The Chisholms (13 page)

“Pa?” Bobbo said again.

“Yes, son, yes,” Hadley said wearily.

They left Independence shortly after sunrise the next morning. As they moved out in single file, Bobbo saw his mother look back over her shoulder. It seemed to him in that minute that she was looking clear to St. Louis or beyond. Evansville maybe, or Louisville, or straight through the Gap to Virginia. Timothy’s wagon was in the lead; they had charts, but he alone had made the trip before. The wagon behind Timothy’s was that of the carpenter, Jonah Comyns, followed by the Pennsylvania widower and his two young daughters. Last in line was the Chisholm wagon, Bobbo riding the borrowed horse beside it. The day was clear and bright; they could not have wished for better weather. They could see Independence behind them for the longest time.

Then suddenly it was gone.

This was the wilderness.

Not at all what Bobbo expected. No dense forest to hack through, no underbrush ripping clothes and flesh, no wild animals crouched to attack. Just... nothing. No houses, no fences, no barns. Emptiness. Except for every now and then an Indian going by on the horizon.

Bobbo rode up alongside Timothy’s wagon, slowed his horse.

“Is that the same Indian I see out there all the time?” he asked.

“How’s that?” Timothy said.

“See an Indian going by all the time, thought maybe he’s scouting us for a massacre.” Bobbo smiled. But he was serious.

“I think it’s several different Indians you’re seeing,” Timothy said. “They’re peaceful farmers. You needn’t worry.”

“Mm,” Bobbo said. He supposed Timothy knew; he’d made the journey west often enough. In the back of the Oates wagon, Timothy’s Indian wife huddled as if chilled. “Is your wife all right?” Bobbo asked. “She ain’t ailing, is she?”

“No, she’s fine, thank you.”

“She looks so sad all the time,” Bobbo said.

“She
is
sad all the time,” Timothy said.

“Why’s that?”

“Misses her people.”

“You met her out there west, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I hope she gets to feeling better,” Bobbo said.

“She will, I’m sure,” Timothy said, and smiled.

Bobbo turned the horse about, and rode back to where his father and sister were sitting beside each other on the wagon seat

“Pa,” he said, “you want to swap places awhile?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Hadley said, and tugging at the reins, stopped the mules. “Backside’s beginnin to wear thin. How’s that horse, son?”

“Good one, Pa.”

“Well, get on off him,” Hadley said.

Bobbo dismounted and handed the reins to his father. Hadley swung up into the saddle and adjusted his rump to it. He said, “Come on, horse,” and clucked gently to the animal. Watching him ride ahead past the lead wagon, Bobbo climbed onto the seat and picked up the reins. “Ha-ya!” he shouted, and the wagon rolled into motion again. Beside him, Bonnie Sue was silent.

“What’s troublin you?” he asked her.

“Ain’t nothin troublin me.”

“Then how come you don’t say a word to nobody, just sit around moping all the time?”

“I ain’t moping,” she said.

“It sure
looks
like moping,” he said. “Looks like
wilting,
you want to know.”

“Bobbo, it ain’t your business,” she said.

“Well, it is my business,” he said.

“No.”

“Cause I love you half to death, and can’t bear to see you unhappy.”

She looked at him.

“That’s right,” he said.

“Well,” she said, “I ain’t unhappy. It’s... I’m scared, is what it is.”

“What of?”

“There’s smoke goin up in the distance there. I’m sure it’s Indians sendin some kind of message, tellin each other to come scalp us.”

“Bonnie Sue, that ain’t it,” Bobbo said.

She looked at him again.

“That just ain’t it, Bonnie Sue. I know you better’n I know myself, and it ain’t Indians troublin you. Now, Bonnie Sue, what is it?”

She did not answer.

“Bonnie Sue, please tell me. I want to help you, Sis. Please.”

“You can’t help me,” she said.

“What?” He’d hardly heard her.

“I said you can’t help me, Bobbo.”

“Always been able to help you before,” he said.

“But not now,” she said.

Always
had
been able to help her, too.

Closer to her than anybody in the whole family. Closest to her in age, and closest to her in temperament, too. Was a time, when they were both just tads, nobody in the family could bust in on one of their conversations. You come upon them talking together, you’d think it was one person talking to himself out loud. Chattered like magpies. Give Bobbo a thrashing, as Pa’d done often enough, Bonnie Sue’d bust out crying. Same the other way around. Ma said when Bonnie Sue wet her pants, it was Bobbo’s you had to change. Inside the family, they got to calling them “Them two.” You said “Them two,” you knew it was Bobbo and Bonnie Sue you were talking about and not Will and Gideon or a pair of mules. Those days, when they were both coming along, Bobbo eighteen months older than his sister, wasn’t anybody in the family could stand up to them. No way to do it. You got into an argument with them two, it was like trying to rassle a pair of bears. One’d give ground only long enough to let the other one get a hold on you, and then he’d swing you around into the grip of the second one. That was then. When they were both just coming along.

Now she was looking more mournful than even Timothy’s wife, and she’d told him he couldn’t help her nohow. He’d have given his life to have helped her. He’d have given that much.

“I’ve never made this trip before except in the company of the military,” Timothy said. “What we did at suppertime, we arranged all the wagons and carts in a rough circle, oh, some fifty to sixty yards in diameter. Pitched our tents inside, hobbled the animals outside to graze.”

It was their first night out of Independence. The men were standing around the fire. Comyns and his two young sons. Willoughby. Bobbo and his father. Timothy there, closest to the fire, the light from it glowing in his red beard, making it look like his chin was aflame. Bobbo liked the man, liked the gentle way he talked to his wife in Indian, liked his sure knowledge of the trail. Hadn’t got a chance to talk to any of the others yet, and didn’t know as he wanted to. There was a fierce look about the carpenter Comyns, and his two sons were a mite young for Bobbo. Willoughby was altogether too mournful a man; spend any time around him, you’d bust into the weeping shivers.

“When it got dark,” Timothy said, “we’d drive the animals inside the circle, and then picket them on long halters. Gave them freedom to forage in the night, and also kept them safe from Indians. Now, I don’t know quite what to do with this party,” Timothy said, and smiled. “This isn’t exactly what you’d call a wagon train, not by any stretch of the imagination, and I’m thinking that however we arrange ourselves, we’re going to be vulnerable somewhere.”

The carpenter Comyns was listening intently. Fifty years old or thereabouts, massive head, mane like an elderly lion’s. Brown eyes fierce as a prophet’s under shaggy white brows. Nose like a wedge, lips thick and purple as calf’s liver. There was something scary about him, reminded Bobbo of when his father messed with his damn snakes, though with Comyns it seemed the usual and not the peculiar. His sons were by his first wife. They resembled their father in every respect save the white hair and brows.

“So what I’d like to do, with your permission,” Timothy said, “is arrange the camp each night with a fire in the center, and a wagon at each of the four compass points. We’ll keep the animals inside, same as the military did, and mount the first guard at nine o’clock.”

“Till when?” Comyns asked.

“Till sunrise.”

“That’s a good nine hours.”

“Yes, and there’re seven of us here,” Timothy said. “I thought we’d relieve every three hours, two men to the watch, each of us having a night off once a week. I can’t see any other way of doing it, not with so small a party.”

“That sounds fair to me,” Comyns said.

“You think we need be so careful, this stage of the journey?” Willoughby asked.

He was a tall thin man with a tanned and weathered face. Dressed in brown the color of earth, he looked altogether like what he was, a farmer plain and simple. The firelight flickered on his hands. He was wringing them as he spoke, kept wringing them as he waited for Timothy’s reply. Made Bobbo nervous, the way he fidgeted all the time.

“Well, there’s not much danger of Indian attack just now,” Timothy said. “But there might be an ambitious brave out there itching to get his hands on some horses, so caution won’t hurt. Besides, it’ll be good practice for later on,” he said, and again smiled.

They moved the wagons and posted the first guard, the two young Comyns boys roaming the perimeter from side to side. The night was still save for the crackle of the fire and the low murmur of the wind. At the fire, Willoughby sat beside Hadley, staring into the flames. He said nothing for the longest time, just kept wringing his hands like he was washing them. Some twenty feet beyond, Minerva stood staring out over the prairie, her arms folded across her waist as protectively as the ring of wagons surrounding the fire. Willoughby sighed at last and nodded to himself, and Hadley knew he’d made a decision about something or other. But he didn’t suppose the man was about to share it with him, and was surprised when he did.

“I’m not sure I want to continue on,” Willoughby said.

It seemed to pain him to say the words. They came from his lips with some effort, as though he were trying to strangle them back. He kept wringing his hands in the light of the fire, but the rest of his body was still as granite. Only the hands moved.

“I’m fearful for the young’un,” he said. “My older daughter and me can endure. But I’m not sure about the young’un.” He nodded again, affirming his decision, strengthening it. “I should’ve waited till next year. I knew the damn wagons’d be gone by now, but I was hopin to catch up. I had to get away from Pennsylvania, you see. My wife passed on not long ago, I had to get away. Did you know my wife had died?”

“Yes,” Hadley said. “I knew that.”

“And you see, I thought to get away. The house there, the farm, it was far too big for just the two girls and me; I needed to get away from it. Start again someplace. But now I’m fearful for the young’un. Your eldest daughter is grand with her, by the way, I’m thankful to you, she relieves the burden. But you see, it’s just... I keep imagining the Indians laying hold of her. Raising her up like their own. I’ve read tales of that, have you not? Wouldn’t recognize her as mine fifteen years from now. Look just like Oates’s squaw there in the wagon,” Willoughby said, gesturing with his head. “And I keep think-in the older one’s none too safe neither, the Indians decide to attack. We’re a small party, that can’t escape their attention if they’re of a mind to come raiding. They’ll have counted the men and the animals, they’ll know for sure we’re vulnerable. Seeing all the young girls — there’re lots of young girls in this party — they might consider it a tempting proposition, as well they might anyway, even without the promise of reward greater than livestock. I’m frankly worried. I’m thinking of turning back.”

“Alone?” Hadley asked.

“Or with as many as’ll come with me. We’re but fifteen miles from Independence, and the Indians behind us are friendly, or so Oates has said. I’m not afraid to risk it alone if I have to. I’m thinking it’s the wisest move.” Willoughby hesitated, and then turned to look into Hadley’s face. “What do you think?”

“I don’t wish to advise you,” Hadley said. “Was you to get scalped on the way back to Independence, I wouldn’t want that weighin on me.”

“Well, there’s not much danger of that.”

“True enough, the real danger’s ahead, not behind.”

“Which is just the matter of it,” Willoughby said.

“I’m not following.”

“They’ll think me cowardly.”

“Who will?”

“The others. And maybe you as well.”

“I judge not that I be not judged,” Hadley said. “You’re to do what you think right, Willoughby. If there’s a man here can say how he’d act was a band of wild Indians to come riding in off the prairie, I’d like to meet him.”

“I’m not afraid for myself, you know,” Willoughby said. “It’s for the girls I’d be doing it Especially the young’un.”

“Aye,” Hadley said, and the men fell silent.

Willoughby was wringing his hands again.

“Guess maybe I’ll have to think it out a bit more,” he said.

“As you wish,” Hadley said.

“Don’t want to wait till it’s too late, though.”

“No.”

“Get much farther from Independence...” He let the sentence trail. Sighing, he rose ponderously. “Good night, Chisholm,” he said, and Hadley said, “Good night, Willoughby,” and watched as the man walked over to his wagon and peeked inside to where the little one was sleeping. He came back to the fire then, took off his boots, and crawled under a blanket. In the flickering light, Hadley could see his hands pressed together in prayer, his eyes closed. The night was cool, not a star showing, the moon obscured by heavy clouds that rolled in off the prairie. Hadley rose, and stretched, and walked to where Minerva yet stood, tall and silent, staring out over the prairie ahead.

“Look at it,” she said. “It stretches to nowhere.”

“It stretches to California.”

“I prefer Virginia, thank ye.”

“Willoughby’s talking of turning back,” Hadley said.

“Then let’s go with him,” Minerva said at once.

“I think not.”

“Do you not miss home?”

“I miss it.”

“Do you not long for Virginia?”

“With all my heart, Min.”