Bright Morning Star (15 page)

Today, they were back at the front of the wagon train. Claire had taken the time to comb her hair into a neat chignon and again wore the tan Lindsey-Woolsey to walk in. She made sure the bonnet was on snug to hide her face and she walked along beside the wagon, shoulders hunched and head bowed. With each step she felt the tears floating at the edge of her eyes threaten to spill.

It had taken all her courage to crawl out of the back of the wagon to join the others for breakfast. That people were talking about her, thinking that of her. It still hurt to think that her mother had come to talk to her, warn her to be more, be less attractive.

It hadn’t helped that Bella and Henry had come to breakfast, happy and fussing over little Barney. There was something about the way they stood so close together. The way they were looking at each other cut yet another wound for her.

Dawn was breaking over the horizon and without other animals to spoil the view, she could see the vast beauty of the horizon. She didn’t want to settle for the third and fourth, or heaven help them, 10
th
and 11
th
again. At least, leading off, Barney would be able to breathe easier today. At least, there was that to be thankful for.

Suddenly Father and Henry were racing back, screaming. “Circle the wagons. Women and children secure. Indians.”

It was not until she heard the last word that Claire raised her head. Eyes flaring, she was shocked when Henry leaned down to circle her waist and sweep her up. As soon as he released her over the tailgate, she scrambled inside screaming for Mother and Mary Anne. All three worked frantically together to move the boxes. Father had described so many times how to make a wall of crates.

The jostling wagon made it hard, but in minutes, they crowded into the square hole, Mary Anne squeezed between them. Claire jerked to pull the mattress down over their heads, then shoved one of the boxes that shifted back into place. She heard panicked animals, screaming and bellowing as men shouted and swore outside. Again, she braced the shifting crates as the wagon jostled and wheeled onto the weed choked land on the other side of the rutted trail.

Even before the wagons were fully stopped, they heard the whiz of arrows and the patter of bullets cutting through the canvas overhead. The women clasped hands and curled lower over Mary Anne. The sheets still on the mattress flapped in the light filtering through the canvas as they tried to crouch there, knees burning, hearts pounding. Now they heard the fire of their own guns, the noise and smoke quickly filling the small space, taking the breath from their lungs.

In minutes, it was over.

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It seemed an hour that they lay, cramped there, before Claire raised the end of the mattress and dared to look out. The sun was still shining, the cattle calmly reached down to eat the grass at their feet. “What’s happening, she called?”

Her father answered from near the front of the wagon. “We saw Indians on the plain, circling a large wagon train. A couple saw us, broke away toward us.”

“We were lucky, the terrain was flat. We’d just passed a big hill where they could have fired down on us,” Henry added.

“As soon as we got the first wagons started circling, we turned and fired at the Indians. There were a half-dozen or so by then,” Father Wimberley said.

“Did they look like that chief that stole Bonnie?” Claire asked.

“I don’t believe they were,” Henry answered from nearby.

“These were nearly naked, with painted faces and bodies, even their horses were painted,” Tom said, his voice still full of excitement.

Mary Anne pushed out from under the mattress to stick her head out through the back of the wagon. “No fair, why didn’t you take shelter in the Lambton’s wagon? You heard Father Wimberley yell all women and children secured,” she shouted.

As the boys began to argue why they weren’t children, the women in other wagons could be heard talking to their husbands, fathers, and brothers.

“Can we come out now,” Mother asked, “it’s sweltering under here.”

“We shot at them,” the boys were telling Mary Anne. The little girl looked in awe as Jim held up the Lambton’s shotgun, Tom held the Wimberley’s overhead and shook it.

“We shot two and they fell,” Henry said.

“I shot one of their horses and blew its leg off,” Tom said without excitement. Claire climbed down and started to move to the horrified boy, but Father shook his head and restrained her.

Your wagon was in the lead,” Henry. “How are Bella and Barney?” Mother asked.

The man raced away. When they heard his gasp of horror, both women rushed forward and Father held the three children beside him.

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Claire pushed past the other two to see Bella first. “Take Barney, she heard Bella’s whisper. Trembling, Claire looked into the box and sighed when she saw Barney’s white face and heard his soft little whine. She took the boy as gently as possible as Mother and Henry moved Bella back to her bed.

Claire held the boy, softly patting his back, listening to the gurgle of his labored breath. She felt overwhelmed with guilt. She had done this. If Henry had rushed to his own wagon first, Bella would be safe now.

Claire stayed in the tight circle as other women and children poured out from cramped shelter, families checking to see who else might be hurt. Men still waited, armed at the gaps between the wagons, ready to fight back against the next wave of death. In the distance they heard the firing between the other wagon train and the Indians there.

Suddenly, Father strode into the middle of the circle. “Men, get your guns and be ready. We’re moving down there to join the other wagons.”

“Are you crazy, we chased them off here,” Kaye Raglon yelled. “Let them see to themselves.”

Father stood there, his gun clenched in his hand and Claire imagined it was Kaye Raglon’s throat. The woman must have read the same warning in his face because she backed up against her son.

“Men, if we don’t go and they break through to kill those travelers, we’re next. The only hope we have is to join forces, not sit here and wait to see which side wins. You men mount up or take control of your wagons. Women and children back into the wagon beds again. Any shot you have at an Indian, take it.”

Ignoring the protests, Father mounted on Bob and motioned to the lads to climb into the wagon with Mary Anne. He yelled and a white-faced Henry emerged from the Lambton’s wagon, blood on his hand. Claire raced to climb over the tailgate, carrying Bella’s son to her.

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Horses might race and a wagon train have speed, but it was as hard to get the oxen turned and into motion onto the trail as it had been circling them in the first place. Once in motion, the big lead oxen set a good pace and the others followed along so that the wagons stayed together.

Claire saw her mother bounce against the side of the wagon. Frantically, she climbed onto the bench to hold the reins, unable to avoid the blood on the seat. Her bonnet was flung back by the wind. It was choking her, but she didn’t dare move a hand to untie it.

The men on horseback sped ahead, firing in a single volley at the clump of Indians regrouping below. The effect was instantaneous. An Indian sagged in the saddle as riders from the wagon train charged out as well, firing into the mass of Indians. Like a heat devil, the outnumbered Indians boiled away into the haze.

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Claire stood outside the Lambton’s wagon, her hands red from the sawing of the reins and from the blood on the bench. There was a brown sticky patch of it on her skirt and she felt nauseous every time the fabric swung against her. Her mother had walked off with Barney to try some salve on his throat and a little mint tea to try to clear his breathing.

Their eleven wagons had been moved, the bed of the wagons blocking any gaps between the wagons of the larger train. Their forty-plus wagons had left Independence two days before they did. It said a lot for her father’s ability as a leader, that the slower oxen had gained a day on the faster group with their horses and mules.

The train had been attacked before first light the previous day with a barrage of flaming arrows. Four of their party were wounded, as they poured out of their wagons that morning in a panic. None of those wounds had been critical. Then the Indians had raced at them, guns blazing as they seemed to disappear from sight on the opposite side of their horses. There had been four waves of attacks. The last had taken the life of a four year old child.

They didn’t know if they had hit a single Indian but they were now low on ammunition, so many shots had been fired. They were out of water and desperate. Two wounded mules had been shot last night, and both were now being eaten by the exhausted travelers.

Luckily, their animals had been in the center of the wagons or the Indians would have taken all of them. Today, the Indians had returned with more braves.

In the bright sunlight, one of the wagons still burned. The stench of the burning goods lingered, or maybe that was the smell of cooked mule. Claire shuddered at the thought of eating one of their own horses or cattle. On a journey like this, people who were dependent on their animals for their life, became suddenly fond of them.

She stepped closer to see the burning wagon, but all that remained was the charred wooden frame. She heard one of the men tell Father, “This is our second day, Although the Indians had not made much progress, firing into the circle as they rode around the circle of frightened people, screaming the whole time they rode, the Indians had worn out their nerves. The wagon master confided they were almost out of water and were relieved to have the oxen train join them.

Father listened sympathetically, then announced to his own men that they were leaving. “If you’ve got any sense you’ll move out with us. Like you said, they can go home and get more braves. There were enough of them to wipe out Custer’s cavalry. I don’t want to see how many men they’ve got this time.”

“Don’t you want to stay, share our food, share your water?”

“Let’s share on the move,” he turned to look for the twins who came running. “Move our wagon ahead of that burned one. We’ll fasten it on behind and pull it to the fort for them.”

“Mister, we lost two of our mules,” one of the travelers protested.

“We’ve got this wagon, use those mules, but I’m making dust.”

With that Claire scrambled up into the back of Bella’s wagon, relieved to see the twins now prodding their teams into motion.

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Claire sat holding Bella’s hand as the woman moaned in pain. She knew Henry would prefer to be here than riding out to fight Indians or move the wagons. Again, Claire wished she were Bonnie instead. The tall woman was a crack shot and Father would probably prefer her to Henry. Father would want to be here beside his own wife.

Claire rocked at the pain of the word. Guilt again filled her. She had convinced the Lambton’s to take their turn at the front of the train three nights ago. Barney was slowly choking to death on the cloud of trail dust stirred up by the oxen. She had been trying to help. Both had been too proud to ask any favors of Father, and he had given up arguing with Henry. It was part of Claire’s atonement for causing problems for the troubled couple.

Claire felt tears drop on their clasped hands, sniffled and raised her free hand to cover her mouth so she didn’t sob out loud. This woman was dying in agony and there was nothing she could do to ease her pain or stop it. Guilt continued to stab through her. Suddenly, she reached into her pocket, touched the familiar comfort of her beads and drew a deep, slow breath. In minutes, Bella’s ragged breathing slowed and her moaning changed to a soft whimper as she slept despite the pain.

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Henry left the men as soon as the wagons all settled into an easy pace, galloping back toward his own wagon. Fear for what he might find goaded him. Whatever happened, he would have to face it. At least he and Bella had last night. Without the peace of their new understanding, now would be unbearable.

As he drew up on the outside of the wagon, he peeked inside the billowing canvas. Claire sat, eyes closed in prayer, holding Bella’s hand. Quickly Henry dismounted and tied the lathered horse to the back of the wagon before climbing inside. Despite his noisy entrance, neither woman looked his way, although he did see Bella’s eyelids flutter.

For a minute he paused there, wishing it was last night and he was still making-up for the fight over the girl across from her, with Bella. Did Claire even remember that Bella was Jewish? He watched the girl, so like his wife in size and structure, so different in every other way. Where Bella was dark and severe, Claire was light and gay. This was the stillest and quietest he had ever seen the girl. Her mouth always twitched with the hint of a smile and her eyes seemed to dance in merriment. She lived for fashion and beauty, loved a good joke, and danced like a butterfly.

He swore under his breath as Bella’s eyes opened and she seemed to nail him with one last look. Henry knelt beside the bed, taking her free hand, pressing his lips to her small, cold fingers.” Bar..”