The Long Way Home (5 page)

‘‘Quinine or morphine?’’

‘‘Quinine. The malaria is killing our men fast as the Union bullets.’’

C
HAPTER
F
OUR
West of Fort Laramie
July 2, 1863

‘‘You shouldn’t be out here!’’

‘‘Mr. Lyons, since my animals are part of this herd, I have as much responsibility as anyone else to ride night watch.’’

Nate rode up beside her. ‘‘I know that, but this ain’t no place for a lady.’’

At least the conversation made staying awake easier. Jesselynn knew she’d never live it down if she fell off her horse for sleeping. She was so far beyond tired that her hands felt numb.

‘‘Come on, Mr. Lyons, you know about how long it’s been since I got to think and act like a lady, let alone look like one. Besides, you’re not relieving me but rather that young lad over there. Did you bring a rifle?’’

‘‘Yup.’’ He slapped the gunstock on his right side. ‘‘Why? You see anythin’ suspicious?’

‘‘No, just a feeling.’’ She whistled for Patch and started to ride on around the herd, then stopped. ‘‘Any sign of Cobalt yet?’’

‘‘Not that I know of.’’

Jesselynn shook her head and continued to circle the grazing herd. While the animals would normally have bedded down by now, the storm and ensuing panic had prevented them from filling their bellies. The coyotes yipped again, their wild music bringing the hair on the back of her neck to attention.

The hoofbeats of the young man heading back to camp told where he was. A dog barked from the circled wagons. Patch growled low in his throat.

‘‘What is it, boy?’’ Jesselynn kept her voice to a whisper and her ears on full alert. Crickets sang, slowed to a hush, and then picked up their notes. The only part of Patch she could see was the one white cocked ear. Otherwise, his dark fur blended into the shadows. A cloud hovered over the half-moon, a reminder of the now passed storm.

She should have taken Meshach’s advice and gotten some sleep before riding the herd. Doctoring the wounded and comforting the grieving took a toll on a body, but at the time she’d been too keyed up to even think about sleeping. She’d thought of moving the herd in sight of the circled wagons, but the cattle needed rest as bad as the people.

Patch growled again and, with a yip, took off around the edge of the herd. Jesselynn wheeled Chess, the gelding they’d saved from death by bullet wounds, and followed the dog. She yanked her rifle from the scabbard as Chess leveled out. Cocking the hammer with her thumb, she heard a yip and a snarl. She eased back on the reins, Chess slid to a halt, and she raised the rifle butt to her shoulder. More yips and snarls, and then Patch’s barking.

‘‘Coyotes.’’ She nudged her horse back to a trot and followed her ears. The moon released its hold on the cloud in time for her to see three coyotes feinting and attacking the snarling dog. She took aim, fired, and levered another bullet into the chamber before firing again. A yelp, retreating yips, and Patch streaked after the two departing coyotes, one lying dead.

‘‘Some shot.’’ Nate Lyons rode up to stop beside Jesselynn. ‘‘How’d you see ’im good enough to hit?’’

‘‘Pure luck or heavenly intervention. I go for the latter.’’ She whistled, and Patch came panting back to sit beside the horse, tongue lolling and tail wagging. ‘‘Good dog.’’ She dismounted and stooped to scuff his ears. Her nose took a licking, and Patch put his front feet on her knees. ‘‘Yeah, real good dog.’’ She thumped him on the rib cage and swung back aboard her mount. Waving her arm, she sent the dog back to circling the herd.

‘‘He’s better’n two riders.’’ Nate turned off in the other direction. ‘‘Think he can spot Indians like that?’’

‘‘I sure do hope he never has to.’’ But the hair settled to where it belonged on the back of her neck, and the breeze kicked up signaling the coming day. Another rider came from the camp to tell her the camp news and take her place. She filled him in on what happened with the coyotes and headed back to her wagon—and bed.

At least the final wagon had been found, and Cobalt returned with it to camp.

Everyone spent the next day repairing what could be salvaged from the destruction. Meshach’s forge ran from before sunrise to long after sunset. The dead oxen and one mule were hung and cut up, having been bled and gutted the night before. Tents of drying strips of beef hung over the fires, fueled by a couple of dead trees dragged down from the hills. The older children were set to keeping the fires smoldering to smoke the meat while it dried. The younger ones, under the supervision of Jane Ellen, were instructed to find dried cow or buffalo chips to supplement the wood supply.

Jesselynn awoke to the sound of two men arguing at the top of their lungs.

‘‘I say that’s my barrel and I kin prove it.’’

‘‘Huh, got mine in the same store, same brand burned in the bottom.’’

‘‘Why, you no good, sniveling dog’s belly, if’n I din’t know better, I’d—’’ The mushy thud of fist on face kept her apprised of their continued actions.

‘‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’’ Cobalt was breaking up the fight.

Jesselynn lay in her bedroll, not even bothering to look out from under the wagon bed. At least the wagon master could break up fights. Of course if he’d done his wagon mastering right, there might not have been call for an argument.

‘‘Soon as y’all can manage, I’d like to have a meetin’ over by my wagon.’’

She knew he was speaking to the men, but the women would be there too. They had just as great, or greater, a stake in the trip ahead. Men decided to go. Women had to make the trip happen. But then, wasn’t that the way of the world? She thought to the verses Meshach had read a few days before. God told Abraham to gather up his family and flocks and head out across the desert, but Jesselynn knew who did the gathering and the packing and the saying good-bye—Sarah. And Abraham couldn’t even tell her where they were going or why, other than that the Lord told him to do so. Things didn’t seem to have changed much in the years since then.

Some days Jesselynn felt sure the Lord was leading them to Oregon, and other days she wondered. Like today. She hauled herself out of the quilt, slammed her feet into her boots, and wished for a pitcher, nay a tub of hot water, to wash the dust from every inch of her body and clothing. Back home at Twin Oaks there had been lazy mornings to bathe and dress, but not for her since her mother died and even less since the war began.

She’d planned on spending some time with her journal and catching up on the bookwork, but now she’d have to be at that meeting, whether Cobalt wanted her there or not.

‘‘Thanks.’’ She accepted the mug of hot coffee Ophelia offered her and retrieved a strip of smoked meat from the drying rack. Steam rising from the bubbling kettle told her they’d have stew for dinner, same as everyone else. She gnawed on the stringy meat as she surveyed the bustling camp. Those that weren’t repairing wagons and harnesses used the unexpected break to wash clothes. Nate Lyons had a group of children gathered at his feet as he explained the times tables. Ever since he took over the schooling of the young’uns, he’d not lacked for dinner and supper invitations.

She tossed the dregs in her cup into the coals and dipped a cup of cold water out of the barrel tied to the side of the wagon. They’d poured water from the Platte River through several layers of cheesecloth to strain out the bugs that coated the surface of the water. Most likely the river was higher, too, after that rainstorm. She studied the hooped canvas above the barrel. At home they’d run downspouts from the roof right into barrels to collect the soft rainwater for using in the house and especially for washing hair. Nothing felt better than long hair washed with soft rainwater. Her head itched for just such a treatment. The walnut dye she’d used as a disguise when she donned her men’s britches had mostly worn off, and her hair had grown out nearly long enough to tie back with a thong. Soon she would be able to braid it. Soon she would look like a woman again.

Shame that Wolf wouldn’t be there to see the transformation. The thought brought her up short, her teeth still implanted in the stringy slice of half-dried meat. Here, she hadn’t been out of bed an hour yet, and she’d already thought about him. She sighed, and fetching her hat from under her bedroll, she clapped it on her head and tucked her deerskin-covered quilt into its customary place in the wagon. Like her mother always said,
‘‘A place for everything, and everything in its place.’’

But her place had been a plantation named Twin Oaks. The memory of the big white-pillared house caught at her chest and burned behind her eyes. No way could she think of Twin Oaks being burned to the ground. It lived on in her memory, the fine white house shaded by ancient magnolia trees, a veranda for rocking chairs and neighborly chats, green rolling fields of grass, grain, and tobacco, and barns, wonderful old barns with box stalls for the Thoroughbreds raised there.

Jesselynn swallowed a sob and turned at the sound of Cobalt’s voice calling them to the meeting. With a snort, she headed across the circle. Didn’t take a college professor to figure what he was going to say. If he’d thought making time so important that he’d not circled the wagons, he’d surely be pushing for the shortcut now. The man just didn’t understand that rushing and shortcuts most always took longer in the long run.

She let the others draw in closer, fairly certain that she’d be arguing with Cobalt before too much discussion commenced. Within moments Nate Lyons flanked her on one side, Mrs. McPhereson on the other. She could sense Meshach right behind her.

‘‘I called you good folks here to say publicly how sorry I am we got caught in the rainstorm like that.’’ Cobalt stood on a block of wood so he could be seen and heard by all.

Jesselynn waited for him to admit his mistake, but as he picked up his pace, she realized she’d wait until the hot place froze over. One more mark against Cobalt. He wasn’t man enough to take the blame for three deaths, scores of injuries, and the destruction of wagons and goods.

Nate hawked and spat off to the side. Jesselynn knew it for the statement it was. If she were a man, she’d do the same.

‘‘Easy now.’’

The whisper from behind her said she was doing something that gave Meshach a chance to read her mind. She dropped her hunched shoulders and sucked in a straightening breath.
God, help us, please, to do what’s best
. Only through force of will did she keep her mouth shut and listen.

‘‘I’m hoping we can be on the trail again by tomorrow. . . .’’

Several groans met that statement, and many were shaking their heads.

‘‘Or the next day at the latest. I know some of you disagree with me, but I think we have no choice but to take the shortcut. We can cut days off our travel time and—’’

‘‘What about water?’’ Jesselynn kept her voice deep in the hope he’d think someone else was talking.

‘‘Far as I have heard, there is water shortage only in dry seasons. We all know this ain’t been much for dry.’’

Someone snickered. Someone muttered. Another spoke up. ‘‘And the hills are steeper, the trail rougher.’’

‘‘Now that’s all a matter of opinion. I hear tell that there’s been Indian trouble on the regular route.’’

Had there been? If so, how come none of the rest of them had heard that news?

‘‘What you hear about savages?’’ This came from across the crowd.

‘‘That they attacked one train. Got it from one of the soldiers at the fort.’’

More rumblings and mutterings, people talking with those around them.

‘‘Now, y’all know that if you don’t like what I propose, you can head on back to Fort Laramie and wait for another train, if another one comes along, that is.’’

‘‘Or we could go it on our own.’’

Jesselynn strained on her tiptoes to see who was talking.

‘‘True, but I been there and back two, three times. You got to admit experience counts for something.’’

‘‘If he’s so experienced, why didn’t he circle the wagons and prevent the stampede?’’ Jesselynn spoke loud enough only for her friends around her to hear, but a couple in front of them turned to see who had spoken. A man, clad in a black leather vest over a once white shirt, nodded. The sling holding his right arm gave mute testimony to the tragedy of the night before.

‘‘Any news about Indians on the route you want to take?’’

‘‘Not that I know of.’’

‘‘The land’s so rough even the Indians don’t want it,’’ Jesselynn muttered under her breath. She’d heard someone talking at the fort about how hot the area could get in July and August. Hot weather, no water, steep hills—didn’t add up to her.

‘‘So let’s have a show of hands. How many of you are with me on takin’ the shorter route?’’

Hands raised slowly, as if unsure of the decision, but it looked like about everyone signed on.

‘‘And those wantin’ to go the usual route?’’

Jesselynn shot her hand in the air, followed by those around her. The couple in front raised theirs too.

‘‘Well, since we live in a democratic country where majority rules, guess we’ll be takin’ the shortcut, the safe route.’’ The look he shot her made Jesselynn clench her fists. Had she been a man, he’d have taken her comments more seriously, she was sure of it. By the mutterings and stirrings she heard, she wondered if the answer would have been the same had the women been allowed a voice. Not that they couldn’t yet put some pressure on their husbands.

‘‘I’ll be around to check on the repairs tonight. If we can leave in the mornin’, so much the better. ’Bout sundown we’ll have a buryin’ service if’n y’all want to come. I asked Mr. Lyons if he would read a few words over the graves.’’

With that, the meeting broke up, and everyone went back to their chores. Meshach pumped the bellows to heat up the forge again and the sound of his hammer on the anvil rang through the camp.

Jesselynn headed back to their camp and found the mother of the girl with the broken leg, with a knot on her forehead the size of a pullet’s first egg, waiting at the Highwood wagon. ‘‘Kin you come look on my little girl again? She be awful hot to the touch.’’

‘‘Of course. Do you have some willow bark to make tea?