Leaving Independence (18 page)

Jacob grinned. “I noticed you wore your pistol on your left leg.”

Hoke winked at him. “Now look at your target and imagine it’s the face of a clock. You want to put the front sight in the rear notch and lay it on six o’clock at the bottom of your clock face. Most people shoot too high. They sight in on the middle of the target. But you’ll do better to aim at the base of it. It’s natural to raise the barrel as you squeeze the trigger.”

“Should I get off my horse?” Jacob was on the dun.

The kid didn’t act nervous at all, thought Hoke. Charlie was more cautious. Jacob was fearless—which could be both good and bad.

“It’s always served me well to know how to shoot sittin’ on mine. If you can hit the target from your horse, you can usually hit it standing on the ground. Doesn’t always work the other way. But try to keep the reins in your hand ’cause if your horse isn’t used to it, he’ll pitch.”

Charlie, Cooper, Clyde, Alec Douglas, even Mr. Austelle were all paying close attention to Hoke’s words. Cooper and Clyde both gripped their horses’ reins a little tighter as he spoke.

“Where’s the best place to hit it?” Jacob was concentrating hard.

“Heart or head. Head’s better if you can get past the bone structure. A buffalo has a hard head. If you can lay it in one of his eyes or ears it’ll go straight to the brain.”

Hoke expected Jacob to take a while getting a feel for the gun, but as soon as the boy lined up that bull’s massive head on six o’clock in his sight, he pulled the trigger and flipped feet first over the butt of the gray dun, his father’s rifle falling to the ground beside him.

Hoke had been kicked plenty himself by both guns and animals and knew every boy had to learn it. He was trying not to laugh at Jacob lying on the ground, scrambling out from under the hooves of his horse—which was also too big for him—when he heard the angry buffalo snort.

Hoke’s head whipped around to the buffalo. The kid had nicked him after all, and it made the hairy beast mad.

The dun landed a kick to Jacob’s shoulder just as the buffalo charged. Hoke went cold in an instant. The charging bull spooked the rest of the herd and they started to run, too, but by the grace of God, in the opposite direction.

Hoke clamped his legs tight around the stallion, the Winchester out of his holster, in his hands and thrown to his shoulder—
shoot, work the lever, shoot, work the lever, shoot
—but the buffalo was already down. He looked over at Charlie, who stood with the smoking Henry in his hands. Charlie had jumped down from the gelding, scooped up the fallen rifle, and fired the killing shot.

Mr. Austelle had only just gotten his rifle lifted, it all happened so fast.

Hoke looked at Charlie. “Nice work.”

Charlie reached for Jacob. “You all right, Jake?”

Jacob looked like he wanted to cry. He eyed the Austelle boys and felt his shoulder. “I think it’s broke.”

“Here, let’s see.” Hoke dismounted and felt Jacob’s shoulder. “It’s popped out. Look yonder at that buffalo and tell me if his eyes are open or not.”

As soon as Jacob squinted toward the buffalo, Hoke gave his shoulder a crack and it popped neatly into place.

Jacob yelled.

“How’s that feel?” asked Hoke.

Jacob rolled it gingerly. “Sore, but not broke, I guess.”

“Blimey! You’re good as Doc Isaacs,” said Alec Douglas.

“And fast with a gun,” said Mr. Austelle.

“Helps if you want to stay alive. And I’ve popped a few shoulders back in place, includin’ my own.” He’d popped more than one man’s out, too.

Hoke squeezed Jacob’s arm at the elbow. “You’ll have a nice-size bruise, and it tore the skin a little there.” He nodded. “Good job. Shot you a buffalo and took a solid horse kick. Quite a day.”

The boy was quiet while they inspected the downed buffalo and field-dressed it, pulling the choice meats out to take back to the wagon train. Then he spoke up suddenly. “Can we keep the hide?”

“Sure,” said Hoke. Buffalo hides were heavy, but Jacob was light. They could throw it on his horse. “I’ll show you how to tan it when we get it back to camp. We’ll make you some more moccasins since those you have are wearing through.”

The buffalo was so massive they had to cut it into smaller sections to turn it over. Hoke had the group pile up what was left of the carcass and burn it.

The Austelle boys thought that was silly. “Why take the time to burn it?” asked Cooper.

“It’s more respectful. Too many men kill these animals for their hides only, skinning them and leaving them to rot into the landscape. Indians, on the other hand, use every part of the animal. Think of it as a sweet gift of incense back to God, if you want to. Always clean up after yourself. Leave a spot as good as or better than you found it.”

Abigail and Melinda were by Audrey Beckett’s side when Doc Isaacs delivered a skinny red baby. All three women were crying.

“You did good, Doc.” Melinda dabbed at her eyes. “How many babies have you helped with?”

“This is my eighth.”

“You must think we’re silly, crying,” said Abigail.

Doc smiled at her. “I don’t think you’re silly. Crying does a body good sometimes.”

Audrey said weakly, “Sam asked could we name the baby ‘Nebraska’ no matter if it was a boy or a girl.” They had arrived in Nebraska Territory a week ago. “He predicted the baby would come here. Evelyn Nebraska Beckett. My mother’s name was Evelyn.”

They had just gotten little Evelyn washed up and put back in her mother’s arms when Alec Douglas ran up to the wagon. “Where’s Mrs. Abigail? One o’ her boys has been hurt.”

His words tore through the canvas and Abigail nearly tripped scrambling out.

“Your youngest is a’right, but he’s had a scare. He shot at a buffalo and the rifle knocked him off his horse. Horse kicked him, then it looked like the buffalo was going to charge. Hoke and Charlie took it down, tho’.”

Alec had run ahead with the news.

Abigail could see the party coming back, great slabs of bloody meat hanging on the sides of some of the horses behind the riders. Jacob wasn’t on his horse. He was riding behind Charlie, his arms wrapped tightly about his brother, his face buried in his back.

Hoke intercepted Abigail before she could get to her sons. “Easy now. He’s already embarrassed,” he whispered.

Her temper flared. “Why do you keep bringing my children back to me sick or wounded? I shouldn’t have let him go. He’s just a boy.”

“But you’re raisin’ a man!” he snapped. “And there were more lessons to be had in going.”

How dare he tell her how to parent? He didn’t have children!

But Abigail held her tongue, knowing there was truth in what he said. With Hoke’s words ringing in her ears, she looked at her son. “Are you hurt, Jacob?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, sliding off the horse then jumping back to avoid getting kicked. He was holding his right arm.

“Is it bleeding?”

“A little.”

“Better come back to the wagon and let me clean it then,” she said matter-of-factly. “Doc Isaacs may need to stitch it.”

After he’d gotten the meat prepared for cooking and things cleaned up, Hoke peeped through the canvas cover in the back of her wagon. Jacob was curled up in her lap. She hummed softly as she rocked him and stroked his hair.

How Hoke had longed for a mother’s comfort at Jacob’s age . . . how he longed for it still.

Corrine came up behind him. “How ’bout you and me get supper started?” he suggested, his voice thick.

“Why?”

“Because your mother’s helped deliver a baby and your brothers have been killing buffalo, that’s why.”

“Fine.”

In a little bit, Prissy Schroeder came bounding around the corner. “I heard your little brother got himself kicked by a horse.”

“You say one word to him about it, Prissy, and I’ll lay you out,” said Corrine.

Defeated, Prissy slunk off.

Hoke looked at Corrine admiringly.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothin’.”

A few minutes later, after Hoke had got the meat cooking and was ready to go draw some water, he said through the back wagon flap, “Jacob, you need to come help clean these guns and knives we used today.”

Jacob looked up at his mother. “It’s all right, Ma. I’m all right.” Just before he climbed down from her lap, he added, “Thanks,” and gave her a kiss.

Her hand went to the spot and lingered.

As he and Jacob walked away, Hoke said low to Corrine, “Let me know if you want any pointers on how to lay Prissy out.”

He saw the corners of Corrine’s lips curl up as he walked away.

CHAPTER 16

Just before sunrise

The skies wouldn’t rain. The sun beat mercilessly as Colonel Dotson’s wagon train crossed the plains of Nebraska and water began to run in short supply. When they finally rolled into Fort Kearney, they were a tired, haggard group, buoyed only by the eternal optimism of Gerald and Josephine Jenkins.

May 29, 1866

Fort Kearney was built solely as protection for those traveling the Oregon Trail and yet it is a disappointment. The farther we get from civilization, the less civilized are the people in the settlements. Several of the soldiers at Fort Kearney are Confederates who were taken prisoner and forced to come west. It makes for a sour mood that permeates the camp.

Colonel Dotson gathered the company leaders. “Tell your folks to go ahead and do any trading they need to do tonight. Let’s get an early start in the morning. This place doesn’t bode well with me.”

They were camped just outside the fort walls, where they should have felt safer than usual. But deep in the night Abigail woke to the muffled sounds of angry talk. The colonel’s voice ripped clearly through the night. “You will not whip these men!”

“What’s going on?” whispered Corrine.

“I can’t tell, but I’ll find out. Stay here.” Abigail threw a shawl over her shoulders and crawled out of the back of the wagon, thankful Lina was still asleep.

Charlie and Jacob were in their bedrolls propped on elbows listening and straining to see something in the distance. Rascal’s head popped up between them.

“Colonel’s over there at the fort with Mr. Jenkins and several others,” Charlie said low to Abigail.

She peered at the empty wagon nearby. “Where are Mr. Hoke and Mr. Parker?”

“With the livestock. They’re on guard duty.”

Sam Beckett walked by in the night.

“What’s happened, Mr. Beckett?”

He stepped over to the Baldwyn wagons. “The officers have Michael Chessor and Harry Sims. They want to punish them.”

“What for?”

“Couple of drunk soldiers crawled into the McConnelly wagon. Beat up the old man and attacked the ladies.”

“What do you mean, attacked them?”

“I mean they had evil intentions.” Mr. Beckett looked down at Jacob and Charlie. “But Sims and Chessor intervened before it was too late. Now the officers are mad because their men got soundly whipped.”

“Do they need someone to see to their needs?”

“Mr. Austelle might know.” Abigail could see Charles Austelle emerging from the darkness.

“Do the McConnelly girls have someone with them, Mr. Austelle?”

“Mrs. Chris and Mrs. Jo are with them, and a couple of the Schroeder women. They’re fine. Shook up and mad, but fine.”

“Is Mr. McConnelly hurt?”

“He’s got a hard knock on the head. Doc Isaacs is with him.”

They heard running feet. Hoke burst around the corner of Abigail’s wagon, his eyes blazing. Rascal stood up and wagged his tail. When Hoke’s eyes found Abigail in the moonlight, his face relaxed.

“James and I were with the stock and just heard. Is everybody else safe?” he asked Mr. Austelle. Before Mr. Austelle could answer, he turned to Abigail. “You’re safe?”

Abigail nodded. “It was just the McConnelly wagon, as far as I know.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mr. Austelle. “I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble out of anyone—not after the way Chessor and Sims beat those soldiers.”

“So they have the men who did it?”

“Yes. Both of them.”

“Has the colonel put extra men on watch for the rest of the night?”

“He has. I’ll be watching Company C since you and Parker are with the stock.”

“Good. Thank you. What are they doing to the soldiers who caused the trouble?”

“They’re in the infirmary.”

“Good. They need to be court-martialed.”

Abigail wondered: Did Hoke feel that way because it was the McConnelly women? Did he really have a fondness for Irene? He was so hard to read. Irene certainly lit up if Hoke ever spoke to her. Would he go there next and check on them?

Should she go check on them? It was upsetting to think one of the wagons had been set upon. What if Charlie and Jacob had been knocked on the head while she and the girls were attacked? A shiver ran between her shoulder blades in spite of the shawl she’d wrapped around herself.

Hoke looked to Charles Austelle. “I’ll go back to the stock, but you’ll let me know if there’s any more trouble, won’t you?”

Mr. Austelle nodded.

“You, too, gentlemen?” Hoke peered under the wagon at Charlie and Jacob, who were still on their elbows listening.

“Yes, sir,” they answered.

“Maybe you boys should come inside the wagon the rest of the night,” said Abigail.

“Mother, we’ll be fine out here,” insisted Charlie.

“Yeah, Ma. Mr. Hoke just called us gentlemen.”

“You stay with ’em, Rascal,” commanded Hoke. He nodded at Abigail. “Evenin’.”

As Abigail reached up to climb back in the wagon she heard Jacob ask Charlie, “You hear about that body Harry Sims found yesterday?”

“Yeah, said it looked like his throat was cut.”

Abigail stopped. “What are you boys talking about?”

“Harry and Tam’s group found a man’s body when they were out hunting.”

“Yeah. Harry said he would have brought the man’s boots back to Nichodemus Jasper—you know how poor they are—but both of ’em had big holes in the toes.”

“What is it, Ma?” asked Charlie. “Jacob, why’d you mention that where she could hear? Now she’s going to make us sleep up in the wagon for sure.”

“No.” Abigail slowly shook her head, trying to absorb this news. Could it have been Cecil Ryman that Harry’s group found? How many men wore boots with holes in both toes? “You can stay as long as Rascal is with you.”

Abigail lay awake the rest of the night. Then in the morning, just after the Schroeders’ roosters crowed—as they were preparing to leave and Colonel Dotson was letting the captain in charge know he’d be reporting the previous night’s incident at the next post—Sue Vandergelden’s scream rent the air.

Feet from all over camp went running in her direction. They found her standing over her son’s limp body, his bedroll thrown open revealing a small snake curled in the bottom.

It came out that Sue had allowed Ned to sleep under the Vandergeldens’ wagon with the youngest Sutler boy, Reuben. When Reuben couldn’t wake Ned the next morning, he’d called for Sue.

John Sutler dragged the snake away from Ned’s body with a hoe and chopped its head off with a whack. Abigail turned away, nauseated by the morning’s turn of events. Doc Isaacs arrived, laying a hand on her shoulder. He bent over Ned’s body to check for a pulse, but everyone could see the boy no longer had one.

“Snakes won’t usually crawl into a bedroll if someone’s in it,” said Rudy Schroeder.

“We left our bedrolls.” Reuben’s voice was laced with fear. “To see what was happening last night.”

“It must have crawled in there while he was gone. Bit him when he laid back down.” This was from Ty, Ned’s father. Hardly anyone had ever heard Ty speak before. Sue did most of the talking for the Vandergeldens.

John Sutler put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. “A baby rattler’s bite don’t feel like much more than a bee sting, but its poison is strong.”

Doc Isaacs raised Ned’s pants leg and inspected the bite mark on his ankle.

Sue pointed at the dead snake. “That’s a rattlesnake?”

“It can’t be,” Rudy Schroeder said. “It don’t have rattles.”

Doc Isaacs stood back up. “It’s a young one. The rattles haven’t come in yet. A young rattlesnake can’t control how much venom he injects.”

Sue glared at Doc.

A Fort Kearney officer came over to investigate. “Snakes have been an ongoing problem here,” he said, shaking his head.

Dotson grabbed him by the neck of his uniform. “Why didn’t you say something about that when we arrived?” No one in the group had ever seen the colonel so mad.

The officer tried to back out of the colonel’s hold, looking sheepishly around at the crowd of onlookers.

“First the incident with the McConnellys and now this!” The colonel released the man, then threw down an empty tin coffee cup he had been holding. “This is the sorriest group of military men I have ever encountered, and I hold you personally responsible for this boy’s death! If we had known there were snakes, we would have had our children in the wagons last night.”

Distrusting the sudden weakness of her legs, Abigail looked for a place to sit down. It had been one of the strangest nights she’d ever known. What if one of her boys had been bitten? And what kind of men would they find at Fort Hall?

Every bedroll was checked, but no other snakes were found.

When Colonel Dotson asked Sue what she wanted to do about burying Ned, she became hysterical. “Bury him? What do you mean, bury him? We aren’t going to bury him!” Then when John Sutler went to lift the body she screamed, “Don’t touch him! Don’t you touch my baby!”

It took two hours to get Sue Vandergelden calmed down enough to get Ned’s body moved.

Abigail tried to close her ears to Sue’s distraught cries. All she could think about was how meanly she had thought of Sue Vandergelden . . . and Ned was her only child.

She located each of her children with her eyes. Charlie and Corrine were talking with Emma and Clyde Austelle by the Baldwyns’ front wagon. Everyone not helping with the Vandergeldens was waiting for Colonel Dotson’s rollout call. She, Jacob, and Lina were waiting by the back wagon. She looked down at the top of Jacob’s unruly hair.

“Jacob, promise me you’ll never pick up a baby snake again.”

“I wouldn’t if it was poisonous.”

“Promise me! Not any.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ty said he didn’t want to bury Ned at the fort that had been the cause of so much unhappiness. They decided to travel on for a day and then bury Ned. Ty didn’t know if he and Sue would continue with the train after that or turn back.

They traveled fourteen miles along the banks of the South Platte River, never stopping for lunch. There had only been two good things about reaching Fort Kearney—replenishing their food stores and reaching the Platte that ran north of it.

Harry gave a moving funeral service.

“Lord, we come to You with hearts broken over this tragedy. We cannot presume to understand, so help us hold fast to each other and to You as we press on in our journey. Receive the soul of Ned Vandergelden, tender and beloved to his parents, into Your paradise and reunite us again someday.”

Supper was eaten with heavy hearts.

“Those McConnelly girls may not talk to any of us the rest of the trip,” said Melinda as she and Abigail worked on supper. “I tried to go over there and say I was sorry about what happened to ’em, but they went in their wagon when they saw me coming.”

“I had a similar experience,” Abigail said. Irene had been quite blatant about it—she’d looked Abigail in the eye and just when Abigail had smiled and opened her mouth to speak, Irene had turned her back and walked the other way.

The men dug a small grave on the river’s edge and buried Ned there. Children from all the companies laid flowers on the grave. Josephine gathered the children afterward to sing Ned’s favorite song. None of the children ran and played that evening; they went to bed early instead. Most people, men included, slept that night in the wagons. A few braved the ground, rolling out and double-checking their beds several times before climbing in. Some laid ropes around because they’d heard a snake wouldn’t cross one, but then they jumped at the sight of the ropes, forgetting they had laid them there.

Abigail didn’t even have to ask her boys to stay in the wagons that night; they did it without being asked, bringing Rascal up to sleep between them. Many of the children had dogs that slept nearby, but there had been no pets near Reuben and Ned the previous night.

Marnie Sutler, bad as she felt about Ned, got on her knees that night and thanked God it wasn’t Reuben they’d buried by the river that evening. Several mothers cried into their pillows thinking how quickly and unexpectedly one of their own could be taken. Audrey Beckett cried the hardest, holding newborn Evelyn and begging God to let her live to adulthood.

Early the next morning, just before sunrise, everyone was awakened by the sound of gunshots—two shots from close by—within the camp.

Some thought soldiers had snuck back to cause trouble, but the shots came from the Vandergelden wagon.

The first rays of daylight revealed a gruesome scene—Sue Vandergelden had first shot her husband in the head, then herself with Ty’s .36 caliber Colt Navy pistol. A blood-spattered note was on the pillow beside Ty, where he never woke from a fitful night of sleep.

Bury us by our boy. Give our things to the Jaspers.

Sue lay stretched across the lower half of Ty’s body, a rare smile on her face, the gun on the ground near where she’d fallen, a near-empty bottle of Arkansas mash whiskey on the floor.