he did not want to eat. He felt nauseated
and vomited. She spoke to him softly and ran cool cloths over his warm upper
body. When he fell asleep, she put her hands on his chest to check his
heartbeat. It was imperceptible. She held her ear to it. She did not hear much,
but her knowledge of heartbeats was limited. She decided discerning the state
of his heart did not matter; she had no means to give him additional
assistance. She climbed up to the wagon seat and remembered what Sage had said,
“Look, listen, smell an’ feel. That’ll keep you alive.”

Darkness stalked
her from the east. The foothills were deep in shadows by the time the moon, the
size of a lemon zest, showed in the navy sky. She was disappointed in the
amount of light but assumed if she could not see, neither could anyone else.
She listened for danger. The wind blew under the stars, whooshing past her
ears. The river droned. The trees next to their wagon moved. Creatures
scampered, insects whirred, birds called, owls hooted, animals howled. She
remembered hearing that the spirits residing in all living things come out at
night and express themselves. With every nerve standing at attention, she
listened for their messages. In her lap, the two Colts lay like talismans.

Aislynn rested
her head against the wagon bow. Her eyes strained through the darkness toward
the faded light over the foothills. Atop a barren ridge, she saw the silhouette
of a woman, walking slowly and holding a child close to her heart. Aislynn felt
herself falling. Her eyes flew open, and her leg shot forward to bring her into
balance. She jumped up and checked the mules. She climbed into the wagon bed
and listened for Johnny’s breath. She held his head and poured cool water into
him. Believing she had done all she could do, she returned to the wagon seat
and looked out at the darkness. The woman was gone.

Aislynn resumed
her sentry duty. The darkness hurt her eyes. She tried singing herself calm,
but no music flourished in her mind.

Johnny’s raspy
breaths struck her silent. She scrambled to him. She poured more hartshorne
down his throat. Aislynn cradled his head, placed her hand over his subdued
heart and began talking to him, promising him she would try harder. Vowing to
be very good to him, she swore she would do whatever he wanted if he would just
live. Recognition hit her. She was not pleading with Johnny; she was trying to
bargain with God, an act forbidden by the nuns. Fear struck her and apologies
fell from her lips.

She began a
novena, repeating over and over, “Saint Jude, patron of hopeless causes, have
mercy on us. May the sacred heart of Jesus be adored, gloried and preserved
through the world, now and forever. May the Sacred Heart of Jesus have mercy on
us. St. Jude pray for us.”

The mules bawled
and pushed against the wagon. Aislynn woke to their cries. She crept over the
seat, lifted a gun and squinted. Tension hung heavy in the air. As she scanned
the darkness, she could feel it. She could hear it in the mules’ pawing and
braying. She could smell its gamy odor rising on the breeze. It was moving. Its
low growling rose to where she stood. It was not one but several, a pack, a
black phalanx creeping through the grass.

Aislynn aimed a
Colt in direction of the wolves. She held her breath. “I can kill you!” she
threatened. “I can kill anything, anyone!” She heard herself shouting as the
gun bucked in her hands. Tears poured down her cheeks as she emptied the
cylinder. The wolves yelped and scurried off as she shot the bullets of the
second revolver into her fears.

She sat with the
hot guns in her lap, fumbling bullets into the chambers. Quiet settled around
her. Only the river, the wind and the leaves were still speaking to her.
Aislynn checked Johnny. The shots had not stirred him. The darkness pressed
loneliness and guilt down on her, heavy as the mountains accusing her from the
north. It was her fault; she knew it. Johnny had come for her, and she had come
for Tim. But she had no Tim, no Da, no Nolans, and now, possibly no Johnny. She
cared, truly cared for him and admonished herself for not seeing it sooner.
Aislynn knelt on the floorboards and steepled her hands on the seat, praying to
every saint she could recall, in alphabetical order, for Johnny and
forgiveness.

Aislynn heard
Johnny calling her awake. The sun was giving the earth back its colors; she
felt safer in the light. Straightening from her joint-stiffened position, she
leaned over the seat. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“How many times
do I have to tell you I don’t like you goin’ about by yourself?”

She climbed into
the wagon bed, knelt beside him and said, “I’m right here.”

Johnny placed a
hand on her cheek. Aislynn leaned over him and kissed his mouth. He was still
in pain and his breathing was strained. She dosed him with more hartshorne and
made a light breakfast. By noon, Johnny’s suffering had eased, and he wanted to
be moving. “If we leave now and ride straight through we might make Fort
Bridger by evening.”