Heartbreak Trail

by Shirley Kennedy

  Abner returned an indulgent smile. “I understand how shocked you are at Jacob’s sudden death, and the baby, too. Obviously, you haven’t thought things through. You must realize Noah is mine now.”

  Alarm shot through her. She never dreamed Abner might object. “I realize no such thing. I love Noah. You know how close we are. He just lost his father. Are you saying he must lose his mother, too?”

  “Martha will make an excellent mother.” Abner threw a look of approval at his wife who wore a worried frown and was twisting her apron, a habit that appeared at the least bit of stress. “She’s his aunt, don’t forget. I am his uncle, his closest relative now that Jacob has gone to his reward.” The remnant of his indulgent smile disappeared. “Did you honestly think I’d let you take Noah away? From now on, he’ll be like my own son.”

  Abner had never paid the slightest attention to Noah, so it’d never occurred to her ... she could hardly believe what she was hearing. “I do think the child will be better off in Boston where it’s civilized, and there are good schools—”

  “Enough.” Abner used a quiet but forceful voice. “I have spoken on the matter, and there’s no more to be said. You’d best not forget you’re only his stepmother. You have no legal right to the boy. As a matter of fact, Jacob and I bought the wagons—oxen—cattle—all the supplies in both our names, so whatever was his is now mine.” His expression softened. He reached and patted the top of her head as if she were a child. “Poor Lucy, you’ve had a terrible shock—two terrible shocks, actually. But don’t fret. If you decide to stay, you have my assurance you’ll be under my care and protection. If you wish to return to Boston, then I’ll find you safe transportation, but bear in mind, you’ll return alone.”

  In an uncharacteristic move, Martha laid her hand on Lucy’s arm. “I do hope you’ll stay with us.” Her voice was so meek she could scarce be heard. “Noah will miss you terribly if you leave, and so will I.”

  “Thank you. I ...” A swell of desperation rose in Lucy’s throat. She couldn’t continue this conversation, let Abner see her lose her composure. She must get away. Must think what to do. “Excuse me, I must go now. We’ll talk later.” She turned on her heel and walked toward her wagon through the hustle and bustle of a wagon train about to depart for another day on the trail. Vaguely, through her inner turmoil, she heard the lowing of the cattle, the excited barking of the dogs mixed with the oaths of men hitching the oxen and the chatter of women packing the wagons. How ironic. Lucy trudged along. At home, several days would have been devoted to solemn mourning for the deceased. Grief didn’t last long on a wagon train. Now all thoughts were turned to another day’s trek.

  She’d almost reached her wagon when she sensed someone come up beside her. A familiar voice said, “Mrs. Schneider?”

  She stopped. “Good morning.” She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Clint but had seen him standing quietly, hat in hand, while Abner ranted over Jacob’s grave.

  Clint looked down at her, sympathy brimming in his warm brown eyes. “I’m sorry about your husband. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “No, he didn’t. Thank you.”

  “You lost your baby, too. It’s beyond me how life can be so unfair to a woman as fine as you.”

  His voice was so full of sympathy and understanding she almost cried. “Thank you again. It was a little boy, you know.”

  “I know.” There was a silence. “I suppose you’ll return to Boston?”

  “Yes ... or at least I thought I was, but now ...” Her confusion showed, but with Clint, she didn’t care. When he stood looking at her like that, all warmth and sympathy, she wanted to open up, tell him everything. “I planned on returning home, but now ...” She bit her lip. “Now I don’t know what to do.”

  “Why not?” He crossed his arms and regarded her quizzically.

  “I planned to take Noah with me, but Abner says he won’t let him go.”

  “Bastard,” Clint muttered under his breath. “No surprise there. Abner’s the kind of man who’d want a dozen sons simply to boost his ego. So will you go back without Noah?”

  “I love that little boy.” She paused and continued in a sinking tone. “It’s true Abner’s his uncle, but I don’t care. Noah’s a bright, happy child. I can’t bear the thought of what sort of man he’ll become if he’s raised by that mirthless zealot. If I stay, I can at least make sure Noah doesn’t fall under his influence, but ...” She clutched her fists in frustration. “Can you imagine living under Abner’s supervision?”

  “No, I can’t, but let’s be practical. Do you really want to go home?”

  “Of course. I do so miss my family, especially now.”

  “A sound argument, but is that all?” He paused, as if to carefully choose his words. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’ll have no regrets if you return to Boston. Tell me you won’t miss the friends you’ve made, the excitement of each day’s journey.”

  She nodded reluctantly. “I can’t deny I’d miss the dear friends I’ve made, and yes, even the journey itself. When I wake up each morning, I look forward to the day, despite all the hardships.”

  “Of course you do.” Clint’s eyes lit up. “Just think what you’ve seen already. Mountains, valleys, rivers, green forests—all the beauty that makes up this land. Birds and animals you’ll never see if you return to Boston. The best is yet to come.” In his enthusiasm, his voice had risen. He gave a rueful smile. “Sorry, you’re in no mood for this. I’ve said too much.”

  “That’s the most I ever heard you say.” She smiled for the first time that day.

  “I love this land. I wanted you to see it. If you go back to Boston now, I wonder, as the years go by, if you’ll grow to regret the choice you made. Something tells me you will.”

  “You could be right.”

  “You have a big decision to make, one that will affect the rest of your life.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “East or west, which way do I go? Well, you’ve given me something to think about. It’s just that the thought of Abner—”

  “You’re a strong woman. You can handle the likes of Abner. Think about it. Look into your heart. What do you want to do? I’ve said enough.” Clint touched a finger to the brim of his hat and walked away.

  Speechless, she watched after him, her mind spinning. Clint so intrigued her. He would be part of the reason she stayed, but how foolish was that? At the end of the journey, he’d disappear, off to guide another wagon train. Still ... how she hated the thought of never seeing him again.

  “Mother?”

  She felt a tug at her skirt and looked down. Noah, his little face pale and strained, looked up at her with pleading eyes. “Uncle Abner said you’re going to leave me. Are you?”

  She knelt beside Noah, putting her arms around him, and in that moment made up her mind. “No, Son, Uncle Abner was wrong. You and I are going to California, and everything is going to be fine.”

  Chapter 8

  I’m a widow. I lost the baby. I’m alone in the world. As the day progressed, Lucy lay in the back of her wagon, gathering her strength, slowly coming to grips with her new circumstances. Occasionally, when she had the strength to get out and walk, friends came to keep her company as she kept pace with the slow gait of the oxen. They expressed their sympathy at her loss and their pleasure that she’d chosen to remain. Some were amazed at her choice.

  “You’re completely out of your mind,” said Agnes.

  “I just can’t understand why you chose to stay,” said Bessie. “If I had the chance to go home, I’d surely take it.”

  Lucy kept her own council. As far as she knew, no one other than Clint even suspected that her concern for Noah was her real reason for not going home. She had to give special thought as to how best to cope with Abner and Martha. So far, except for Jacob being gone, it appeared nothing would change. She and Noah would sleep in their wagon, just as before. She’d watch over Noah, just as before. She disliked the thought of taking her meal
s with Abner and Martha—those long, long graces before they got to the food—but she’d manage. At least afterwards she could join the others at the nightly campfire, which she always enjoyed.

  Maybe living under Abner’s thumb would be endurable after all.

  All that day, the Schneider wagon train headed due west, following the south side of the Platte River. The barren wastes of the great river valley stretched before them—level plains measureless to the eye, occasional clumps of woods through which coursed winding streams. That day death became even more real when she saw her second grave alongside the dusty trail. She had been walking alongside Abner’s wagon. She called for him to stop while she and Martha went to read the inscriptions printed on a pine board at the head of the grave. One read, “Harriet Susan Welsh, born January 4, 1829, died May 8, 1851.” The other, “Catherine Amanda Welsh, born May 8, 1851, died May 9, 1851.”

  Bessie joined them, read the inscriptions, and sadly shook her head. “She must have died in childbirth and the baby next day.”

  Martha laid a hand over the slight bulge of her stomach. At four months, she was beginning to show. “I do worry so. I send up prayers each day that we’ll get to California before my baby arrives.”

  “I know I won’t be that lucky,” said Bessie. “Oh, dear.” Frowning, she addressed Lucy. “I’m so sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about our babies when you’ve just lost yours.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’d have to go around blindfolded not to see the number of babies on the way. I can’t just ignore them, can I?” Lucy knew she’d grieve for her stillborn child until the day she died, but she wouldn’t burden others with her sorrow.

  “Martha! Lucy!” Abner shook the reins with impatience. “You’ll see plenty more graves before we’re done. Get back now.”

  Lucy returned to the wagon, tears welling in her eyes. Harriet Susan Welsh must have set out for California with her hopes high. Now she and her baby were buried by the side of the road, alone forever in the empty prairie.

  She thought of her own lost child, buried in a grave she could never find again. Martha ... Bessie ... pray to God they survive, and their babies, too.

  That night, after they parked the wagons in the usual circle, Lucy saw her first Indians. With Martha at her side, she was bent over the campfire by Abner’s wagon, baking biscuits, when ten or twelve Indian braves rode into camp. Martha let out a frightened squeal, dropped her cooking spoon, and scampered up to the wagon seat where Abner sat. All around, women were screaming. Men were rushing to their wagons to retrieve their rifles.

  “Dad burn it!” Charlie Dawes strode to the center of the campground, waving his arms. “Don’t get excited, folks. They’re friendly.”

  Clint followed at his usual easy pace. “They’re Sioux, come to trade. Put your guns away. They want bread in exchange for beads and moccasins.”

  When the camp settled down, the Indians began making the rounds of the wagons. Lucy’s heart jumped in her chest when five or six of the tall, copper-skinned savages approached Abner’s wagon. What a strange, frightening lot they were with their scowling faces painted in different-colored stripes and elaborate headdresses of feathers and fur. Brass rings hung from their ears and around their wrists and bare arms. She stood frozen, struck by their strange smell, while they milled around her, pushing, getting right in her face, so close that despite Clint and Charlie’s reassuring words, she very much feared she’d be attacked and scalped. Even so, she stood firm by the campfire, resisting the impulse to run and hide. She wished Abner was standing beside her, but oddly enough, he chose to remain seated on the wagon seat, rifle across his lap, Noah on one side, Martha on the other. “Give them what they want. Don’t let them see you’re scared.”

  Easy for him to say. Abner sat high up, relatively safe. Shouldn’t he be down here? Just why was she the one who must deal up close with these frightening savages? “Good evening.” Her voice quaked. “Would you care for some bread?”

  She offered her pan of newly baked biscuits. The Sioux accepted with a series of grunts and guttural words she couldn’t understand. They all seemed pleased, though, and one held out a pair of beaded moccasins in return.

  Clint appeared. She felt a flood of relief just knowing he was there. He took the moccasins and held them out to her. “Take them.”

  She accepted the moccasins and ran her hand over the soft buckskin. How soft and well-made they were. “Why, they’re lovely.”

  “Save them. You’ll have quite a story to tell your grandchildren.”

  She returned a wry smile. “Then is it your considered opinion I’m not going to get scalped tonight?”

  “The odds are you’ll survive.” His light words reassured her, especially when she caught the glint of understanding deep in his eyes and knew he was well aware of her fears.

  Soon the Indians moved on to the next wagon, Clint following. Abner finally climbed down from the wagon seat. “Thieving beggars.”

  She didn’t care for his remark. “It’s their land. They didn’t invite us here.”

  Abner snorted with disgust. “A good Indian is a dead Indian.”

  A rather uncharitable opinion for a man of God. No sense arguing. She had yet to see Abner change his opinion on any subject. One question burned in her mind. Why had he not rushed to her side when the Indians came calling? Until Clint came along, she’d had to deal with them alone while the supposedly brave captain of the wagon train remained relatively safe sitting high on the wagon seat.

  The word “coward” came to mind.

  The Indians wouldn’t leave. All evening they wandered from wagon to wagon. They begged for food, offering beads and moccasins in return. After supper, everyone, including the Indians, gathered around the large fire in the center of the campground. Everyone except Cordelia. Despite Lucy’s advice, she hadn’t abandoned her “Southern lady of quality” pose and remained aloof as ever. Lately she’d chosen to remain in her wagon, apparently to avoid those-of-a-lesser-standing, although her husband and son always joined in with the rest.

  A tenseness hung over the campfire, everyone heartily wishing the Indians would leave. Clint and Charlie advised the jittery group to act normal, as if this were just another evening. As usual, the rowdy Butler Brothers, by now roundly despised by all, annoyed everybody with their crude jokes and drunken laughter. At least one of the brothers, Erasmus, could play a mean fiddle. For a while, he entertained, pleasing the crowd with lively versions of “Rose on the Mountain” and “Billy in the Woods.”

  After Erasmus, Benjamin sang and played his guitar, an adoring Roxana by his side. Halfway through “I have Something Sweet to Tell You,” a piercing scream brought his music to a halt. All eyes turned to the Benton wagon, where Cordelia suddenly appeared through the front opening. With no regard for her customary dignified demeanor, she jumped onto the tongue with lightning speed and leaped to the ground. With a horrified expression on her face, she headed straight for Clint and Charlie.

  “Mister Palance, Mister Dawes, do something!” She turned and pointed a shaking finger. “One of those savages climbed right into my wagon.”

  “Are you hurt?” Clint asked.

  “No. I immediately escaped out the front, but I certainly could have been hurt.” Cordelia drew herself up. “What gall to enter my wagon without so much as a knock. Have they no manners?”

  Charlie let out a hoop. Clint suppressed a smile. “Indians aren’t noted for their manners, ma’am.”

  “Then they shouldn’t be allowed in decent society!”

  Before Clint could answer, the subject of Cordelia’s wrath stepped from around the back of the Benton wagon and walked toward them. As he grew visible in the firelight, Lucy heard a low murmur of laughter. The murmur turned to a roar when the Indian reached the full light of the campfire.

  He was wearing Cordelia’s hoopskirt.

  Oh, what a funny sight! Never had Lucy seen anything so amusing as that painted-faced Indian strutting around the campgro
und, feathers and fur atop his head, buckskin loincloth and bare legs clearly visible beneath the whalebone rings of Cordelia’s hoopskirt.

  Watching Cordelia provided even more hilarity. First, her mouth dropped open. Next, her face froze in horror mixed with astonishment. Soon, amidst the laughter, her expression began to soften until finally her lips curved into a smile, and she, too, joined in the laughter.

  Clint’s eyes were openly amused. “Mrs. Benton, do you want your hoopskirt back? If you do, I’ll—”

  “Oh, no!” Cordelia waved him off. “Let him keep it. Do you think I’d ever wear it again after this?”

  Clint called to the Indian in his own language, then addressed Cordelia. “I told him to take it.”

  The Indian replied in words Lucy couldn’t understand.

  Clint grinned. “He says thank you. He also says he likes you very much and will visit you again.”

  “Oh, surely not!”

  Lucy joined in another roar of laugher, this time at Cordelia. She watched the Indian, well aware he was the center of attention, prance about with a big smile on his broad face, making the hoopskirt tilt this way and that. Oh, hysterical! Tears streaked down the cheeks of many in the crowd, Lucy included, as well as Bessie, who surely needed a good laugh, and grouchy Agnes. Even Nathaniel Beauregard Benton was guffawing, his manifest destiny for the moment forgotten. His son, Chadwick, laughed so hard he rolled on the ground, his twelve-year-old funny bone tickled beyond all measure by his mother’s part in the humorous scene.

  One of the Butler Brothers laughed so hard he fell off his seat and spilled his jug of whiskey. Even Abner’s and Martha’s ever-sober faces cracked smiles.

  The last giggle faded. In the quiet that followed, Lucy perceived the raucous laughter had been more than just a few moments of hilarity over the sight of the hoopskirted Indian. After facing the dangers of the river crossing, the violent hailstorm, Jacob’s death, and all the hardships of the trail, they were all grateful for the chance to laugh. What a welcome release, not only from memories of dangers past but from the worry over the uncertainty that lay ahead. Petty conflicts abounded in the Schneider party, as they did in all the wagon trains, but for one brief moment, laughter bonded them together.