Escape to Fort Abercrombie

by Candace Simar

  “Indians imitate wolves sometimes,” Sven said in a whisper when Ryker thought everyone asleep. “Might be Redskins creeping in. Beller always stood guard.”

  “Mama says the angels take care of us while we sleep,” Klara said as she tied another knot on her apron string to mark the days.

  “I don’t like trees,” Sven said. “They close in on a person.”

  “You’ve turned into a plainsman,” Ryker said. He was glad that Sven was speaking to him again. “Happier under open skies. Bestefar said the same about being a seaman, said that some sailors felt uneasy on land after months on the ocean.”

  An owl hooted. “Do you remember our grandfather? He told tales of his fishing days on the North Sea through the long, dark Norwegian winter.”

  “He smelled like tobacco,” Klara said. “And he kept peppermints in his pockets.” She quieted and then said, “I can’t remember his face.”

  “You were little,” Ryker said. “You can’t expect to remember.”

  Ryker fished the tintype of his parents from his pocket. It was too dark to see the images, but its touch was a comfort in the darkness. “Mama said that Papa looked just like his father. Martin favored Mama’s side.”

  “Who do you look like?” Klara said.

  “Mama says I take after Papa while the rest of you take after Mama’s people,” Ryker said. Ryker told stories about the Old Country, Mama’s brothers and Papa’s sister as then, one by one, they fell asleep. Only Ryker stayed awake to hear wolf calls, whining mosquitoes, and hooting owls. He was afraid to sleep without Beller standing guard. A shiver ran down his spine when he thought how close he had come to dropping Elsa into the clutches of the bear. Surely Mama’s prayers were answered today.

  A small brown squirrel scampered across their camping spot. A field mouse nosed the ground. Something splashed in Whiskey Creek. Maybe the bear coming back for them. The children slept peacefully. Ryker would not wake them without reason. He would go back to the creek and make sure all was well before he allowed himself to sleep.

  He crawled toward the creek bank. Overhead the sky was peppered with a million stars. The moon balanced like a sliver of light in the darkness. He wondered if his father looked down from beyond the sky. The banks of Whiskey Creek hid in the shadows. Then a doe glided out of the bushes on the other side of the creek. It stepped to the edge of the water with long, thin legs. The doe raised its head and sniffed before dipping its muzzle in the cool, flowing water.

  No deer would be near the water if Indians or bears were nearby.

  Ryker sneezed, and the deer startled and ran into the woods, its graceful legs lifting off the ground and jumping through the trees, waving the white flag of tail. Ryker leaned over the water and drank a cool draught. Then he washed the day’s grime from his face, swirling his hands in the gently flowing water.

  A turkey buzzard picked Beller’s bones. Ryker threw a stone to drive it away from their precious pet. He sat listening at the edge of the thicket late into the night. When he could no longer keep his eyes open, Ryker crept back to the campsite and snuggled next to Klara and Elsa.

  Ryker woke up just as the sun peeped over the horizon. Morning birds sang from the trees of Whiskey Creek. A coyote yipped from the tree line. Ryker crept to the shore to make sure they were still alone.

  The air felt soft and moist, and a gentle breeze rippled the leaves of the trees. A sumac bush already showed red, another sign that autumn was on its way. The dewy grass dampened his knees, and the wet fabric chafed his skin. The fragrance of damp earth filled his nostrils. How beautiful the morning.

  A stealthy movement caught his eye.

  Ryker looked back to make sure the children were asleep. Elsa slept beside Klara. The last thing they needed was for the baby to sound an alarm.

  An Indian brave waded along the bank, following the bear tracks in the mud. He was dressed in buckskins, without war paint. He was hunting, proven by the way he held an arrow loosely hooked into his bowstring. He paused to examine the place where the bear had tangled with Beller and stopped by Beller’s body.

  There was something familiar about the man. Ryker drew in his breath. It was Finds the Knife, the brave who found Papa’s missing knife in the bottom of the slough.

  The Indian knelt by Beller’s body and touched his damaged ear. Then he scanned the shoreline in all directions. Ryker should have wiped away the tracks, camped farther away from the creek, and known the danger.

  Ryker heard a tiny splash as the Indian stepped back into the water. He sniffed the air and paused to listen. Ryker thanked God that he had not allowed the children a fire last night or let them bury the dog. The Indian followed the bear tracks toward the trees where they had hidden from the bear. Ryker held his breath, keeping as quiet as possible while the man examined the marks on the tree trunk, the tracks around the shoreline, and the broken branches littered around the ground. The man paused as if thinking, then stepped back into the water and crossed to the other side. Ryker watched from his hiding place as the Indian melted into the trees on the opposite bank.

  Beller would have warned them about Finds the Knife creeping along the creek. It would be harder to get to the fort safely without his protection. But a barking dog might have given them away, as well. Probably better to be without Beller. Ryker looked toward Beller lying on the sand. He was a good dog. He saved them from the bear. Ryker wiped tears off his cheeks and started back to the camp. They had to hurry. If they left right away, they could be at the fort by nightfall.

  Ryker counted slowly to one thousand before he dared move. Then he scurried back to where the children slept.

  “Wake up,” Ryker said. “It’s not safe here.”

  “I dreamed about the bear,” Johnny said while rubbing his eyes. “It ate Klara.”

  “Quiet,” Ryker said when Klara raised a protest over Johnny’s dream. “Indians. We’ve got to head to the fort right away.”

  Ryker crawled to the river alone and looked up and down the winding creek. He strained to hear a telling splash that might signal a canoe. Everything looked normal, as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary, as if Papa wasn’t dead or Mama kidnapped. As if they hadn’t seen the Tingvolds killed and watched Beller fight the bear. As if the angels hadn’t brought them to find Elsa wandering alone on the prairie. Ryker sighed and motioned for the others to join him.

  Sven held sleepy Elsa by the hand. Elsa made small, whimpering sounds, like a baby bunny taken from its nest.

  “Milk,” Elsa said. “Mama.”

  “We’ll see Mama soon,” Ryker said although he was far from certain they would find their mother at the fort. “Drink,” Ryker said. “Wash your faces.” He filled the empty peach can to carry with them. He reached into the bag for the last piece of cabbage and gave a leaf to each of the children. It felt like a holy moment, almost like breaking bread in church.

  He tried to pray, but the words stuck in his throat. They were out of food. There was no milk for Elsa. Their father was dead, Martin missing, their crops wasted in the field, and they had no family in America where they could turn. The neighbors who might have helped them were dead. Maybe Mama would never come back; maybe she was dead. Ryker turned his thoughts from tomorrow and concentrated on the present moment.

  They had found Elsa. It was a miracle. Beller had saved them from the bear. The Indian on the horse had not seen them hiding in the grass. Sven and Klara had escaped their captors. Johnny saw their mother taken away by another band of Indians.

  Mama always said to trust a loving God who cared for His children. Though accusing doubts flooded his troubled mind, Ryker prayed for protection.

  “How far is it?” Johnny said, his face smeared with dirt. It didn’t help that the Indians had stolen his suspenders, and his trousers draped around his hips.

  Ryker found the nail in the pouch around his neck. He had almost forgotten about it. Ryker gave the nail to Johnny, who pushed it through the cloth on his waist and cinched his pants tig
hter.

  “Much better,” Johnny said. “You’re lucky to have shoes.” He stared at Ryker’s feet as if measuring them. “This prairie grass is hard on the feet.”

  Ryker’s feet were much smaller than Johnny’s, though Johnny was younger. Not that Ryker would have parted with his shoes, but it made it easier to ignore Johnny’s hint.

  “Not far now,” Ryker said. He remembered camping by the river that night on the trail, the way his father had whittled by the campfire. His father’s hands never idled. He remembered then that his father had been whittling the handle for the butcher knife, the one stolen by the Indians when the twins were taken.

  “A good handle lasts forever,” Papa had said, holding it up with a look of satisfaction.

  “I should have listened,” Ryker said to his brother. “I shouldn’t have left you in the corn field when I went to the farmstead.”

  “But you would have been taken with us, had we stayed together,” Sven said. “You found extra food, and kept the folding knife because you left us in the corn field.” Sven shifted the weight of the pack to his other shoulder. “You were there to help Beller find us. You were right, after all.” Sven’s voice cracked at the mention of Beller’s name. Klara put her arm around his shoulder.

  “Good old Beller,” Klara said.

  A load of guilt slipped off Ryker’s shoulders. Following Beller to the escaped children led to finding Elsa on the prairie. A barking dog earlier that morning might have meant their death at the hands of the Indian brave hunting along Whiskey Creek. Beller might have given them away had he lived. It didn’t seem like a blessing. None of it seemed like blessing.

  “Beller protected us to the end,” Ryker said.

  CHAPTER 21

  * * *

  They would follow the creek north, longer with its windy banks and curves, and stay close to water and shelter. More dangerous because Indians traveled by canoes, but wiser—Ryker wouldn’t risk getting lost again. He counted the days since his mother’s disappearance. If the Sioux had taken her far out on the plains, Ryker knew the chances of finding her were slim. She would be lost to them. His new baby brother or sister would grow up Sioux. He didn’t know what would happen to them. He didn’t know if he would be able to provide for his younger siblings on his own. The haystack had burned; the crops were lost. Ryker did not know how they would survive without Papa. Mama would know a way.

  He had to find her.

  Keep calm and keep moving, his father had always said. Ryker intended to do just that.

  Mrs. Tingvold said the Otter Tail and Bois de Sioux Rivers converged near Breckinridge to create the Red River of the North. Ryker scrambled to remember the map she had painted on the wall of the barn. Whiskey Creek emptied into the Red River north of Breckinridge, by Fort Abercrombie. The lazy river meandered north through the bottomlands of the Red River valley—not much of a valley really, as the water flowed too slowly to cut a gorge. The Red River widened the closer it got to Canada. The river overflowed during spring flooding, sometimes damaging houses of those who built too close to its banks. Riverboats had been navigating the Red River for a number of years. Ryker wished a desperate wish that a riverboat would be at the fort to rescue them.

  “Mark my words,” Mrs. Tingvold had said. “The Red River valley will someday be a thriving farming area.”

  Immigrants from all over the world were settling the United States little by little. Mrs. Tingvold said westward expansion pressured the Indian tribes already living on the land desired by settlers. Papa had predicted there would be a lot of soldiers looking for farmland after the Rebs were licked. Papa said they were lucky to settle land ahead of the crowds.

  “What side of Whiskey Creek should we travel?” Sven said. “Whiskey Creek grows wider as it joins the Red.”

  Ryker couldn’t recall where Papa had crossed over. That journey scrambled in his mind—Papa’s laughter when Martin tripped in a gopher hole, smells of sauerkraut, and the soldiers at the fort. Martin had been most intrigued by the horse soldiers and their blue uniforms.

  “Best way to get to the fort from this direction is through Slabtown,” Johnny said. “We should cross Whiskey Creek now.”

  “I’m scared,” Klara said, while bouncing Elsa on her hip. Elsa pushed her finger up Klara’s nose and whined for her mama. Klara turned her face out of the baby’s reach and shifted Elsa to her other hip. “The bear and the Indian are on the other side.”

  “Whiskey Creek won’t hinder bears or Indians,” Ryker said. “Best to cross over like Johnny said.”

  “What if the Indians won’t let us into the fort?” Sven said.

  “Milk,” Elsa said, reaching again for Klara’s nose. “Mama.”

  “We’ll find Mama,” Ryker said. He didn’t know what they would do if Indians were at the fort. It might not be a widespread Indian war, maybe just a renegade party on the loose. They might get to the fort and find everything as usual. But deep down, Ryker remembered the ominous conversation with Mr. Tingvold. He sighed and turned his focus on surviving until they arrived at the fort. It was their only hope. They couldn’t be out on their own while Indians were on the warpath.

  “We’ll do it somehow,” Ryker said. Indians might be there, and they might not. “Papa said Indians fear the soldiers.”

  “I forgot,” Sven said. “You’re right. The soldiers will take care of the Indians.”

  Elsa’s face welted with mosquito bites, and Klara pulled a fat tick out of her hair. Elsa kept her eyes closed, although Ryker suspected she was awake. She reeked of urine.

  “What’s the matter?” Sven said with a worried look. “Is she sick?”

  Elsa’s eyelids fluttered. “Milk,” she whispered. She stared with dull eyes.

  Mama would insist someone comb Elsa’s hair. Mama’s comb and mirror had been left behind.

  “It won’t be long now,” Ryker said. “We’ll be there today if we hurry.”

  They traveled in the shade of cottonwoods along the riverbank, heading northwest toward Fort Abercrombie. It would have been faster and easier to wade in the shallow water, but Ryker thought it too dangerous. A passing Indian might catch them in the open. Though traveling along the banks of Whiskey Creek was buggier and harder walking, it would be easier to hide if need be.

  Whiskey Creek meandered through the prairie, bending and snaking through the tall grass. Its banks were smothered with tangled brush and trees, deadfalls, and tumbled rocks. Overhead, a cloudless, blue sky. They had not gone far when muffled sounds of laughter caused them to dive into a thicket.

  “What is it?” Klara said.

  Elsa whimpered and clung to Ryker’s leg. He grabbed hold of his baby sister and held her so she couldn’t escape and cause trouble. “Mama,” she said. He clamped his hand over her mouth.

  “Do you see anything?” Ryker whispered, peering through the dense foliage. Elsa bit his thumb with her sharp little teeth. “Ouch!” He gave his sister a shake and held her mouth even tighter.

  “Indians,” Sven said. “Get down.”

  Through a screen of leaves, Ryker watched three canoes paddle past them. The Indians sounded as boisterous and braggadocios as Mr. Tingvold. Their canoes were filled with blankets, cooking pots, petticoats, and a spinning wheel. One wore a red dress tied around his waist, with the lace collar hanging over his breechcloth. Their faces were painted with bright colors.

  “Did they kill people to steal those things?” Klara whispered at his side.

  “Hush,” Ryker said. Elsa squirmed and grunted. Ryker tightened his grip on her mouth and held her closer. He kept his hold until the canoe traveled around a bend in the creek and paddled out of sight.

  “They don’t act afraid,” Johnny whispered.

  The Indians acted like conquerors celebrating a tremendous victory, not Indians cowering before the army. Ryker crept down to the water’s edge and listened for a long moment.

  A blue heron settled on the water, graceful wings rippling the current. A pair o
f swans floated in the bend of the creek. Frogs croaked, and a turtle sunned itself on a rock. A meadowlark warbled from the prairie, and an eagle swooped down and grasped a fish with its talons. It flapped massive wings to rise again into the sky, leaving a shadow on the water in the shape of a cross. Overhead white clouds rolled across blue sky. How could their situation be so hopeless, and yet the world remained beautiful and untouched?

  Ryker fetched the turtle off the rock and brought it back to the children waiting on the shoreline. “Put it in the sack,” Ryker said, “for later.”

  They trudged northwestward toward Fort Abercrombie, staying in sight of Whiskey Creek so they wouldn’t get lost again. Johnny insisted on carrying Elsa to give Klara a much needed break. Ryker grudgingly admitted that Johnny was more of a help than a hindrance. Mama liked Johnny, and Mama was seldom wrong about people.

  A hawk snatched a rabbit from the prairie grass. Its squeal of terror echoed across the prairie.

  “Poor thing,” Klara said. “That’s how I felt when the Indians grabbed us.”

  “Wish I had that rabbit,” Sven said. “Rabbit stew is better than turtle any day.”

  “We’ll be at the fort by nightfall, if we hurry,” Ryker said. “We’ll eat our fill when we get there.”

  “Where have Mama’s angels gone?” Klara said in a mournful tone. “We need them more than ever, and yet they haven’t shown up since we found Elsa on the prairie.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sven said. “Angels stay with us, even when we can’t see them. That’s what Mama says.”

  “Mama,” Elsa muttered from her perch on Johnny’s shoulder. “Milk.”

  CHAPTER 22

  * * *

  Johnny liked turtle meat. At least he ate most of it. Sven ate a little. Ryker gagged on the stringy meat but managed to swallow it down. The girls refused to touch it.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” Johnny said.

  “Not that hungry,” Klara said. She and Elsa drank water and sucked their thumbs.