Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 18
The next two hours passed eventfully. Breakfast had to be cooked and consumed. Those who had slept in tents instead of in their wagons had to strike the tents and pack everything away. Teams had to be hitched. Harry Trapp insisted on being under way by seven each morning, and he brooked no delays. Families piled into their prairie schooners, whips were cracked, yells rent the brisk morning air, and the wagon train was once again in motion.
Rosemary liked to stretch her legs first thing, so she walked beside Bert for an hour or so. Most mornings they hardly exchanged ten words, but today he coughed to clear his throat and gave her a peculiar look. “Samson was limping a bit earlier.”
“Oh?” Rosemary glanced at the ox in question. The entire team had names, courtesy of her boys, and Samson was paired with Solomon closest to the wagon. “He’s not limping now.”
“I know. Just thought I would mention it,” Bert said.
“What else is on your mind?” Rosemary probed. She knew her man as thoroughly as she knew herself.
“While I was gathering up the team, Mr. Weaver came over. He wanted me to know a secret vote was taken last night.”
“Secret vote?” Rosemary didn’t like the sound of that. “Whatever about?”
“Us. Harry Trapp called the other men together late last night after we had turned in. He explained how we are slowing everyone up. How if it keeps up, he’ll be lucky to get the train through to Oregon before the snows hit.”
Appalled, Rosemary gazed toward the front of the train where the pilot sat astride his sorrel. Anger bubbled within her, anger so potent it was all she could do not to march up to him and demand he apologize for his atrocious behavior.
“He had the men take a vote on whether to push on without us if we fall too far back,” Bert detailed.
“Surely they wouldn’t vote to leave us,” Rosemary said. No humane, civilized person could be so heartless, so unspeakably cruel.
“Weaver wouldn’t tell me the outcome,” Bert said, “but he begged me not to fall behind again.” Bert frowned. “That tells me a lot right there.”
Rosemary took his hand in hers and squeezed. Her husband had a tendency to get down in the doldrums when life threw obstacles in their path. She, on the other hand, saw them as challenges to be overcome. “Everything will work out,” she predicted. “Wait and see.”
“Have I ever mentioned how greatly I admire you?” Surprise was piling on surprise. Rosemary’s husband was as stingy with praise as he was with kisses. “Not recently,” she bantered, troubled more by his sudden change in character than she would have been were he acting true to his usual self.
“You’re always so confident, so positive things will turn out as you want them to turn out. I try to be more like you, but I can’t. It’s just not in me.”
“All it takes is faith.” If Rosemary had a motto, that would be it.
“Easier said than done,” Bert commented, staring skyward. “Some of us have more questions than answers, more doubts than convictions.”
“Are you implying you don’t believe?” Rosemary asked, aghast. Why, the entire seventeen years of their marriage she had always taken it for granted he did.
“Quite honestly, I’m not sure. Ever since Doug and his family died, I haven’t known what to believe.”
Doug was Bert’s older brother. He had lived in Wisconsin, and on a dark and frigid night in mid-December two years ago his house had caught fire. No one made it out alive. Not Doug, not his wife Marcy, not any of their three children, all daughters, delightful cherubs as sweet and innocent as could be.
“Bad things happen,” Rosemary said. “That’s just how life is.”
“How convenient for the Almighty,” Bert said bitterly. “As excuses go, it’s rather feeble.” He went to say more but changed his mind and walked a few steps ahead, cracking his whip over the heads of Cain and Abel, the lead oxen.
Rosemary’s steps faltered. “Lord, grant me strength,” she breathed, and slowed so the wagon came up alongside her. Without breaking stride she slid up onto the lazy board, her legs dangling. Reaching higher, she gripped one of the ties to the canvas canopy. Inside the Conestoga Sam and Ed were doing their morning studies, Ed reading aloud as was his wont, carefully pronouncing each word. She mentally closed her ears and leaned her forehead against the side.
For all Bert’s praise, Rosemary wasn’t the pillar of confidence he believed. She had doubts, just like everyone else. When they bothered her the most, when she was tempted to think that maybe, just maybe, the naysayers were right and she was wrong, she would withdraw deep within herself until the temptation passed and she was in her right mind again.
For half an hour Rosemary clung to her perch, absorbed in prayer. Only when she heard her sons arguing did she stir and slide off the lazy board. Moving to the rear of the wagon, she gripped the top of the loading gate and swung herself up and over. The boys stopped arguing immediately. She started to move forward, but her dress had become snagged between the canvas and the gate. Prying it loose, she was about to turn when she happened to glance eastward—and froze.
A lone rider was following them. A mile back, maybe more, the horseman was silhouetted against the azure sky.
Rosemary shaded her eyes with one hand and tried to tell whether he was white or red. The distance was too great to be certain, but one thing was for sure: He was wearing buckskins. Indians favored them, but so did frontiersmen.
“Who’s that, Ma?” Eddy was at her side, squinting into the sun. “One of the company?”
“I don’t think so,” Rosemary answered. Only six of the ten men owned horses, and they generally stayed close to the train unless Trapp sent them on ahead to forage for game or wood.
“It’s a redskin, I reckon!” Eddy excitedly declared. “Want me to holler for pa to shoot the varmint?”
“He’s too far off,” Rosemary said. “We’ll keep an eye on him, though, and if he comes any closer we’ll let everyone know.”
Sam joined them. Leaning on the gate, he peered intently at the haze-shrouded figure. “Whoever he is, he’s a big one, Ma.”
“You can tell from here?” Rosemary never ceased to be amazed at her oldest’s exceptional eyesight. He had the eyes of an eagle, and could see things others couldn’t.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam confirmed. “Him and his horse, both. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.”
“Take turns watching him,” Rosemary directed as she worked her way front, moving along the narrow space they had left for just that purpose, and remembering to step over the plow handle. Once on the seat, she picked up her knitting and for the rest of the morning busied herself with the shawl she was making.
Rosemary glanced back now and again and the big rider on the big horse was always there, always holding to the same distance.
It was customary for wagon trains to stop for an hour in the middle of the day, as much to rest the teams as anything else. Their nooning this day was on a grassy flat beside the gurgling Platte. “A mile wide and an inch deep” was how the river was routinely described, a joke testifying to the fact that as rivers went, it was downright puny.
Rosemary glanced back once more as the wagons were rumbling to a stop. The rider had gone, as mysteriously as he appeared. She searched the prairie but saw no sign of him, and she felt a strange sense of disappointment.
Sam came up as she was climbing down. “That jasper rode off into the buffalo grass as soon as Mr. Trapp yelled for us to stop. I doubt he’s a redskin, Ma. No Indian would ride out in the open like he’s been doing.” Rosemary had reached the same conclusion. “Maybe he’s a frontiersman,” she speculated. “On his way the Lord knows where.”
Eddy came scrambling over their possessions to the seat. “I’ve always wanted to meet one, Ma. Folks says they’re snake-mean and will stomp you if you so much as look at them crosswise.”
Rosemary glanced up. Of them all, Edward had the most vivid imagination. It explained why he loved to read so much. But she had to keep an eye on him. Once, she caught him with his nose buried in one of those awful penny dreadfuls. Filled with lurid tales, the stories were rife with violence and scantily clad maidens in dire distress. Ridiculous tales, fit only for simpletons and hope less romantics. “Folks say a lot of things that aren’t necessarily true, son.”
“Could be he’s one of those mountain men,” Eddy said. “Maybe on his way back to the Rockies.”
“I saw a mountain man in Independence,” Sam piped in. “He had real dark skin and eyes like none I’ve ever seen. I asked a clerk about him, and the clerk told me his kind pass through Independence from time to time.” Sam paused. “The clerk also said most people are afraid of them. Mountain men are as tough as grizzlies and as friendly as rattlers. The clerk’s very words.”
“Gosh,” Eddy said, eyes widening. “Let’s hope he comes closer.”
“You two have chores to do,” Rosemary reminded them. “Whoever that man is, he’s keeping to himself and minding his own business. I suggest we do the same.”
Their noonday meal was a hasty affair. It had to be, since they would be under way by one o’clock. Rosemary prepared soup and plenty of piping-hot coffee for Bert. He could drink it by the gallon, laced with sugar so thick it was sweeter than hard candy. They had filled their bellies and Bert was leaning back to light his pipe when Harry Trapp walked up.
“I’m glad to see you’ve kept up with us this morning.”
“Told you we would,” Bert said.
Trapp turned to Rosemary. “Pardon me, Mrs. Spencer, but I overheard your boys telling some of the other boys that you saw a rider back yonder?”
Bert lowered his pipe. “What’s this?”
“That’s true, we did,” Rosemary said. “He was there most of the morning.”
“And you didn’t think to let me know?” Trapp asked in a less-than-pleasant tone. Before she could answer, he went on. “I thought I’d made it plain this is dangerous country. Not just because of Injuns, neither. We never know who we’ll run into out here. Cutthroats and half-breeds are as common as ticks on a coon hound, and they’ll rob you blind or slit your throat with no excuse at all.”
“Honestly, Mr. Trapp,” Rosemary said. “Aren’t you exaggerating a wee bit? It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“If you only knew,” Trapp said softly, more to himself than to her, then said sternly, “If you see the rider again, you’re to get word to me. Have one of your younguns run up the line. Or send your husband. It’s important I know. Is that understood?”
Rosemary resented being treated like a child. “I understand perfectly. Never fear. I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Very well.” Trapp tilted his head back and scrutinized the vault of blue overhead. “It’s going to be a scorcher today. I’d hoped, starting this late in the season, that the weather would be cooler. But sometimes it stays hot clear into November.” Touching his hat brim, he ambled toward another family.
Bert was staring at her. “You should have said something. To me, at least.”
“I don’t see why everyone is making such a big fuss,” Rosemary responded. “Nothing happened. The man went his way and we’ll go ours.”
“That’s not the point and you know it.”
Yes, Rosemary did know it. She freely admitted to herself she had made a mistake, but she would be darned if she would admit it to Harry Trapp. His constant prodding and lectures were becoming a trial.
Sam and Eddy returned from visiting some of the other children and Rosemary put them to work cleaning up and loading the pot and utensils. She was snippy with them, and they looked at her in hurt confusion. Later, after the wagons were under way, she felt bad about it and asked them to join her in song. They sang several church hymns, including “Rock of Ages,” and a ditty the boys liked about a farmer and his cow. She was grinning and relaxed for the first time that day when Eddy abruptly pointed eastward, out the rear of their Conestoga. “He’s back again, Ma.”
Rosemary twisted around. There he was, the big rider on the big horse, the same distance away as before. His buckskins were plain in the sunlight, but little else was discernible. “Tell your father,” she instructed her oldest.
Sam vaulted lightly to the ground. Bert was up near the lead oxen. When Sam relayed the news, Bert sent him racing up the line to inform Harry Trapp.
The pilot rode back at a gallop. Wheeling his sorrel, he paced their wagon and stared over his left shoulder at the man in the distance. Rosemary wondered why he didn’t go question the rider in person.
Seconds later Bert drifted to the rear and asked, “What do you make of him, Mr. Trapp? Is he a threat to our loved ones?”
“I’ll know more in a minute.” Opening a saddlebag, Trapp removed a brass spyglass, telescoped the tube to its full length, and raised the eyepiece to his right eye. He studied the rider awhile, then announced, “By the looks of him, he’s a mountaineer.”
“A what?” Rosemary asked. The term was new to her.
“Sorry. That’s what the mountain men call themselves. Mountaineers.” Trapp nodded at the rider. “My guess is he’s on his way home after paying civilization a visit.”
Burning with curiosity, Rosemary said, “May I have a look? I’ve never seen a mountain man before.”
Trapp leaned toward the Conestoga. “Be my guest. But they’re not much different than anyone else. Saltier and smellier, is all.”
Rosemary fiddled with the eyepiece, adjusting it just right. An image took shape, the image of a broad-shouldered man with raven-black hair and a trimmed black beard. His footwear consisted of knee-length moccasins. Slanted across his wide chest were a powder horn, an ammo pouch, and a fair-sized leather bag, its purpose unknown to her. A rifle rested across his saddle and a brace of flintlock pistols were tucked under his brown leather belt. On his right hip was a large knife. On his left was what appeared to be a tomahawk.
“He’s a living armory,” she commented.
“Mountain men have to be,” Trapp said. “Without their weapons they wouldn’t last a month in the high country.”
Rosemary noticed something odd about his clothes. “Are those beads on his shirt and pants?”
“Sure are. Injuns are fond of decorating their buckskins with ’em. My guess is he has an Injun gal tucked away somewhere. A lot of his kind do.”
“They marry red women?” Bert interjected, making it sound as if it were a cardinal sin.
“Mountain men need companionship, same as everybody else,” Trapp said. “Some turn completely Injun and give up the white man’s world permanent-like.”
Sam had returned and was listening attentively. “Ain’t that wrong? I mean, they’re red and we’re white.”
“To some people, boy, color doesn’t matter as much as it ought to.” Trapp accepted the telescope from Rosemary. “The old-time trappers were the worst. They didn’t care who they took up with. Bridger, Meek, Walker, they all took Injun women. Meek lived with his wife’s people for years, until it got so you couldn’t tell him from a redskin.” Trapp was replacing the spyglass into his saddlebag. “Not all that long ago there was a black feller, a member of the Lewis and Clark expedition, who took up with the Crows. They must think highly of him, because the last I heard, they’d made him a chief.”
“I’d never live with Indians,” Sam said.
“Me either,” the pilot declared. “But I don’t hold anything against those who do. I’ve always been a strong believer that folks should be able to do as they please so long as it doesn’t harm anyone else.”
“Don’t forget the Ten Commandments,” Bert threw in. “There are some things we shouldn’t do, no matter what.”
“Like ‘Thou shalt not kill’?” Trapp said with a hint of sarcasm. “Tell that to a hostile about to lift your hair. The Ten Commandments don’t apply west of the Mississippi. Not if you want to live to reach the Promised Land alive.”
Rosemary was angry the pilot would speak like that in front of her children. “I’ll thank you to keep your personal opinions regarding Scripture to yourself. We’ve taught our children to live by the Golden Rule at all times.”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” the pilot said, “turning the other cheek on the frontier is the same as asking to push up clover. All it does is make you easier to kill.”
Rosemary glanced at her husband for support, but Bert was staring at the ground, so she pressed the case herself. “Mr. Trapp, you’ve been at your job too long. You’ve forgotten what truly matters in life. Forgotten our purpose for being here.”
“What would that be, ma’am?”
Clear and loud, Rosemary said, “To love our neighbors as we love ourselves.”
Harry Trapp’s eyebrows met over his nose. “I admire you, ma’am, and those like you. Honest to God I do. But it seems to me you’re looking at the world with blinders on, sort of like those horses that pull carriages in big cities. Loving a neighbor is all well and good, but I don’t see how that applies to Injuns. A lot of tribes are about as neighborly as rabid wolves. And they’re heathens, to boot. Their gods ain’t the same as ours. They don’t believe the same things we do. So it’s damned silly to sit there and talk about loving them.”
“I’ll thank you to watch how you talk to my wife, sir,” Bert broke in. “Show more respect, if you please.”
“No insult intended, Mr. Spencer,” Trapp said. “I’m only trying to make her see that her ways aren’t the ways of the whole world.”
“Be that as it may,” Rosemary said, “I’ll live as I deem best, and the rest of the world be hanged.”
Trapp looked rather regretfully at each of them in turn. “I pray to God you people don’t learn your lesson the hard way,” he said, and raised his reins to ride off.
Bert wagged his whip to the east. “What about the mountain man?”
“What about him? He’s minding his own business, we’ll mind ours.”
The sorrel departed in a cloud of dust.
“I don’t know as I like him, Ma,” Eddy commented.
