They prayed the Lord’s Prayer together. Mama would want them to be brave.
Prairie nights were cold this time of the year, and he was unsure if the Tingvolds owned extra coverings. Ryker could not bear to look at Papa again but hurriedly pulled away the blanket and covered Papa’s face with the piece of burlap sack lying in the potato bin.
It was all he could do. Ryker picked up Papa’s rifle but cast it aside when he realized all the bullets were gone.
“I’ll put the Bible back in the soddy,” Sven said. “Mama will be mad if it gets lost.”
“We have to be brave.” Ryker stooped down to look first into Klara’s eyes and then Sven’s. Ryker picked up Papa’s folding knife. Klara reached for Ryker’s hand. Her fingers felt small, her bones like those of a small bird. Ryker sucked in his breath.
Their father dead. Mama and Elsa stolen by Indians. In this dark moment, even Martin seemed dead.
Papa always said to stand tall and put your back into your work. He said anything was possible if a man trusted in the Good Lord and did his best.
He looked at his small family. Sven tried to be brave. Klara looked up at him with trusting eyes.
“I’m scared,” Klara said with a whimper. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She stuck her thumb in her mouth.
“We’ll be all right,” Ryker said. “The angels are with us.” He swallowed a few tears of his own and hoped he spoke the truth.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
“You’re taking all that along?” Sven said. “Better load the ox before you break your back.”
But the ox was nowhere in sight. It seemed the Indians had stolen every animal on the farm. Not a single hen scratched in the manure pile.
“Where’s the wheelbarrow?” Sven said.
Ryker found it behind the outhouse, loaded with chicken manure for the garden. They dumped the load and placed the bundle of food and supplies inside. Klara could ride if she got tired. Ryker reminded Klara to wear her bonnet so she wouldn’t sunburn.
They filled the empty milk jug with well water. Ryker ignored the empty pens, the missing hens. A coyote had scavenged the carcasses of the dead fowl, as evidenced by scattered bones and feather. He chided himself for letting the meat go to waste.
The barley bowed low in the field. A bumper crop wasted. The blackbirds feasted. Could it have been only yesterday that he dreaded working the harvest? Now he would give anything to work next to his father, while his mother hung washing on the bushes and the little ones argued about chores.
Mr. Tingvold would know what to do. He would fetch help from the fort, and Mrs. Tingvold would fix a hot meal.
Just then, Beller leapt out of the tall grass, his black coat matted with cockleburs. He wagged his tail and jumped up on their chests, breathing foul breath into their faces. Beller always did a lot of jumping when he was glad to see someone. Ryker dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow.
“Oh, Beller.” Sven threw his arms around the dog and nuzzled his neck. “I thought the skraelings got you, for sure.”
A single bark might give them away. Ryker faced a hard decision. “He can’t go with us,” he said.
“Why not?” Sven buried his face in the dog’s mangy coat. When he looked up, he showed tears streaking down his face. “You’re mean,” Sven said. “Martin would let him go along.” He positioned his body between Ryker and Beller, as if to protect the family pet. “Mama says he’s a good dog.”
Klara stood beside her twin. “He’s going along,” she said. “He’s family.”
Ryker weighed the decision. They were only going a short distance. Once there, they could chain him in the Tingvold barn. The twins had lost their father, and who knows when they would find their mother. Ryker swallowed a sob. They had lost too much. Maybe Beller would warn them of danger and help rather than hinder.
“All right,” Ryker said. “Beller can go.”
The twins hugged the dog and squealed in delight.
“But keep him close.” Ryker said. He knelt and petted the dog, too. Beller stank like dead fish and skunk. “You’ll be a good dog, won’t you?” Beller wagged his crooked tail and licked Ryker’s face.
CHAPTER 12
* * *
They started east, avoiding the main trail and snaking through the tall grass near the edge of the slough. Unexpectedly, Beller pulled away and looked westward with bared teeth. He growled a deep, menacing warning. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Indians,” Sven said in a whisper.
Ryker fought a wave of panic. They had to hide. His father had told him to take care of the twins. Where could they go?
“Here, boy!” Sven grabbed Beller by the scruff of his neck and dragged him toward the slough. “Quiet.”
Klara followed close behind, their splashing feet sounding as loud as the school bell calling them to class. Surely the Indians would hear and be upon them, brandishing their scalping knives.
Ryker forced himself to action, though his brain refused to work, and panic scrambled his thoughts. He pushed the wheelbarrow into the mucky water, each step an eternity, and his heart beating like a hammer. The swamp stank of decayed earth and dead fish, and mosquitoes tormented in enormous, whining clouds. For once, Ryker gave thanks for the tall grass that hid them from view.
Beller growled and strained to pull away, but Sven knelt behind a cluster of cattails, gripping Beller’s snout with both hands. Klara’s face drained of color.
“Hush now,” Ryker whispered. “Klara, fetch yarn out of the bundle.”
Klara fumbled for their mother’s ball of yarn. She unwound a length and bit it with her teeth. Ryker bound the yarn around Beller’s snout and tied it into a knot. The dog whined but did not fight the muzzle.
Sven knotted the short rope around Beller’s neck for a leash. “That ought to do,” he whispered. He wound the end of the cord around his hand and gripped it so tightly that his skin blanched white between the thin ropes.
They held Beller with the combined weight of their bodies. Ryker thought he heard Klara’s heart beating but then realized it was his own banging against his ribs. They hid like rabbits, listening and waiting for the Indians to burst upon them. A horse whinnied. Beller bristled, but they somehow kept him down. An Indian burped. The others laughed and spoke in their language.
Ryker strained his ears for anything that might indicate his mother and sister were with the Indians. He heard only guttural language, horses, and an occasional laugh. The Indians continued on their way toward the east. The children remained hidden.
After what seemed like eternity, Klara whispered in Ryker’s ear, “You’re hurting Beller.”
Ryker and Sven released the dog from their stranglehold. Sven held tightly to the rope around his neck. The dog shook muddy water, splattering the children.
“They’re gone,” Sven said. “See, I told you Beller wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“We should have left him behind,” Ryker said. “He almost gave us away.”
“No,” Klara said. “Beller warned us to hide.” She put both arms around the dog’s muddy neck and kissed the tip of his muzzled nose. “Good boy.”
Ryker had to admit that she was right.
“Let’s go,” Sven said with a determined look on his dirty face. Mosquito bites welted across his face and arms. He scratched the back of his neck. “We have to find Mama and Elsa.”
Ryker forced his brain to think. They were well hidden in the slough, but they could not find their mother in the swamp. Mr. Tingvold would know what to do. They had to find Mama.
Sven removed Beller’s muzzle and allowed him to drink. When Beller finished, Sven replaced the muzzle and kept a firm hold on the leash.
They climbed out of the swamp and peered in all directions, shaking gobs of wet mud off their clothing. Ryker slapped wet muck on the mosquito bites covering Klara’s arms and face. No sign of Redskins. Ryker pushed the wheelbarrow toward the Tingvold farm. They would avoid the path in
hopes no Indians would find them.
The wheelbarrow tangled in the tall grass. Ryker’s muscles bulged with the effort. His arms and shoulders ached, and he paused to wipe his sweaty face.
“Oh, no,” Sven said. He climbed on top of a massive rock and looked back over their trail. “Look.”
Ryker climbed the rock, too, and looked back in horror. A long winding swath cut through the waving grass. The wheelbarrow left a trail as plain as an arrow pointing their way.
Sven’s face looked crestfallen. “It was a dumb idea.”
“No,” Klara said, always in defense of her twin. “It’s not your fault the ground is soft.”
Beller lurched against the leash after a gopher skittering through the grass.
“Hang onto him.” Ryker lunged to grab hold of Beller’s rope. “That scallywag will get us killed.” He jerked the rope until Beller wheezed in protest.
“You’re hurting him,” Sven said. “He’s hungry.”
“We should leave him tied to the rock,” Ryker said. “Dumb, worthless dog.”
The angry words soured in his mouth. He sounded like his father. Sven’s shoulders heaved, and tears filled his sister’s eyes.
“Klara’s right. The wheelbarrow was a good idea,” Ryker said.
Beller wagged his tail.
“Apologize,” Klara said. “Say you’re sorry.”
“You’re right,” Ryker said. He reached out to pat the dog’s head. “I’m sorry, Beller. You’re a good dog.”
“And promise you won’t say mean things again,” Klara persisted.
“No,” Ryker said. “I will say nothing bad about Beller.” He unpacked the wheelbarrow and hoisted the pack to his back. “But he must be muzzled until we get to the Tingvold place.”
Klara overturned the wheelbarrow into the grass. “Papa wouldn’t like us leaving the wheelbarrow.” She wiped tears with the back of her hand.
The dog whined, as Sven rewound the yarn around his snout.
“We’ll fetch it later,” Ryker said. “It won’t go anywhere.”
“Too heavy,” Klara said, hefting the sack.
“Wear what you can to lighten my load.” Ryker pulled shoes and clothing out of the pack.
“Funny to wear shoes in the summer,” Klara said, as she slipped them on her feet. “Papa won’t—” She didn’t finish the sentence. Her thin shoulders shook with silent sobs. She tied her sweater around her waist and popped her thumb in her mouth. She huddled close to Sven and patted Beller’s head.
Mrs. Tingvold would feed them, Ryker knew, but he could not waste their few remaining supplies. They would need every bit to get through the winter. If only they might yet salvage part of the harvest. His brain scrambled to figure out what to do.
They stepped away from the wheelbarrow trail, careful to leave no footprints as they traveled through tall prairie grass. When they came over the edge of the rise next to the Tingvold farm, they knelt by the edge of the harvested fields. A rising wind rustled the turkey-foot grasses surrounding the homestead, the tops showing a purple tinge, a sure reminder that autumn was on its way.
“What are we waiting for?” Klara said. “I’m thirsty.”
“Hush.” Something cautioned Ryker. The Indians had traveled in this direction. Ryker saw Mr. Tingvold tying grain in the field west of the house. Sheaves scattered across the naked fields. Mrs. Tingvold gathered eggs in the barnyard. Nothing out of the ordinary. Ryker blew out his breath. The Tingvolds would help them.
“All right,” Ryker said. He rose to his feet and gathered their pack, as Sven unwound Beller’s muzzle. Beller growled toward the corn field on the south side of the cabin.
“Wait!” Ryker dropped to the ground, gripping Beller’s snout and holding the leash. Horses snorted, beads rattled, and the slide of metal against metal sounded in the stillness.
“Indians!” Ryker said. They edged back into the tall grass and lay flat. Overhead puffs of clouds dotted a sapphire sky. Flies buzzed, and cicadas droned around them. A bumblebee landed on a purple coneflower, bending the tender stalk under its weight.
Beller lunged away from them. He streaked across the field toward the house, the leash dragging behind him in the stubble.
Sven tried to follow, but Ryker pulled him back.
“No,” Ryker said. “Stay down.” He craned his neck to see through the grass. A painted Indian wearing a white feather in his hair held the halter of a black pony, also painted in red, and gestured toward Mr. Tingvold in the field. Mrs. Tingvold’s white apron bunched around her waist as she filled it with eggs from the haystack. The apron ties fluttered behind her in the prairie wind.
Beller streaked toward Mrs. Tingvold. Ryker’s warning turned to dust in his throat. Any sound might draw unwanted attention. They could do nothing to stop what was about to happen.
It couldn’t be real. Any minute he would wake up and find it was all a dream. Mama would laugh when he told her about his preposterous dream where she and Elsa were taken by hostile Indians, and Papa lay entombed in the root cellar.
Mrs. Tingvold backed away from the barking dog as if afraid. Beller turned toward the Indians with his back toward Mrs. Tingvold, his ferocious barking protective and threatening. But, surely, Beller was no match for the raiders.
Ryker searched for something, anything, to alter what was about to happen, but he could think of nothing. If he had his father’s rifle with bullets. If the soldiers would come charging through the tall grass.
He should do something. Mrs. Tingvold had loaned him the Topsy book and showed kindness about Martin’s capture. Last year she sent a loaf of fresh bread for Jul, Christmas. How good it tasted. Mr. Tingvold showed Papa how to build the soddy that first difficult year on the prairie. They deserved to be rescued.
Ryker could only watch the beautiful black horse snort and paw the dirt at the edge of the corn field. Other horses stepped out from between the rows of corn. The Indians climbed onto their horses’ backs.
“Don’t look,” he said to the twins. They buried their faces in their hands, but Ryker could not look away. Beads of sweat stung his eyes, as several of the wild men raced through the barley field toward Mr. Tingvold, their horses raising dust and scattering the haycocks under their hooves. Others headed toward Mrs. Tingvold with shrieks and war whoops.
The hair on Ryker’s neck bristled. Klara raised her head, but Ryker pushed her face down into the ground. “Don’t look!” Beller streaked into the garden patch, away from the approaching riders. Ryker gripped his brother’s arm until his hands ached.
Mrs. Tingvold stared at the approaching riders, as if frozen to the ground. “Arne!” she screamed. “Arne!” She ran towards her husband, flinging her arms wide as an arrow pierced her back. She fell forward. Eggs splattered around her. Ryker watched in horror as an Indian rushed toward her with a raised tomahawk. Another pulled the axe from the chopping block.
Ryker could look no longer. He had seen the elephant. He buried his face in his arms. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t pray. He couldn’t think. Martin must feel like this. Ryker hoped a sudden, fierce hope that Martin had survived Shiloh, that he had hidden himself as they were hiding and lived to return home. If only they would all survive: Martin, Mama, Elsa, he and the twins, and the new baby. Too late for Papa.
Ryker jerked his head at the crash of breaking glass. Plumes of black smoke boiled against the blue sky. Flames licked from the windows and doors of the log barn. Their precious school and teacher gone forever.
Indians poured out of the cabin dragging all kinds of things. One twirled Mrs. Tingvold’s petticoat over his head and tied it around his shoulders as a cape. Another placed her bonnet over his dark hair. They dumped food stores into the dirt and laughed when flour drifted through the air like snow. A short Indian smashed the cabin window with the splitting maul and held a burning piece of stove wood against the kitchen curtain. Flames curled through the broken glass.
Ryker’s brain thawed. “We have to leave. Have to
get away,” he said. “They’ll find us.”
“Wait,” Sven said. “We can’t leave Beller.”
“Look,” Klara said. She pointed toward a cluster of people on the western edge of the farthest field. “They’re white people.”
Ryker searched the group for a glimpse of his mother. Women slumped to the ground. Others huddled with children. He had never seen such a dejected looking lot. An Indian stood guard. One kerchief showed among the sunbonnets. The woman might have been their mother, but she faced the opposite direction and wasn’t holding a baby. Something about her stance looked unfamiliar. They were too far away to know for sure.
Ryker’s eyes had always been sharper than Sven’s, though Papa predicted reading would ruin them. A boy stood to his feet, and Ryker recognized Johnny Schmitz’s red suspenders.
“It’s Johnny Schmitz,” Ryker said. He wouldn’t mention their mother until he knew for sure. The Indians herded the captives into the tall grass. Johnny edged toward the path, as if planning escape. The Indian struck Johnny, sending him sprawling on the ground. Then the Indian kicked Johnny’s back and beat him about his head with a heavy stick. Johnny shielded his head with both arms until the Indian jerked him to his feet and pushed him into the tall grass out of sight.
“What’s happening?” Sven said. “I can’t see.”
“Nothing,” Ryker said. His mouth turned dry as powder. Johnny Schmitz, a brat by any estimation, did not deserve such treatment. Ryker must protect his brother and sister.
Sven pulled his knife and started toward the captives.
“No,” Ryker said. He grabbed his brother’s shoulder and pulled him back into the grass. The Indian on the black horse turned away from the smoking cabin and rode in their direction carrying a lighted torch.
“Quiet!” Ryker said. The Indian must have seen them. Overhead puffs of clouds dotted a blue sky. Buzzing flies and droning cicadas sounded around them. It was as if the skraeling knew where the children were hiding and came right toward them.
Escape to Fort Abercrombie Page 7
