Walks the Fire (5 page)

Jesse wanted to cry out, but the sounds caught in her throat.
All these people, all these strangers watching…
Her grief was too deep, too great to share with them. She took a breath and lifted her chin. Taking Homer’s hand she squeezed it. He dropped his hat and clasped both her hands in his. He held them so hard it hurt.

“The wagon train must move on, Dr. Whitman,” Jesse heard herself saying. “How often have I heard you say, ‘onward… we must move ever onward.’ And we started late. Please, instruct these good people to leave us to our grief. We can follow later.”

Dr. Whitman placed a hand upon her shoulder. “But, my dear Mrs. King, do you not want us to stay and offer our prayers over the final resting place?”

Jesse croaked an earnest response, “No prayers will bring him back… you can all pray for us from the wagons as you move on.” Then, lowering her voice a little she pleaded, “Please, Homer… make them all go. We can say goodbye to Jacob alone. Homer, all these strangers...” Her voice failed her, but the pleading tones settled matters. The wagon train would move on.

People began dispersing in small groups, whispering as they walked away. Only Lavinia remained.

“Jesse, dear,” she whispered, “come look at Jacob. He looks just like he’s sleeping.”

In the eternity it had taken for the crowd to disperse, Jesse and Homer had stood, heads down, waiting. From somewhere Lavinia had produced a clean gown for the baby. Jesse allowed herself to look, and a small cry escaped her throat. Kneeling beside the toddler’s lifeless form, she scooped him up in her arms and began to croon softly, rocking the baby. Tears left tracks on her dust-streaked face. Lavinia knelt beside Jesse in the dust with her arms about her friend’s bowed shoulders.

Homer left Jesse to her tears, standing by the wagon, waiting for her to finish. Nervously he twirled his hat in his hands. At last, Jesse’s grasp on the child loosened.

Lavinia slipped away as Jesse numbly rose, went to Homer’s side, and waited for him to speak.

Finally he placed an arm across Jesse’s shoulders and repeated, “I had a grip… and then…”

Jesse interrupted him. “It wasn’t your fault, Homer. It could have happened to anyone.”

The words seemed to release something within the man. As his body shook with a wave of relief, a sigh escaped. He stepped away from Jesse, straightened his shoulders, and reached into the wagon for a shovel. He almost growled the words, “I may not have kept him safe… but I’ll make sure the dang coyotes leave him in peace now.”

Furiously he began to dig the small grave. Deeper and deeper the spade went into the hard prairie until, exhausted, he sat on the edge of the hole. He looked at Jesse again and found her standing next to the wagon where he had left her. When her eyes met his gaze he looked quickly away and spoke to the distant horizon, “Guess we’d better be done with it.”

“Wait a moment—please.” Jesse struggled with Jacob’s body, but managed to get inside the wagon with the still form in her arms. Homer heard things being moved about inside. It seemed to take a long time, but he could not bear to join her in the wagon. It would be too intimate, somehow, to be cooped up with her now, just when she had lost her child.

Jesse emerged from the wagon, carrying Jacob wrapped in the blue and white baby quilt Homer had not seen since Jacob had begun to toddle about. He did not even realize that she had brought it on the trip.

Jesse tried to wipe the dust from Jacob’s face as she handed him over to Homer. He laid the body in the grave, and then hesitated, not knowing quite what to do. “Seems like there ought to be a word said…”

Jesse retreated once more into the wagon and returned with her Bible. For once, Homer did not frown at the appearance of the book. In the past he had accused Jesse of shirking her chores in favor of reading the worn book. “Homer, dear,” she would say gently, “I can do my work so much better, and be of much more use to you, after I have spent time with the Lord.” It was the one area of her life where she seemed bent on having her own way. Homer grudgingly gave in to her “woman’s weakness” and let her read the Bible. But today, it seemed right that she should read from the book. He was grateful that she had it and that she would know where to read.

Jesse did know what she wanted to read. Not that it would be of any help to her precious Jacob, but her own aching heart sorely needed the comfort of familiar words. And so she turned to the beloved passage and began to read.
“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
She read quietly, with dignity, her voice faltering a little when she read the passage,
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil”
but otherwise she read steadily. At the close of the psalm she bowed her head. Homer followed suit and listened as Jesse talked to her God.

“Lord,” she said softly, “we do not know why you would take our only child, but we know that you love us, and that you will cause it to work for our good… Lord, help us to trust you even now, when our hearts are broken.” She wanted to say more, but found that she could not. She did not even whisper, “Amen,” but turned and fled to the wagon. She flung herself inside and onto the mattress, where, away from every eye, she could spend her grief.

When Jesse looked out later, she saw that Homer had filled in the little hole and covered it over with many layers of huge rocks. He was sitting by the grave, mopping his forehead. Slowly he straightened up and walked toward the wagon. His once strong gait was slowed to the crabbed shuffling of an old man. It was then that Jesse realized that, in his own way, Homer was suffering too.
Perhaps more,
she thought,
he does not have the comfort of the Lord.

The sun was setting, and Homer moved about, building a fire. Jesse joined him and cooked supper. They ate in silence and slept fitfully, Jesse in the wagon and Homer stretched out below it, his rifle at his side.

Five

He causeth it to come, whether for correction… or for mercy.
—
Job 37:13

At the first light of dawn,
Homer hastened to harness Gabe and Beau. Gripping the side of the wagon, he climbed up, grabbed the reins, and clucked to the horses to “git-up.”

The lurch of the wagon tore Jesse from an unnaturally deep sleep. She sat up and stared blankly at the tiny pile of rocks just beginning to recede from the shadow of the wagon. As the team lumbered along, the rocks blended in with the landscape until finally they were gone, and she could only stare at the spot on the horizon where they had been. The creaking of the wheels that only yesterday had seemed a rhythmic song of promise took on ominous tones.

As her body demanded to feed the child who was gone, Jesse prayed.
Lord, I don’t understand
…
but with your help I will believe that this is somehow for our good.
Her voice broke as she whispered aloud, “Oh, but Lord, he was such a…” she sobbed, “
little
boy.”

When they halted for the noon rest, Homer appeared at the back of the wagon. He didn’t speak right away, but reached out to clasp her clenched fists. The calluses on his hands were rough, but he stroked her hands gently, tracing the thin blue veins that coursed just under her skin.

Jesse focused on those hands, then gazed up the powerful forearms to the plaid shirt, and finally to the bowed head. Could that be tears moistening the thin eyelashes? The possibility of Homer feeling such emotion wrenched Jesse’s mind away from the little grave.

“I must get the fire started.” She said the words, but they held no meaning, for she remained seated, clutching at the strong hands in her lap.

“It’s all right, Jesse.” Homer almost whispered. Then, clearing his throat he added, “You know I didn’t want to leave him there…”

Jesse interrupted, “But, Homer, we had no choice.” The chasm of grief that had separated them seemed to close.

Jesse stirred, reaching for the flour sack. Homer lifted her down from the wagon. It was a gesture many would take for granted, but Homer King was not a man given to such gestures. Jesse had always found her own way into and out of the wagon. She had been left to make friends on her own in the wagon train and to adapt to life on the trail as best she could. This small show of caring comforted her.

“We’ll catch up with them by dark,” Homer assured Jesse. “I won’t unhitch the team today… just give ’em a short rest”

Lunch finished, Homer squinted toward the horizon. “Sounds like there’s a storm comin’. Let’s be on our way.”

The two of them worked quickly, Jesse listening to the low rumble of thunder in the distance. Glancing up she saw a dark cloud on the horizon.

“Oh, my…” her voice caught in her throat She laid her hand on Homer’s shoulder, and as he stood up from quenching their camp fire, she pointed in disbelief at the cloud.

The roar of the buffalo stampede reached their ears, and instantly Homer flew to the wagon. Jumping up onto the seat he grabbed the reins. Screaming to Gabe to “git-up!” he motioned wildly to Jesse to climb aboard. The desperate tone in his voice and the shaking of the reins communicated danger to the horses. Already restive from the sound of the distant stampede, Gabe and Beau snorted and plunged ahead.

Jesse dropped her shawl on the prairie, grabbed the wagon side, and hauled herself up beside Homer. Her bonnet hung down her back, and as the wagon jolted across the prairie her hair came loose, flowing in a red torrent down her sweat-stained back. Homer shouted, “Get inside—safer” as he urged the horses forward. His eyes searched the terrain for a large rock or a copse of trees—anything that might serve as a shelter against the oncoming river of animals.

Jesse tumbled over the seat into the wagon bed. It was a jumble of barrels and sacks. With every bounce of the wagon, she felt a new pinch from some out-of-place bundle. One glance out the rear of the wagon brought a gasp of dread as she saw the danger approaching.

Homer drove skillfully, but the buffalo came on, gaining steadily. He searched in vain for the shelter to pull up next to. He would have to keep his horses running and hope that the overtaking herd would run with them and not crush the wagon. Beau and Gabe bounded forward, pulling with all their great strength. Lather appeared on the horses’ rumps. Foam flew from the bits. Gabe stumbled, then lunged forward in response to Homer’s desperate urgings. The earth shook as the buffalo came closer.

Jesse watched, caught in a slow-motion version of reality. Through the dust-filled air she saw Homer’s hand raise the whip—the tool he had always refused to use on his beloved team. Her mind registered the picture of that whip poised in the air, silhouetted against the blue sky. Then the whip came down, again and again, across the rumps of the laboring team.

The roar of the buffalo was deafening now. Jesse clutched wildly for something to hold on to inside the lurching wagon. Scrambling toward the back, she peered into the eyes of a huge beast. It stared blankly ahead, nostrils dilated, tongue lolling out of one side of its mouth. They were caught in a rolling sea of thundering hooves and dark brown, shaggy bodies.

The sound of those pounding hooves drowned out Homer’s futile urging to his spent team. Gabe and Beau staggered and went down. Jesse instinctively leaped backward, away from the oncoming rush. Her head hit something hard. Darkness and thunder and the sound of splintering wood all melted together into unnatural silence.

Six

Be not afraid, only believe.
—
Mark 5:36

It was hot.
And quiet. So quiet that Jesse could hear the high-pitched whine of a fly as it buzzed about her head.
But no,
she thought,
I hear Gabe and Beau stomping about, too. And
… a shadow fell across her face. The lessening of the sun’s warmth made her open her eyes. Someone stood over her, but the bright sun from behind made it impossible to see his face.
Homer? No, not Homer. His hair is not quite so long.

Then, all in a rush, Jesse remembered. The buffalo stampede! She recalled those last terrifying seconds and with that memory came the realization that this man was not Homer. She was looking into the face of a Sioux warrior.