A Penny Down the Well: A Short Story Collection of Horrifying Events (25 page)

“
It seems a tad bit
foolish to be eating of a cow that was likely sick, don’t you
think, Jim?” Floyd asked. Of course, this didn’t stop him from
eating away, or anyone else.

Jim shrugged. “Well, we
could have a dead cow, or we could kill the cow before it’s too
sick. These cow sicknesses, Floyd, they ain’t the same as our
sicknesses. This stuff doesn’t make us sick the same. Better to eat
the thing then for it to die off. It wasn’t going to get any better
and the land isn’t going to become any more
accommodating.”

Floyd nodded, agreeing
somewhat with the rationale of the man. Jim was a greater expert
with the cattle than Floyd was, however it was impossible for Floyd
to not consider some of his own education in medicine. It made some
sense that the dangers weren’t applicable, and fire, under most
circumstances, was a purifier. He’d made sure his and Hattie’s food
was well done. The rest of the meat would be dried to be
maintained.

Harriet watched the Indian
men sitting beside Grant, who was also enjoying a hearty meal. She
noticed the two men were simply staring into the fire, without a
meal of their own. It brought Hattie to question Grant.

“
Why aren’t they eating,
Mr. Vickers? Aren’t they hungry? They need to eat, too, don’t
they?” Harriet asked, nodding in the direction of the two men. In
that moment, she observed them, too. They both had a sun-touched,
brown skin, one of the two seeming a bit more exposed to the sun
than the other, for the roughness of the texture of his skin, which
could be seen with the illumination of the fire. Both of them wore
long, black hair beyond their shoulders, which was unnatural of men
in Hattie’s culture, one even with braids, which were absolutely
reserved for girls and women. They dressed similarly to Grant and
Jim, with leathers and American-style clothing; nothing like the
tales of the savage Indians in tribes throughout the continent. The
way they were dressed, in fact, was one of the things that was most
settling about the two being a part of the group. It only slightly
outweighed their near-absolute silence, which might have been
because of their lack of understanding for the English
language.

Grant looked over to his
counterparts. “Their tribe isn’t the meat-eating sort. A lot of
superstition around the eating of meat with them. What I understand
is that they believe that if you eat the meat of a creature, its
strengths become your strengths. The same, its weaknesses become
your weaknesses. Their tribe eats meat in certain ceremonies and
rituals, but not commonly. They’re very selective. They never eat
cattle, either.” Grant said, wrapping up his tale with a bite into
the steak.

Harriet watched Mr.
Vickers as he bit into the tough meat of the cow, watching the
juices spray out the side of his mouth, each spackle illuminated
with glowing fire like spring dew on the morning grass. The sounds
of Vickers chewing seemed to resonate until the crushing and
tenderizing of the chewed meat sounded like a train heading
Harriet’s way. She only snapped out of the intense moment when
Floyd poked at her arm.

“
Harriet?” He
asked.

Harriet blinked her eyes a
times before recognizing her husband through the fading glaze.
“I-I’m sorry, Floyd. T-That’s an interestin’ story, Mr. Vickers. I
didn’t know such beliefs existed in these native tribes. An unusual
practice.”

Grant shrugged. “Is it?
The Holy Bible is full of ritualistic practices and warnings about
profane foods. Of course, not many people follow those rules. We
happen to like a little bit of profanity, us people.”

Harriet smirked, though
the men in the party laughed; all except the two Indian fellows,
who now kept an eye on Harriet. Harriet herself no longer had much
of an appetite for the meat and decided she would call it a
night.

The men spent the evening
talking, some of them drinking and sharing stories before they head
off to sleep themselves. The night was a peaceful one until a
strange sound stirred Harriet from her slumber.

***

April 18, 1847

Last night, I was privy to
the most pecular thing... while I was sleeping, I herd the sounds
of men chanting words Ive never herd before. I woke up to look out
of my tent and saw that it was the two Indian fellas and they were
still awake over the fire. The sounds were only part of whatever it
was they were doin. There were feathers in their hands and they
were shakin them back and forth. The eyes of one of the two men
were wite, like they were rolled back in his hed. The one with the
feathers, he threw some dust into the fire and it made the fire
rise high before it came back down. I swear to you, I saw somethin
in that fire. I cant explain it to you, but it wasnt just flames.
Im going to talk with Floyd about it when I have a chance. I know
we need these Indians to help. I just hope that they dont beckon
anything thats gonna make this worse.

Sincerely,

Hattie

***

Harriet did have a chance
to tell Floyd about what she saw, many days later, when they were
alone, talking late at night. Floyd warned Harriet to mind her
business when it came to the Indian guides. Floyd reminded her that
native people of America were very superstitious and that they
believed in “nature gods” that were very different than the
Christian god they knew. He advised her that their practices may
seem foreign, like voodoo or witchcraft, but it was their own, in
their own land, and it was their right, in this undeveloped section
of America more than any, to practice their faith as they saw fit.
Finally, he reminded her that there was no danger in their
practice.

The issue of danger was
what concerned Harriet most of all. Harriet wasn’t as sure as Floyd
was about the potential danger of the Indian’s practices. She
wondered if they were casting curses instead of wards of
protection. She thought maybe the Indians were finding a way to get
revenge for all of their tribesmen that were killed by the colonial
settlers many years ago, or revenge on those taking their lands
from them. She was afraid of the silent, dark men. It took all she
could manage to trust her husband and Mr. Vickers, who assured her
time and time again that they were a safe party.

Time went on and
travelling became a terribly boring affair. The group had been
lucky with the majority of their travel, as the provisions brought
along sufficed fairly, the wagon held up short of a few wheels and
tears in the canvas top, the cattle were strong despite occasional
shortages of grazing lands and sickness strayed from the Greyson
party in ways that it hadn’t with some of the other travelling
groups that had already given members to God. As was with anything,
everything was eventual, and when entering the desiccated Midwest,
the axle of the wagon gave with a sharp snap and caused an
immediate halt of the group. Harriet, who was in the wagon, grasped
on to all she could with the sudden jolt of the mechanical failure
and shouted out to her husband with worry.

“
Floyd! Floyd, what’s the
matter out there? Did something happen?” Always thinking of the
worst before the best.

“
Come on out, Harriet!
Step on out of the wagon. Oh! Oh, son of a bitch! Son of a bitch,
we broke an axle, I think!” It was unusual for Floyd to curse, but
the fact that he did said something about the severity of the
situation.

Harriet emerged carefully
from the wagon, with the escort of Mr. Vickers who was already
standing a step or two behind Hank. Hank was assessing the
situation with the wagon, only to give a nod back to Floyd and to
his assumption of the axle.

“
It’s an axle alright.
This will take a while to repair, Mr. Greyson. I know it’s still
early, but I don’t think we’re moving much more today. We’re going
to have to move around some of the provisions. Take them out of the
wagon, keep them close by. I’ll see if we have everything we need
to get this going again, but I think we may have to wait for one of
the travelling parties to catch up with us, maybe to lend a hand.”
Hank frowned to the thought. He knew, much as the others did, that
the Greyson party was some time ahead of the others. It could have
been hours, or even a day or so, before the other groups caught up
to them to help with the replacement of the integral part of the
wagon’s structure. “We’ll do what we can. Com’on, let’s get this
stuff off of the wagon.”

Hank then worked with the
members from the party to begin moving things around to accommodate
the maintenance that had to be done. Harriet helped best she could,
concerned about having much of their provisions exposed, as well as
many of their personal items. The wagon had become something of a
home for Harriet and it felt as though it were being ransacked. The
experience gave her a bit of perspective, however. It reminded her
of the reality of travelling, of what she was really a part of, and
how things could go from good to bad in a moment.

When everything was
appropriated for the maintenance, the group did what they could to
try and get the wagon back in working order. The few efforts they
gave were unsuccessful, however, and Hank advised the group on the
matter as the sun was falling in the West; on the horizon of the
land they now longed for.

“
We’ll need some help, for
sure. I think with a couple more hands, with the break we’ve got
down there, it shouldn’t be a whole lot more trouble. But we’ll get
everything taken care of.” Hank said, dirty and sweaty beneath the
falling sun. He wiped at his hands while waiting for the decision
from Floyd and Grant.

Floyd crossed his arms in
frustration. He thought for a moment, hoping to discover some sort
of resolve. It was the falling sun, however, that told him that no
more progress would be made this day and it would be best they
waited for the next of the travelling parties to arrive before they
moved on. With that decision, Floyd looked back toward the East and
the direction they came. There was no sign of any of the travelling
groups headed west. No lights flickered in the distance, a distance
that was visible for miles from this part of the country. Instead,
the group prepared a fire, a meal and their tents for the evening,
prepared to do all that they could and wait. Eventually, someone
arrived, in the cool twilight hours, but it wasn’t who the group
expected or hoped for.

***

It was a shout that broke
the dull droning sound of the nocturnal insects, a sound that
became an equal to silence to those submit to it for a long enough
time, as the Greyson party had been. The shout was of a voice
unfamiliar to Harriet, who stirred in the bedroll beside her
husband, who hadn’t quite woke up himself. Harriet shoved at Floyd
sharply.

“
Floyd!” Harriet said in a
sharp whisper. “Floyd, wake up! There’s someone out
there!”

Floyd rolled with the
first shove before slowly opening his eyes and sitting up. “Someone
out there?” He didn’t bother to whisper, still responding in a
pseudo-unconsciousness. “Hattie, it’s got to be the middle of the
night. No party would be travelling at this time.”

It was then that the cover
of the tent was pulled swiftly open and a demonic image stared the
two in the eyes, its face painted with whites and reds, feathers
rising from its long black hair, bare chest covered in scars and
tribal markings. It shouted in words that were unfamiliar, but the
sound of them was enough to denote that they were threats. The
waving hands of the strange being suggested Harriet and Floyd leave
the tent immediately.

Disoriented and too afraid
to scream, both Floyd and Harriet rose with the foreign commands,
ushering themselves out of the tent toward the pit of smoldering
embers that held the evening’s fire. Most of the group was being
ushered out of their tents at the same time, and each of them
realized that it was a group of Indians that were corralling the
stranded party toward the fire.

Mr. Vickers stood next to
the two Indian guides from their own party, both of whom didn’t
seem to be receiving any sort of special treatment from what was
likely to a foreign tribe. The only one missing from the group was
Hank, and a spear-wielding soldier was shouting into his tent. The
loud, threatening sounds of the aggressive tribesman trying to get
Hank out of his tent were undermines by the thunderous crack of
gunfire from the tent. The Indian man dropped dead right in front
of Hank’s tent before the entire group of raiding tribesman rushed
the tent with their spears held high and began aimlessly plunging
the sharp weapons into the meager shelter. The tent gave way to
their stabbings and fell as burial sheet atop Hank, whose blood
oozed from and flung from the tent with each successive thrust.
Harriet, who had no doubt that Hank was dead beneath the relentless
assault, grabbed a hold of her husband, realizing that it was
likely they were next. Floyd held her firmly, watching the attack,
disturbed. Still, the entire party, short of the man they needed
most in their current dilemma with the wagon, held still, knowing
that it would be impossible to outrun the raiders.

Harriet whispered to her
husband. “I don’t want to die, Floyd! I don’t want to die today! I
wanted to be out West with you!”

Floyd gently brought a
hand to Harriet’s face, continuing to watch the excessive massacre
of their friend. His tone expressed clearly that he was both afraid
and about to tell a lie. “We aren’t going to die here today. We’ll
be alright.” And it was a lie only because he was uncertain of
their fate. He whispered prayers a moment later, aided by his
wife.