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Escape to Fort Abercrombie

Page 8

by Candace Simar


  They flattened in the grass. Surely their lives were over. No one would be left to rescue Mama and Elsa. The new baby would be raised as an Indian and never know how hard they had tried to save him. Ryker clutched Klara’s hand, fingering her soggy and wrinkled thumb.

  The Indian pulled his horse to a stop in the middle of the open field. He waved the burning torch, threw back his head, and uttered a war cry so terrible that Ryker’s muscles weakened. The horse reared back on its hind legs. Ryker braced himself. Surely they would all be killed.

  There was no place to go. They pressed their bodies into the earth and tried to turn invisible. Klara’s ragged breathing sounded next to Ryker’s ear, and she clung trembling to his arm. A fly crawled into Ryker’s nose, but he didn’t dare reach up to brush it away.

  He wasn’t ready to die. His whole life lay ahead of him. It couldn’t end this way. Ryker prayed for forgiveness. He promised God that he would do anything if only they were spared.

  Beller shot out of the corn field and nipped the horse’s hind hooves. The horse snorted and kicked at the growling dog and rounded to bite him. The Indian raised the burning torch and yelled in an angry voice, then swatted at Beller with it. Sven’s gasp of horror was drowned by Beller’s ferocious barking. Beller turned and hightailed it back into the corn field, away from the children, still dragging the rope behind him.

  The Indian loped past Mr. Tingvold’s body, which lay in the field like a pile of old rags. With a triumphant cry, he leaned over and fired a sheaf of dried grain next to the body.

  Flames whooshed upward, the grain as dry as tinder. With another war cry, the brave threw the torch into the standing grain on the far side of the field. The westerly wind licked the flames and blew them across the barley field. The Indian rode around the west edge of the field, away from the growing flames, and set fire to Mr. Tingvold’s haystack. The flames shot upwards in orange and yellow tongues.

  “They’re getting away,” Sven said. “Taking Johnny with them.”

  The Indians melted into the tall grass on the northwest corner of Mr. Tingvold’s property. They were taking the path to Fort Abercrombie.

  Bright flames danced across the stubble, driven by the west wind. The heat of the fire, even though it traveled away from them, sucked the breath from Ryker’s lungs. Nothing burned hotter than dry straw.

  Ryker waited, just breathing, trying to make sense of what had happened. Smoke and flames filled the open field. He tasted dirt and felt grit on his sweaty skin. His stomach clenched, and he discovered that he had wet himself.

  The fire danced toward the east, leaving behind a blackened prairie. Soon the fire showed only a smoky ridge, like storm clouds on the horizon. Sven let out his breath in a gasp. Klara sobbed.

  “What do we do now?” Klara said. She put her thumb in her mouth, shoulders heaving.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  Beller rejoined the children still hiding in the grass, his tongue hanging out and his coat scorched and covered with chaff. He laid his head on Sven’s leg.

  “Bad boy,” Sven said. “You could have been killed.”

  “No,” Ryker said. “Beller drew the Indians’ attention away from us.”

  “I’m scared.” Klara said. “I want Mama.”

  Ryker didn’t know how to answer. Their neighbors could not help them. They would have to find Mama and Elsa on their own. He looked in the direction where the Indians had gone. He saw only waving grass and a flock of blackbirds crowding around the ruined sheaves of grain. He tried to look away from the bodies lying where they had fallen.

  “We’ll rest a little,” Ryker said. “And make sure the Indians are gone.”

  They wouldn’t be so foolish as to show themselves until he was sure the Indians were really gone. They couldn’t take the direct path to Fort Abercrombie as the Indians had taken. It was too dangerous, though the way much shorter. They must go south to Whiskey Creek.

  Once they reached Whiskey Creek, they need only follow its banks to Fort Abercrombie. The fort stood on the convergence of the Red River of the North and Whiskey Creek.

  Ryker had visited Fort Abercrombie with his father, but he had not paid attention to landmarks or distance. Regret choked his throat. It was too late to ask questions . . . to learn from his father.

  Ryker scanned the horizon for landmarks. He fixed his eyes on a small cluster of willow trees to the south. His father always chose a landmark to keep on course and followed the position of the sun and stars for guidance.

  Tall grass made it difficult to keep an eye on landmarks, but Ryker would do the best he could. At least at night the stars would be overhead. Sometime tomorrow they should see trees growing along Whiskey Creek. After they reached the creek, it was only a long day’s journey to Fort Abercrombie.

  Soldiers would find his mother and sister. He would do as his father had instructed. He had no other choice. He and the twins stayed hidden in the tall grass at the edge of the barley field.

  Klara whimpered. “I’m thirsty.”

  “Hush, Klara,” Ryker said. He handed her the water jug, then a bite of cheese and the last pickle. “We’ll be at the fort soon.”

  Sven emptied the water jug. “I’ll fetch more from the well,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

  The Tingvold cabin and barn smoldered. Hot spots glowed in the scorched fields. Indians might yet be lurking, waiting for anyone attempting to bury the bodies. Indians had returned to where their father had fallen, and it only made sense they might return here. Fire had scorched Mr. Tingvold, lying in the field. Mrs. Tingvold’s clothing had turned to blackened ruin on her fallen body. To leave them unburied was surely a mortal sin, but Ryker felt helpless to do anything about it. Besides, he was afraid to touch their bodies.

  “No,” Ryker said. “We’ll find water at the creek. It’s not safe to go up to the house.”

  “Are you crazy?” Sven said. “We need water.”

  Sven was off and running before Ryker could stop him. Sven sprinted toward the well, with the empty water jug banging against his leg. Beller ran ahead. He looked back at Sven with a lolling tongue and a happy dog smile. Their feet stirred black puffs of ashes and dust. Beller lapped the broken eggs by Mrs. Tingvold’s body.

  A brave with a bow and arrow might shoot his brother before his very eyes. An Indian seeing Sven and Beller might come looking for Ryker and Klara. Sweat gathered on Ryker’s neck and forehead. He wanted to live, not die.

  “How can he be so brave?” Klara said. “Just like Martin.”

  Sven struggled with the winch, filled the empty jug, and let Beller drink from the bucket. It seemed they were gone for an hour, but it was only a few minutes until they raced back across the field.

  “Now we can go,” Sven said, gasping to catch his breath. He placed the filled jug on the ground next to Klara. “Heavy when it’s full.”

  They must lighten the pack. Ryker emptied everything out on the grass. He placed the nail into the money pouch around his neck. After checking for holes, he poured the salt into his pocket next to the tintype of their parents’ wedding. He discarded the empty shaker into the weeds along with Mama’s mirror. He placed the comb into the bundle holding their food and quilt.

  “Mama won’t like losing her mirror,” Klara said. “It was from Auntie Beret.”

  “We’ll come back for them when we collect the wheelbarrow,” Ryker said. “After we find Mama.” He fastened Klara’s torn skirt with their mother’s hatpin. Mrs. Tingvold’s copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin lay on the grass. It made sense to leave it behind. They had a long walk ahead of them.

  “I’ll carry the water jug,” Sven said. He picked up the book and handed it to Ryker.

  “We’ll take turns,” Ryker said. He tucked the book into the front of his overalls. He would carry it for a while.

  The sun stood straight overhead. The sooner they left, the sooner they would arrive at Whiskey Creek. The blue sky above them gave no indicati
on of the violence he had just witnessed. The pack cut into his shoulders. The grief and distress of the last two days far overpowered the little ache in his back. Ryker turned until the west wind touched his right cheek.

  Beller ran ahead, raising rabbits and gophers, chasing a fox and a prairie hen. Sven protested when Ryker suggested they tie Beller with a rope to keep him out of trouble.

  “He’s hungry,” Sven said. “Can’t we let him loose for a while? Just long enough that he can catch some dinner?”

  Ryker sighed. That dog was trouble. But they couldn’t keep him muzzled and tied forever.

  “All right. Just for a little while.”

  Beller yipped a grateful bark and ran into the grass. He returned with a striped gopher tail sticking out of his mouth.

  They hiked until dusk, but Whiskey Creek was nowhere in sight. They sought refuge behind a clump of bushes at the edge of a small ravine. Night birds stirred, and small animals scurried in the grass. The smell of skunk wafted through the damp air. Wolves howled in the distance, and Beller growled. Though it was still August, a nip of chill reminded them fall would soon be there. Ryker huddled with the twins under the quilt, but in spite of feeling exhausted, he could not sleep.

  “I’m scared,” Klara whispered. “Indians might be nearby.”

  Ryker looked around, almost expecting the Indian brave in war paint and feathers to step from the grass. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Go to sleep.”

  “ ’Fraidy cat. Aren’t the angels with us?” Sven said. His voice shook, and his hands trembled in spite of his brave words. “You don’t have to worry.”

  The prairie sky stretched overhead, and the stars showed one by one like jewels in the darkening sky. A shooting star sped across the night and disappeared behind the horizon. Ryker did not voice his skepticism. Surely a guardian angel would have spared Papa, had he been doing his job, and rescued the Tingvolds from the marauders.

  Beller whined and wiggled away from Sven’s grip. He inched through the grass.

  “Keep hold of Beller,” Ryker said. “We need to stay together.”

  Sven grabbed Beller and pulled him to his side.

  “Is Papa in heaven?” Klara said. “He said bad words sometimes.”

  Ryker did not know about such things. He tried to remember the preacher’s words at Baby Elsa’s baptism, something about the mercy of God more vast than oceans. He remembered the lapping ocean waves stretching as far as the eye could see, as far as the prairie on a clear day. Maybe Papa had entered heaven riding on a ray of light. Or a shooting star.

  “Mama said Papa had a sad heart since Sissel and Bertina died,” Klara said. “God wouldn’t close the door on Papa because he had a sad heart, would he?”

  “Papa is in God’s hands now,” Ryker said. “We’re all in God’s hands.”

  “Ryker,” Klara said, her voice small in the darkness. “I’m making a knot in my apron string to mark the days. Just like Mama does.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ryker said. “You can tie the knot when we say our nighttime prayers.”

  Together they recited the ancient words Mama so treasured: “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.” The words surrounded them like a sheltering cloud.

  After their amen, Klara added Mama’s favorite bedtime prayer.

  “Protect us as we stay awake, watch over us as we sleep. That awake, we might keep watch with Christ; and asleep, rest in His peace. Amen.”

  Somehow the night turned to morning.

  Ryker woke as the sun turned the eastern horizon cherry red. They nibbled raw potatoes for breakfast. He scanned the horizon, hoping to see the line of trees growing along Whiskey Creek. He saw only waving grass, gray skies, and the rippling path of prairie winds.

  They walked all morning until they came over a short rise.

  “Oh no,” Ryker said. He could have kicked himself.

  “What’s wrong?” Klara said.

  “We’re off course. Too far east of where we wanted to go.”

  The Jacobs farm lay before them. First a cornfield, then a vegetable patch, next a field of barley, and log cabin and barn. Ryker had been to the farm with his father once when they had traveled to Breckinridge for supplies.

  He had added at least an extra day to their journey.

  The Jacobs family spoke mostly German. Ryker remembered counting at least nine children when he and his father had been there while on their way to Breckinridge. A crucifix hung over the log door. Ryker remembered a pretty daughter about his age, a laughing girl with a kind smile. The Jacobs family made the sign of the cross when they prayed the blessing and ate stinking plates of sauerkraut. Papa’s stern look warned Ryker to eat the strange dish without complaint. Ryker shuddered remembering the slimy mess in his mouth.

  They crouched at the edge of the cornfield, holding Beller close with the leash. Ryker crept ahead for a better look. Nothing looked amiss. No sign of Indians. But no sign of the Jacobs family.

  “Be still,” Ryker said, waving his arm at his little brother to get his attention. “Hold tight to Beller.” Ryker returned to the children. “I’m going over for a look.” A barrage of gunshots rang out in rapid succession, the hollow sounds far away. “Mr. Jacobs will help us fetch the soldiers.”

  “We should stay together,” Sven said. “We’ll all go.”

  “No,” Ryker said. “It’s too dangerous.” Ryker turned his mouth into a frown and sharpened his voice the way Papa used to do to him when he meant business. “Stay in the cornfield until I get back.”

  Klara stuck her thumb into her mouth and looked at Ryker with solemn eyes. “Then what should we do if the Indians get you?” she asked, moving her thumb just enough to lisp the words.

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll be right back.” Ryker pulled a stray blade of grass from her yellow braid and cupped her small face in his hand. “Be quiet as a field mouse.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Sven said. “Those are gunshots.” Ryker noticed a slight tremble in his brother’s lip. “We should stay together.”

  “I said, stay here,” Ryker said, leading them into the corn field. “No matter what.” Beller whined. “Keep hold of Beller.”

  Ryker crept to the end of the row of corn and crawled through a barley field. The blackbirds sang as if the world hadn’t changed, as if the world were the same as it had been yesterday. He imagined the simple beauty of before: Papa sharpening the corn knife; Mama making soap over the outside fire. Even the never ending task of raking hay took on a loving and homey memory.

  He crawled out into the weeds, making his way toward the barn and keeping out of sight.

  Ryker’s breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding and his throat dry. He wanted to run away, but he must go forward. Mr. Jacobs would help them.

  He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. Ryker moved through the edge of the yard. He paused behind a haystack and then crouched behind a woodpile. A black cat zipped beneath a wagon.

  Ryker half ran to the cabin and paused at the door. Then he took a breath and entered. His eyes adjusted to the dimness. The single room looked just as he remembered, with its crucifix over the door and the long table lined with benches. Dirty dishes scattered on the table, and a pan of oatmeal lay on the stove. A crock of buttermilk sat next to a heel of rye bread. But there was no sign of the family.

  Maybe they had been warned to flee to safety. Ryker wished someone had warned them. But then he remembered Mr. Tingvold’s conversation with his father about the Indian danger. They would have had plenty of time to go to Fort Abercrombie back then. Papa would still be alive. Mama and Elsa would be safe.

  Ryker shook his head and forced himself back to the present. His stomach rumbled and he dipped a spoonful of cold oatmeal, then wolfed down half the pan. It wasn’t exactly stealing. He put the heel of bread into his pocket for the twins. He would repay Mr. Jacobs later. The good man would understand their desperate need and make allowances.

  Ryker rummaged in
the cupboard. A can of peaches fell off the shelf and onto the floor. It rolled across the uneven boards with a clink, clink. He threw it into a flour sack, along with a half-eaten sausage. He would return later and work to repay for the food items.

  Ryker threw open the door to the cellar, and his eyes adjusted to the sudden blackness. He grabbed potatoes, a cabbage, and a bucket of eggs. The sack bulged. He must hurry. He drew a bucket of water from the well and poured it into an empty vinegar jug. He was taking too much time. He must hurry.

  Ryker slung the sack over his shoulder. He looked for signs of Indians and, not seeing any, slipped into the corn field again, careful to follow the same path back to the twins. He paused to pull ears of corn from the garden patch and a fistful of carrots.

  The little ones were not where he expected them to be. At first he thought he entered the wrong field. He whispered their name, then called the dog. No one answered. He called louder. He ran up and down the rows but found only half-eaten ears of corn scattered on the ground. Ryker knelt to examine a scuffled mess of footprints. One showed clearly in an open spot between the rows.

  A moccasin. Indians!

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  He shouldn’t have left them alone. His father had left him in charge. Ryker had done a piss-poor job of watching them. A bitter taste filled his mouth.

  The thought of Sven and Klara in the hands of savages was more than Ryker could bear. His blood pulsed in the veins on his forehead. He had to find them, by God, if it was the last thing he did. Ryker pulled in his breath, shocked at his language. His mother would wash his mouth with soap if she heard him.

  Klara’s sweater lay in the weeds about a hundred rods west of the corn field. She would freeze once the sun went down. She had been afraid. He had been too busy worrying to put her mind at ease. Now it was too late. Sven was impetuous. They might hurt him, as they had hurt Johnny.

 

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