Sarah's Heart (5 page)

Against her common
sense, she lifted her lids to mere slits but stared directly into a
moccasin-clad foot which indicated he stood straddling her. She quickly closed
her eyes and released an undetectable exhalation escape through her nose. If
she didn’t know better, she’d swear she felt the Indian’s heavy breath on the
side of her face. Would this torture ever end?

Stepping back, the
brave landed firmly on her ankle. Sarah’s brain screamed in agony, but fearing
death more, and despite the throbbing pain, she somehow managed to keep her
face impassive and her body still. The intruder’s footfall moved away as he
called out to his companion, the wagon swaying as he dismounted. Sarah released
her pent up breath slowly and remained frozen in place.

 
Finally, she could stand the pain no longer
and dared move only slightly enough to dislodge the gun from poking her. She
cocked an ear toward every noise, hoping for the sound of departing horses. Too
afraid to move, she stayed where she was, wishing to hear the U.S. Calvary as
they
bugled
their arrival. It wasn’t likely, but it
didn’t keep her from hoping. One thing for sure, she couldn’t lay there and
wait for the off chance they would come.

Sarah hugged the
floor until the sun shifted from one side of the wagon to the other. When the
light had all but faded from the interior, she finally felt safe enough to
move, but her stiff limbs were un-cooperative. Her face screwed with pain as
she pushed herself up into a sitting position and massaged her foot. She found
herself gazing directly upon Molly’s body.

Anger whitened
Sarah’s knuckles as she clutched the deadly arrow and cursed those who had
killed such a beautiful young person. Tears she had earlier denied now ran down
Sarah’s cheeks as she gave in to her grief and mourned her friend and the other
innocent people now lying dead and cold. Guilt tore at her soul, knowing she
had cheated death, not once, but twice. She questioned again why God had spared
her and no one else. Maybe he had a plan for her.

Her crying turned to
sobs as she grasped the wooden shaft with two hands and snapped it in half. The
crackling noise seemed almost deafening in the silence. She shuddered as she
curled herself into a ball. With Molly gone, now Sarah found herself truly
alone. She cried herself to sleep.

* * *

Sarah awoke. It was
morning and the wagon bonnet sparkled with sunlight, and the cheerful chirping
of birds sounded outside in stark contrast to her mood. Feeling the hardness of
the floor against her spine, she stiffly transferred her weight to her side,
letting thoughts of yesterday wash over her. A feeling of dread expanded inside
her chest. What was she to do now?

Her throat hurt from
having sobbed for such a long time, and her eyes felt gritty and sore. She felt
certain they must be bloodshot. With curled fists, she wiped the sleep from
them, keeping her gaze straight ahead and away from Molly. Although Sarah
doubted she had anymore tears to shed, she dare not risk being overcome by
emotions again.

She couldn’t spend
another night in this wagon or in the camp for that matter, but her mind reeled
beneath the weight of her decision. There were only two choices—forging onward
or going back. Despite longing to see the beautiful coast of California that she’d heard and read about,
the safest and sanest thing to do was to retrace the path the wagon train had
taken to this point. She had no idea what lay ahead, but she did know what was
behind.

 
Forcing herself, she took one last look at
Molly’s angelic face, and the tears Sarah thought were spent clouded her eyes
and drizzled down her cheeks. She steeled herself and pulled the blanket over
Molly’s head and began gathering the things needed for the trip.

Sarah picked up the
remaining flannel squares from the floor where the Indian had thrown them and
searched unsuccessfully for the shears. The intruder must have taken them along
with the remaining whiskey. Her plan to be prepared for another emergency fell
short. With a sigh, she glanced down at her soiled and torn dress and ran a
hand through her disheveled hair.

 
The braves had left behind most of the
clothing in the Morgan wagon, so Sarah considered which of Molly’s cotton
frocks to take. Picking up a pair of Gil’s britches, she pondered her trek.
Maybe it would be smarter to dress like a man. It would certainly be easier to
travel without having to constantly hike up a skirt and petticoat. Her shoes
were sensible enough, and she remembered the extra hat she’d seen in the captain’s
wagon. Maybe it was still there.

She’d have to travel
light, packing her valise with only essentials. Now that she’d decided to
leave, she was anxious to get started—to put all this behind her—if she ever
could. Shedding all but her chemise and pantalets, she wriggled into a pair of
trousers and donned a green and white checkered shirt. Her trim form swam in
the trousers, but with a couple of rolls, the shirt sleeves didn’t hide her
hands. She folded a spare shirt and tucked it inside her case, along with an
extra pair of socks, and wondered how she would hold up her britches. She was
sure to find something.

Her mind whirled,
making a mental list of what she’d need for her trip, and bedding was the first
thing she thought of. After kneeling to roll the spare blankets, she searched
for something to tie around them. Her dress and petticoat lay heaped where
she’d stepped out of them, so continuing the rip she’d begun for Molly’s
dressing; Sarah tore yet another strip from her undergarment and with it, secured
her bedroll.

Still hitching her
britches to keep them from falling to her knees, she tore a thin piece of
material and wound it through two belt loops and tied the waist into a pucker,
but at least she could walk without losing her bottoms. She rolled her eyes,
imagining how ridiculous she must look.

 
The wagon creaked. Sarah jerked her head
around and eyed the bonnet opening. Her pent up breath released in a whoosh as
she remembered the characteristic noise of the wagon bed, groaning in protest
to the warming air. She took a moment to let her heart slow.

 
Now she had clothes and bedding, but she still
needed a jacket for the chilly spring nights. She searched through the strewn
clothing and found a nice one, lined with sheepskin. It was bulky and took up
far too much room in her bag, so she tied it around her waist. Her greatest
find was the pair of suspenders in the pocket. She would have put them on right
away, but her movements swayed the wagon and gave life to the blanket that
covered Molly’s body. An eerie feeling urged Sarah to hurry. She hugged herself
to quell a shiver and then grabbed her belongings. She paused only long enough
to offer a silent prayer for Molly’s soul.

Crossing the dusty
compound one last time, Sarah dropped her bedroll and valise on the ground and
climbed into the captain’s wagon hoping to retrieve a hat. Although the
interior had clearly been ransacked again, luckily the wide-brimmed head
covering was still there, along with a handy piece of rawhide that served as a
chinstrap. Sarah had a better use for it, and bending, she swept her blonde
hair into a bundle and captured it with the piece of leather. She tucked the
bulky mass into the sweat-stained leather and pulled it snugly down on her
head. Now her outfit was complete.

Sarah recalled two
canteens hanging on the side of the wagon, just above the water barrel. She
climbed out and grabbed them and then slung them over her shoulder. She’d fill
them at the stream on her way out of camp. Stooping, she picked up her gear and
stood for a moment, surveying what remained of the train. In her mind, she
still heard the children’s laughter as they plodded through the tall prairie
grasses, trying to keep pace with the wagons, the squeak of each turning wheel
moving an inch closer to a new destination, and the gentle lowing of the cattle
as the sun set each evening. Clutching her worldly belongings in one small
case, she took a last glance, then turned and started her journey, heading back
in the direction from which she’d come.

Chapter Five

The morning dew,
still clinging to the reedy grass along the stream, dampened the knees of
Sarah’s pants as she knelt to fill her canteens. Bubbles gurgled to the surface
when she sank the first container into the crystal water. She squinted against
the sun's brightness glancing off the glassy liquid and finally looked away.
Just downstream, the stony bed widened, and the gentle flow passing over a
cluster of bigger rocks, turned into surging rapids. At that moment, a large
fish leapt into the air then dropped with a splat back into the faster-moving
current, and then, she imagined, it continued on its way. Sarah wished her
travel could be so easy.

She filled the
second canteen and stood, brushing strands of grass from her knees. It would be
awhile before she came upon water again, she knew that from the trip to this
point, but if she drank modestly, her supply would last. With a deep breath,
she eyed the empty trail, wondering exactly how far it was back to
civilization. She wasn’t very good at judging distance, but the last town
they’d passed through was days away. Her biggest worry was not how far, but
what lay between here and there.

She recalled the
wagon master’s speech on departure day. Mr. Simms had calculated that with
perfect weather it would take the train at least five months to reach California. Everyone had
laughed when he emphasized ‘perfect,’ knowing there was no such thing. Frequent
thunderstorms and barn-flattening winds were common on the prairie, and freak
snowstorms sometimes dusted the higher plains. The captain had expected the
wagons to travel about ten miles a day and Mother Nature had cooperated. Then
the Indians came. She crinkled her brow as those horrid images flooded back.
Sarah didn’t even know which tribe had attacked the train; she just knew she
didn’t want to encounter them again.

Putting the painful
memories away, she turned back to estimating her journey. The wagons had left Independence just eighteen
days ago. She figured she was about two hundred miles out, at most.

Council Grove! The
name of the last town the train passed through popped into her mind. She’d seen
it lettered across the front of the trading post when she went in to get a few
supplies. Mr. Simms had halted the train with a warning that it would be the last
settlement until they reached Salt
Lake, but she’d already
stocked the wagon with plenty of dried meat, coffee, crackers, potatoes and
cornmeal. All she needed was more bacon and eggs to refresh what she’d used so
far. A lot of good it did, she thought, picturing the Indians enjoying her
purchases and everything else they toted away.

She kicked a dirt
clod and heaved a sigh. Being afoot wasn’t the problem; she’d made most of the
trip that way, so nothing had changed… except this time she walked all alone.

 
She began following the clearly-marked trail,
appreciating the fact that she didn’t have to slug through the prairie grass
growing along the perimeter. Tics and chiggers were abundant in thick
vegetation. Countless wagons moving west had wiped away any growth that once
flourished in the now deeply-rutted dirt. Still, she watched her steps
carefully. The last thing she needed was a twisted ankle. Her foot still
smarted from where the Indian had stepped on it.

Adjusting the
canteens in a crisscrossed pattern over her chest, she pulled her leather hat
low against the ascending sun. As Sarah walked, she thought about the distance
the wagon train had covered. They’d followed the Kansas
River just past St. Mary’s and then taken the ferry across. It
took most of the day to get their small party to the other side, but at least
they hadn’t lost anyone to drowning as she had heard happened on some of the
other caravans. Mr. Simms continually warned everyone about the dangers of
water crossings, prairie fires, and being crushed beneath the mammoth wagon
wheels. He also spoke of buffalo stampedes, but luckily, they hadn’t seen any.
Her heart thudded nervously, hoping her luck held out. She certainly didn’t
want to cross paths with anything that traveled in a herd.

She thought back to
her apprehension at embarking alone with a bunch of strangers on a wagon train.
That had been nothing compared to this. What she wouldn’t give to trade those
nervous jitters for what roiled in her stomach now. She urged her mind to travel
back to more pleasant times.

 
After only two days of travel with the
caravan, her fears disappeared. The people were friendly, and everyone pitched
in to help one another. A few families had trekked across country before, but
it was easily apparent that she wasn't the only one new to the adventure. Her
mouth curled into a smile as she remembered mornings filled with lusty cries of
“all set” as the wagons prepared to move, followed soon by “stretch out” to
keep one Conestoga from running into another. Once in a while, the “stretch
out” turned to “catch up,” as some folks straggled. Mr. Simms had his hands
full. Recalling his undignified death misted her eyes with tears.

 
Sarah’s stomach loudly grumbled. Liquid no
longer filled the hollow feeling in her belly. Her mouth watered as she thought
of Ma’s freshly baked bread covered with butter, the best Sarah had ever
tasted. She pictured the half-gallon crocks of milk always stored in the
coolness of the springhouse, each covered by a square piece of board so that
one could be stacked atop another. In the evening, she and Ma would skim the
cream from the top of each container, let it set for the night, and then churn
it into a wonderful spread for Ma’s baked goods. If milk soured, Ma used the
clabbered liquid to make her famous pancakes. What Sarah wouldn’t give to enjoy
those tastes
again.