Leaving Independence (14 page)

Some of these folks were annoying and downright funny in their choice of things. It was all he could do not to belly-laugh at those Schroeders for getting bent out of shape over a chicken. And those mindless sheep! Who in his right mind had the patience for putting up with sheep? But the Douglas brothers were good at it. Alec and Baird were as patient with the sheep as they were with simple-minded Paddy. Hoke would have lost patience long ago if John Sutler or Tim Peters had been in charge of this train, but they weren’t. Dotson was. And Dotson was a man he could follow. Dotson had sense.

Hoke studied Abigail’s face again, eager to know what she thought of him, but he couldn’t tell.

“What made you leave Independence?” she asked.

It was the question he had dreaded, the one he had known she would ask. And he had thought he might tell her, but now he couldn’t. “Just restless.”

“So you traveled from Texas to Missouri, but you’ve not traveled this route?”

“No. I’ve seen the lower half of the Rockies but not the upper half.”

It didn’t seem either one of them could look on the other and lock the gaze. Each time he looked at her, she looked away as if not entirely willing to be known. And he did the same.

“Is the lower half where you marshaled? In Colorado?”

“Yes. I didn’t do it for long—only a year.”

“It must have been dangerous.”

“I been through some scrapes. You learn to do what it takes, or you die. It’s that simple. The will to live is a great teacher. Only real skill it takes is knowing how to track people.”

“And how to bring them in,” she corrected. “Staying alive when you find them.”

He winced. Then he caught her gaze and held it. “I didn’t like tracking men, then having to kill ’em when they started shooting back at me.”

There
. . .
he’d told her that much: that he’d killed men. Would she think less of him now for knowing it? He hadn’t forgotten the look she had in her eyes when she’d told him about her conversation with that man at the creek bank in Missouri, how troubled she’d seemed at the thought of one man killing another.

But she held his gaze, and he read no judgment in her eyes. Warm relief washed through him. He felt safe to continue.

“I always loved working with horses. My dad had a half-decent horse when he died. After I found myself alone I slept in a barn with that horse for a long time. That’s how I got to know Mr. Branson. He gave me my first job. It was always my favorite job. So I went back to working with horses after I met James.”

“And then you decided to come out here. To see new country.”

He watched her as she looked out over the land ahead of them. “Yeah.” He couldn’t tell her that he’d come because of her. He didn’t know how she felt about him and it was making him irritable, that and wondering if she really had a husband. All the evidence said she had one, so where was that nagging doubt in the back of his mind coming from? What would Hoke do
if
and
when
the husband showed up?

Do what he’d always done, he reckoned. Get up. Make coffee. Ride off. Survive.

What had Dotson said? The Oregon Trail was a road to anywhere.

He’d figure it out. It was just that for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to live only for himself. He wanted to make a difference for someone else. He felt like she and those kids could use a guy like him—or at least he could make their lives easier. They could sure make his life more meaningful
. . .
they already had in a short time, whether they realized it or not.

Something unexpected had happened to him. It had stolen in slow and subtle when he showed those boys how to hobble the mules, figured out why Corrine was so sassy, and held that sleeping angel in his arms. When Lina was sick his heart had actually burned inside his chest with worry. He’d never experienced anything like that before. Even the dog had captured his heart somehow.

She looked at him again. “What was it like, being in the army?”

He shrugged his shoulders, wondering how to answer. “Some men like it. I didn’t. Saw too many men let the power go to their heads. The farther west you go, the easier it is for officers to behave badly. Men like Colonel Dotson are rare. I saw one officer put a man in the stockade because he drank too much one night, and that same man had saved the officer’s life in an Indian skirmish the day before. That man would have died for his superior officer, but because his shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way the next morning and his shoes weren’t shined to the right sheen, he got drug off and punished for it. I can appreciate order and discipline as much as the next man, but some of the eastern rules don’t make a lot of sense out here.”

“But there are some men like the colonel. Some good ones?”

“Oh, sure. There are some great men in the army.” Was she wondering about her husband?

They rode in silence for a bit. Then Hoke, suddenly making up his mind, dismounted and stepped toward the filly. He reached in his shirt pocket, then reached for her hand. “I’ve been looking for a good time to give this back to you.” He laid the blue crocheted bag on her open palm, holding her hand between his own longer than he really had to, enjoying the feel of her skin next to his, and enjoying the sweep of her eyes rolling over each of his fingers. That was the second time she’d examined his hands. He wondered why.

He reluctantly stepped back and remounted as she pulled open the string.

“I don’t understand,” said Abigail.

“You overpaid me.”

She shook her head. “I did not. I underpaid you, if anything.”

“You overpaid me a hundred dollars.”

“Is this because my money was stolen? I don’t want you feeling sorry for us, Mr. Hoke.”

“Just Hoke. Look, I don’t feel right about keeping it knowing you may have need for it. I told you I was fine with six. I’m trying to do this in private, so don’t get up in airs about it, just take it.” Realizing he was on the verge of irritable again, he added, “Please.”

Abigail put the bag in her pocket and didn’t say anything for a while. Just when it started to worry him, she said, “What will you do in Oregon?”

He took his time answering. “I’m not sure I’m going all the way to Oregon.”

“Where are you going?”

“Haven’t decided yet. What about you?” He turned to look at her.

She looked away. “My husband is supposed to be at Fort Hall.”

“Supposed to be?”

“It’s a long story.”

They’d been climbing and had come to a plateau, far ahead of the train now. Hoke stopped and looked back behind them. The train was like a miniature moving village—like tiny children’s play toys.

“Looks like we’ve got time.”

Abigail hesitated. “He never came home,” she finally said. “So for a long time I believed he had been killed. But when I tried to claim his death benefits, a gentleman in the War Department said he was alive and serving at Fort Hall. In February I got a letter from him. It was short, but I remember it verbatim.
Abigail, it looks like you tracked me down.
” She turned in the saddle to face him. “How would you take that, Mr. Hoke?”

He opened his mouth to correct her—
just Hoke
—but thought better of it.

If Baldwyn hadn’t wanted to be tracked down, maybe Baldwyn didn’t want to be married anymore. If Baldwyn didn’t want to be married anymore, how was he going to feel when she showed up on his doorstep
. . .
with four kids and a dog in tow?

But what man in his right mind wouldn’t want such a woman? She was the most fascinating creature Hoke had ever met.

He started to answer, then stopped himself and glanced over at her. She was looking down, so he studied her, from her blond wisps of hair that had blown about in the wind, her flushed cheeks washed by the falling tears, the white blouse she wore under a black vest, the green skirt, the tall leather boots. Curse the man who would ever walk out on her
. . .
who would make her cry.

“I don’t know how I’d take it,” he said.

Abigail looked up at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “I feel like our lives have been hanging in the crook of a question mark for years. I’m tired of feeling helpless and not knowing what the future holds.” She nodded once, decisively. “I’ve come on this trip in search of answers.”

Hoke’s heart went out to her. Baldwyn had put her in a bad spot. Somehow his behavior didn’t match up with the feelings Hoke had gotten about him, though, by watching her and the children. It didn’t sound like it matched with her own feelings about Baldwyn, either.

War could do strange things to a man.

Something deep in Hoke’s gut was drawing him to Abigail Baldwyn. She was a good-looking woman, but it was more than that. There was something so fine about her—something that drew him like a spell. He didn’t understand it and couldn’t articulate it, but he was a patient man. He’d wait and see what happened when they got to Fort Hall.

A sudden rumble caused them to look up. To the west, still several miles in front of them, a storm was brewing.

CHAPTER 13

The thunder of the water

May 4, 1866

We experienced our first storm, Mimi—a fearsome thing with lightning popping all around and winds rocking the wagons. My plants were badly beaten. Some of our livestock bolted in the night and we spent half a day getting them back. Our mules were shaken and were as unruly as they have ever been while getting harnessed. The softness of the ground made the wheels sink and it was rough, slow going.

Michael Chessor had been on scout. He came riding past the Baldwyn wagon looking for Colonel Dotson.

Abigail was sitting on the wagon seat darning socks next to Jacob when she heard Chessor tell Dotson, “Creek’s pretty swollen up ahead.”

Colonel Dotson, the company leaders, and several other men rode out to see. Abigail watched them go with a twisted brow and laid her sewing aside.

Sure enough, the creek had reached the top of its bank. Hoke didn’t like the look of it.

“That was a shallow stream when I rode scout yesterday,” said Gerald Jenkins. “We might ought to lay by for a day.”

“Lay by?” Rudy Schroeder spat. “That’s not too deep to cross. I say we go on. We already lay by every Sunday. And we’ve only covered a few miles today.”

John Sutler looked from Rudy to the colonel. “We’re already wet from the storm. If we wait and dry out, we’ll get wet again when we do cross.”

“I say we cross now before it gets any worse,” old Tim Peters said, looking up. They all inspected the sky. “Could be more rain on the way.”

“Peters, you’re the only one that’s been over this route,” said Colonel Dotson. “You have any trouble at this creek before?”

“No. But I wasn’t in a wagon and it wasn’t up. I’m sure it’ll be fine, though.”

Dotson turned to Hoke. “You don’t think that’s too deep to cross?”

Hoke watched the creek a minute, its water curling and spilling over the jagged edges of the bank. “One way to check.” He dismounted, pulled off his boots and socks, and waded into the water. At midpoint, it hit his upper chest. He nudged around the banks, measuring the depths with his feet.

When he sloshed back to the others he said, “Current’s pretty strong, but it won’t cover the tops of the wagon wheels.” He pointed at the bank. “That’s probably the best spot. Not too much drop-off, and the bank’s low on the other side.”

They voted to cross.

When the men got back to camp, Hoke went straight to Abigail’s wagon. She was with Jacob, who was driving the team in front. Hoke insisted she let him and James drive the Baldwyn wagons through the swollen waters.

She looked down to his dry boots and back up his wet clothes. “Did you swim the creek?”

He didn’t answer, just reached up to help her down. Jacob had already hopped off the seat.

“No, we’ll be fine. You go on.” Abigail took up the reins Jacob had let drop.

Hoke scowled. “Don’t argue with me.”

“I’m sure you’ll have your hands full helping others. We’re fine.”

He bit his temper and walked away. Dotson and Jenkins were crossing now. They didn’t seem to be having any problems.

Hoke drove his and James’s wagon through the restless current, then stayed on the opposite bank to help as others crossed.

The thunder of the water mixed with the bleating of the livestock was so loud no one heard the axle break or Nelda Peters’s initial yell. But from the south side of the creek, as they waited their turn to cross, the Baldwyns saw it all—how the wagon dipped down and Nelda fell off the seat. How her husband Timmy jumped in to save her. How they flailed the first few seconds, fighting the current, their heads bobbing up near the oxen. How Timmy pushed Nelda out of the water and back up on the wagon seat just as Orin Peters, Timmy’s younger brother, who was driving the rig in front of them, pulled his team up the bank.

Then, as Abigail was letting her breath out, believing Timmy and Nelda were going to be fine, Timmy was sucked back under the water.

Charlie, who had been driving the mule team behind her and Jacob, charged past them on foot and into the creek behind Harry Sims before Abigail could call out and try to stop him. Hoke was there, too, and Bart Peters, coming from the other side, all racing to get to Timmy Peters in the water.

Harry pulled Timmy’s body to the surface first. It took all four men to get him to the opposite bank. Abigail and several others, including the McConnelly sisters, had climbed from their wagons and now stood frozen on the south bank watching.

“Doc!” called Colonel Dotson from the far side of the creek. Doc Isaacs came running with his bag, jumped into the current, and swam to get to Timmy, now stretched out on the opposite bank.

Time slowed as the men got Nelda, who was screaming and flailing, off the stalled wagon, the wheel investigated, and the broken axle repaired. It took a long time as some of the men, including Charlie, used wood planks to help lift the wagon, while others dove under the current to find and solve the problem.

Abigail stood on the bank feeling helpless, her eyes glued on Charlie, willing him to be okay, hating that he was so close to tragedy.

If there was any boy left in Charlie prior to this trip, he was quickly disappearing. Abigail was proud of the man Charlie was becoming, but her heart pined for the innocent youth she’d left in Marston.

She didn’t need anyone to wade back over the creek and tell her what was happening. It was clear enough from Nelda’s wailing that Timmy hadn’t made it.

Irene McConnelly looked at her darkly, as if Abigail were somehow to blame. “What did I ever do to her?” Abigail whispered to Melinda Austelle.

Melinda shook her head. “Her face is just set like that.”

When Hoke finally sloshed back through the creek to the south side of the bank, the Baldwyns, minus Charlie, were a somber group, sitting huddled on the sodden grass.

“You going to let me take you over now?” he asked, his voice husky.

Abigail nodded.

Charlie came back over to lead the Baldwyns’ first wagon over, Corrine holding things steady in the back. Hoke led the second team. When he yawed their mules up the mud-slick bank, Abigail sat in the back holding on to Lina with one hand and her lockstitch sewing machine with the other. Jacob held Rascal.

Abigail could see Nelda still sitting with her head buried in Christine Dotson’s lap. Old Tim Peters stood with glassy eyes, his arms folded tight as he watched the men get the rest of the wagons across.

As the Baldwyns climbed out, Harry Sims approached Colonel Dotson, who stood nearby. “There were a lot of rocks where he was standing. One he was on must’ve rolled. The wagon wheel hit against one of the bigger rocks. That’s what caused the axle to break.”

Colonel Dotson swore. “Damn the luck! Sorry, Preacher. But . . . damn the luck! That poor girl.”

Nelda clung to Doc Isaacs, who looked up at Abigail with helpless eyes.

Tam Woodford brought Harry a blanket. “Wrap up now, before you catch a cold. You’re soaked through.”

When Abigail turned back to her children, they were standing together staring at Timmy Peters’s limp body on the bank. She picked Lina up. “Come on,” she whispered. “Don’t stand here and stare. Let’s look around and see if there’s anything we can do to help. But don’t stand here and stare.”

“Let’s build a fire and get Nelda some dry clothes,” said Melinda.

Sue Vandergelden stood near them with her hands on her hips looking toward Nelda and Doc Isaacs. “Can’t he do something about her squallin’?”

Abigail and Melinda looked at one another. “She’s grieving, Mrs. Vandergelden.”

Mrs. Vandergelden looked at Abigail like she’d slapped her. “Well, I don’t know why she’s got to throw it off on the rest of us!” She turned and stormed back to her wagon.

Rudy Schroeder walked up to Colonel Dotson and said in a low voice, “We ought not to have crossed. That was a bad decision.”

Every man within earshot turned on Rudy Schroeder.

“You voted on it, Rudy,” snapped the normally jovial Gerald Jenkins, “as did Tim Peters himself. Nobody wanted this to happen, but it did. It doesn’t help anything for you to go pointing fingers.”

It was as forceful as Abigail had ever heard mild Gerald Jenkins speak, but then . . . all their nerves had been set on edge from the sudden turn of misfortune.

That night there was no singing in the camp. Abigail got through supper and cleanup. But later, long after dark, she slipped out of the wagon to check on her sleeping boys.

She saw Hoke lying under his wagon only a short distance away, his eyes open and watching her. Her body longed to crawl into his bedroll and be held. She wanted someone to promise her that she and her children would finish this journey alive.

One of our men was drowned, Mimi. Some of the women were badly affected.

Abigail laid down the quill and pushed back the letter. She didn’t want the ink to spatter or Mimi would guess how badly she herself had been affected.

Days before, they had crossed the Kansas River on a ferry. Men had built ferries and bridges at the major river crossings on the trail and charged a toll for the use of them. Mrs. Vandergelden said it was robbery to charge settlers to cross a bridge or use a ferry. Abigail now felt the charges were justified. There had been no ferry or bridge here, and she would have gladly paid every coin in the blue crocheted bag to use one.

Harry Sims conducted a memorial service just after breakfast. Timmy was buried in a lovely spot under an oak tree as the early-morning sunlight winked through new green leaves.

“I fear Nelda will have a hard time of it,” said Melinda as they went back to their wagons.

They had passed several graves on the journey and now left one of their own.

After this, Abigail began to read all the markers more closely and wondered at the lives behind the words. Skeletal remains of many animals also lined the trails, picked clean by wolves and vultures, the bones bleached white by the merciless sun.

In the ramshackle cabin a dozen miles from Fort Hall, Bonnie reached over and stroked his red beard as they lay once again under the horsehair blanket.

“How do you keep this trimmed so neat?”

“I have my methods.” He swatted her hand away, not liking to have his face touched.