Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries (5 page)

The traders also said that it would be impossible for their company to take wagons over the Blue Mountains; some of them had laughed to the point of hysterics when they saw the trunks in the back of their wagons along with rocking chairs, tools, bags of seed, and headboards. They’d urged Papa and the others to sell their things and continue by foot or on horseback, but few in their party sold anything of real value. They figured the traders were trying to scare them out of their prized possessions.

Captain Loewe had gathered information about other Americans who had traveled this way, and he’d been confident that they would make it with all their wagons and possessions intact. But she was pretty sure his confidence was a bluff. None of them, including the captain, had ever been over the Blues.

Shadows from the dying campfire danced on the side of the canvas tent, and Samantha tried again to pretend she wasn’t thirsty. Another dog started barking, and she heard Arthur Kneedler holler at Colt to be quiet. The dogs were usually as tired as their owners during the night, but the Kneedlers’ dog in particular had spent several nights barking on this journey, irritating the weary travelers while they tried to sleep.

Captain Loewe had barely tolerated the dogs up to this point. He’d tried to convince the emigrants to leave them behind, citing annoyance and the fact that the animals would need food and water when there was little to be had, but their party insisted on bringing their dogs—fifteen of them, including a shepherd dog named Sandy and her five pups who rode in the back of Doctor Rochester’s wagon. The dogs were both pets and protection from wild animals.

The captain reluctantly agreed to bring dogs—probably because he had no choice if he wanted to lead this party—but he wasn’t above reminding everyone how right he had been about them, especially after they caused the stampede.

She hated to think what his attitude would be like in the morning if this barking continued. In her mind, tired dogs didn’t spend the night barking unless they sensed that something was wrong. Unfortunately, the captain didn’t share her perspective. He thought the dogs accompanying them were a menace.

Even Boaz had seemed agitated today, sniffing and then barking as he walked beside Samantha instead of roaming the countryside. The dogs were all tied to the wagons tonight, but the two men on night watch would alert the rest of them if anything threatened the camp.

She heard the low growl of her wolfhound outside the tent, and her skin prickled. She ran her fingers across the loaded rifle that rested beside her. Boaz never growled unless something was wrong.

“Boaz,” Papa called from outside the tent. “Go back to sleep.”

Boaz stopped for a moment, but then he growled again. Samantha sat up and crawled carefully across the feather tick so she wouldn’t wake Micah. Edging back the canvas, she stuck her hand outside, but Boaz didn’t nudge it with his nose. Instead, he gave a short bark. A warning.

“Papa,” she whispered, “something’s wrong.”

Several men began talking nearby, and then she heard Papa shuffle out from under the wagon. “I’ll find out what’s happening,” he said.

Samantha reached for her rifle and leather possibles bag containing her balls, caps, and patches. Back home, she would have had to change from her nightdress, but out here, all the women slept in their calico dresses—all except Lucille, that is. She insisted on wearing her nightgown. Uncomfortable as it was, sleeping in a dress certainly made it easier for Samantha and the other women to slip in and out of their tents when necessary.

She strapped her possibles bag over her shoulder and folded back the canvas. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” he insisted, shaking his head. “You stay here.”

“But what if it’s Indians?”

“Stay here, Samantha,” he commanded, as if she were a dog instead of an eighteen-year-old woman who knew how to shoot a gun.

She watched through the tent opening as his shadow blended into the night. Papa had never taught her to swim like he had Micah, but when she was twelve, he taught her to shoot in the hills near their home. Until Micah was born seven years ago, he’d had no son to hunt with, so Samantha had enjoyed many hours with her father, tramping through the branches and leaves as they searched for deer or wild fowl. She’d never been able to shoot an animal and certainly not a person, but no one had ever threatened her or her family either.

After his footsteps faded away, Samantha quietly counted a full minute before climbing out of the tent. Then she untied Boaz. With her dog on one side and her gun in the other, she crept around their wagon, scanning the moonlit rocks and hills around them for danger. There weren’t enough men in their company, not if there was a war party of Indians who’d come to attack. If something were wrong, they would need every able person—man and woman—to ward off a threat.

Boaz sniffed the ground and growled again.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

The wind had calmed, but she still couldn’t hear anything. The men were probably spread out, searching the area around the wagons. She wouldn’t wander far, but with the men gone, someone needed to protect Micah and the other children in the wagons, along with women like Lucille who didn’t know how to use a gun. Samantha would stand guard until they returned.

Boaz stopped, his eyes intent on a pile of rocks on their right. She watched him for a moment and then propped her gun on her shoulder, pointing it at the rocks. Her heart raced as she stepped toward the boulder. Walking close beside her, Boaz didn’t make a sound.

Her tongue was so dry, it felt like a strip of rawhide between her teeth. She tried to swallow, but when she did, a wheezing sound escaped her. She stopped.

“Who’s there?” a man shouted from behind the rock.

She held the gun in front of her. The accent was American, but the traders had regaled them all with stories about the thieves in this country. Had someone been following them to steal what they refused to sell at Fort Hall? Was he biding his time, waiting to attack the company?

It might be one of the men from their company, but she had to be certain. “Who are you?”

Another voice called out from behind the rock, this one sterner. “Tell us your name.”

She swallowed and lowered her gun slowly at the sound of her father’s voice.

“It’s Samantha,” she whispered.

Papa’s tall form emerged above the rock, his voice trembling. “Good heavens, Samantha. I almost shot you.”

She didn’t tell him that she almost shot him as well.

A second man stood from behind the rocks—Captain Loewe. She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but she could see the fury in them.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded, glaring first at her and then down at Boaz.

“Well, I was—”

The captain didn’t let her finish.

“About to get yourself killed, that’s what you’re doing.” The captain looked at her father. “Why isn’t she in her tent?”

Her father was facing her instead of the captain. “I believe she was trying to help.”

“We don’t need your help,” the captain said before he crouched back down behind the rock, dismissing her.

“I can shoot a gun.” She turned to her father. “Tell him how well I can shoot.”

“You need to stay back with the wagon,” Papa insisted. He didn’t say “
like I already told you,
” but she knew that was what he was thinking.

“Please, Papa!”

“If there was something out there, you’ve scared it away,” the captain said, as if she’d done something wrong.

She didn’t understand how scaring away a threatening animal or person would be bad, but she didn’t dare disagree with the man. His anger could cause serious repercussions for their whole family.

“Go take care of Micah,” Papa said.

She shifted on her feet, her gun resting at her side. “He’s asleep and as safe as any of us.”

Probably safer, since he was inside the security of their wagon circle.

“Go back, Samantha.”

She clutched her gun with both hands, frustrated at being treated like a child, but she supposed she could guard their wagon while her father and the other men searched for intruders. Even if she wasn’t needed to watch over Micah, she didn’t really have a choice.

Turning slowly, she heard the footsteps of another man rustling through the sage. When she looked to her side, she saw Jack’s profile in the dim light, and her heart fluttered. His eyes were focused on the circle of wagons; his brown hair rested over his collar.

Jack took her elbow, pointing her back toward the circle of wagons. “I’ll make sure she gets back safely.”

Frustration welled within her at his words, the flutter in her heart stilling. She could make it the twenty yards back to the wagon without assistance. “I don’t need an escort, Jack.”

“Samantha!” She could almost see Papa behind the rocks, shaking his head.

“I’m leaving,” she huffed before she let Jack guide her and Boaz away from the men.

“I can shoot this gun as well as any of you,” she muttered as they crossed through the grass.

“No one is saying that you can’t, but we’re doing our best to protect the women and children in this party, Samantha, and, well—” He stumbled over his words. “Whether you like it or not, you’re one of our women. Your tramping out like this, on your own, makes it really difficult for us to do our job.”

She wiggled her elbow free from Jack’s grasp, and he didn’t reach for her again. On nights like this, she wished she’d been born a man. Then she could go hunt or stand sentry instead of caring for Micah and cooking and washing laundry inside the circle. She hated feeling roped to the camp, like they had to rope Boaz to the wagon.

She didn’t like Captain Loewe, hadn’t liked him ever since he refused to stop along the Platte and let Amanda Perkins rest for an extra day after delivering her baby. Amanda had followed her baby boy to the grave, and her husband had returned to his family in Kentucky. Why couldn’t Jack and Papa and the others see that the man wasn’t capable of leading them safely to the Willamette?

Jack stopped walking, looking down at her in the moonlight. “I know you mean well, but I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt in the process. Your father wasn’t the only one who almost took a shot at you.”

As she looked into his eyes, her heart softened just a bit. She knew Jack cared for her. She just wasn’t sure if he understood her.

She stood a little taller. “I’m not going to get hurt.”

“Samantha.” He sighed. “A bullet would indeed hurt you.”

She looked away, feeling silly. Why did he have to be right?

He slowly took the rawhide rope from her fingers and tied Boaz to their wagon. Then he looked down at her again, shifting back and forth on his feet. It was the first time they’d ever been alone, and
for a moment she thought he might kiss her. But her brother might be awake in the tent, listening to them, and Jack seemed to know it. Instead of a kiss, he gave her a gentle pat on her arm and pointed at the canvas flap.

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, his voice husky.

She watched him as he walked away, turning one last time as if he was checking to make sure she wouldn’t try to sneak away. With a quick tilt of his hat, he continued on until the shadows swallowed him too.

Bending down, Samantha untied the rope around Boaz’s neck, and her dog crawled through the flap with her and lay down at her feet. It was crowded, but Samantha wanted Boaz close.

She leaned back against the dog’s soft gray fur, picking the cockleburs off his coat as she waited for Papa to return. She never knew exactly how to pray, not like Mama did, but as both Micah and then Boaz slept beside her, she asked the Good Lord and His angels to keep Papa, Jack, and their entire company safe tonight—even the miserable Captain Loewe.

Chapter Four

“On to Oregon!” Captain Loewe shouted early the next morning. A gunshot followed his cry, the blast meant to rally every man, woman, and child from their bed whether or not they were ready to rise.

Samantha yawned as she opened her eyes to the first golden light of the sunrise. She’d wanted to stay awake long enough to find out what happened last night, but the darkness had wooed her to sleep before Papa returned.

Boaz stood as she sat up, and when she opened the tent flap, the morning sunlight flooded their small space along with the sweet smell of sage. If only she could walk down to a river to drink the water and wash the dust off her face and hands before she began breakfast.

She had to stop thinking about water.

“Micah,” she whispered, nudging her brother’s toes. “Time to get up.”

He rubbed his eyes, and for a moment, she thought he might get up without a fight, but then he yanked the fur blanket over his head. “Leave me alone,” he groaned.

She inched the blanket back off him. “I’m serious. We start rolling in an hour.”

“The oxen can pull me in the wagon.”

He grabbed for the blanket, but she refused to give it to him. Instead she tickled his feet. “You’ll be hungry.”

“No, I won’t.”

She sighed. “Suit yourself.”

She slipped her soft moccasins over her bare feet and crawled outside the wagon to find Papa preparing their sheet-iron cooking stove, heating it with dried sagebrush and coals from last night’s fire. Around the circle of wagons, the scent of frying meat and wild onions mixed with the dusty morning air as women prepared breakfast on their stoves.

Samantha whispered as she removed their coffeepot from a box. “What happened last night?”

Papa shook his head. “We couldn’t find anything amiss.”

Samantha searched the circle for the captain, but she didn’t see him. Between the stampede and the disturbance during the night, his hatred of their dogs could only escalate. “Is he livid?”

“As angry as I’ve ever seen him.”

She waited for her father to reprimand her for leaving the tent, but ever since Mama had died, he seemed to struggle to communicate with her.

He cleared his throat. “I’m proud of you for trying to help, Samantha.”

She blinked, surprised at his words. “Thank you.”

“But I need you to be more careful. I’m afraid—I can’t lose you or Micah too.”