Heartbreak Trail

by Shirley Kennedy

  “You’ll find lots of notes on lots of trees about shortcuts.” Charlie’s voice was full of skepticism. “All of them written by dang fools who don’t know what they’re talking about. You take one of those shortcuts, and like as not, you won’t find enough food and water for yourselves, let alone your animals.”

  Clint nodded in agreement. “Charlie’s right. It’s a foolhardy move to take a shortcut. Now let’s get back to the matter at hand.” He set his foot on a small log and leaned forward in that easy way he had. “Look at how much stronger we’d be if we wait for the next train. We’re only thirty-five wagons now, what with people turning back. That means ... how many men?” He looked at Charlie.

  “With the hired hands, we’ve got maybe sixty able-bodied men to defend us.” Charlie shrugged dismissively.

  “ ’Course that includes the fools who don’t know their gun from a hole in the ground. They’re more likely to shoot themselves than an Indian.”

  Clint looked back at the captain. “I strongly advise we wait.”

  Standing quietly in the background, Lucy sent up a silent plea. Decide to wait. Make a wise decision for a change.

  “I see no need to wait.”

  A prolonged period of wrangling began. Recovered from his shock, William Applegate joined the group, arguing loudly and forcefully they should wait for the larger wagon train. Elija Richards and Stanley Helmick stood behind William Applegate in strong support. Others argued the opposite, that they’d lose their autonomy if they joined with others. They pointed out that constant wrangling and disharmony were common in every wagon train. The more wagons, the larger the number of conflicts. So why not forge ahead? The Shoshones were probably long gone. Even if they weren’t, they’d shown their cowardice by pouncing on a single wagon. They would never attack a wagon train full of well-armed men.

  Both Clint and Charlie again advised they wait. There could be no guarantee the war party wouldn’t swoop down on them at any moment.

  Abner finally ended the discussion. Standing tall upon the wagon, he announced, “Tomorrow we move forward. Those who are afraid can stay behind.” He assumed his prophet stance, eyes blazing, noble head held high. “Acts twenty-one, Verse fourteen, ‘The will of the Lord be done.’ ”

  Charlie sniffed in disgust. “True, Captain, but you’d just better hope the Lord ain’t on the side of them pestiferous Indians.”

  To Lucy’s dismay, no one else stood up to Abner. No one said he’d stay behind, perhaps because if he did, he’d be labeled a coward. Perhaps, too, because Abner was at his enigmatic best when standing noble and tall, quoting the Bible.

  Lucy flashed a glance at Clint, just in time to catch a look of concern, quickly replaced by his usual impassive expression. He caught her eye and gave her the barest of nods and the hint of a smile, as if to tell her not to worry, he’d watch over her.

  Chapter 13

  Next morning, the Schneider party made good time, no rivers to cross, no wagons breaking down. “I made the right decision,” Abner proudly announced. “With God’s help, we shall soon be out of this territory, away from the Shoshones.”

  “I suppose.” All morning, Lucy stayed close to Martha, offering what comfort she could. Martha couldn’t get her mind off the poor family massacred by the Shoshones and how the Schneider wagon train could easily be next. Her feeling of dread fueled her imagination. “Any second an arrow could pierce me in the back,” she cried fearfully. “Any second a wild, painted savage holding a hatchet could leap from the bushes and attack me. I’ll be scalped and even worse. That hot iron! That poor girl! Oh, Lucy, we’re all going to be tortured and killed.”

  Lucy knew poor Martha wasn’t the only one concerned. According to Agnes, “Every woman in this party is sick with worry. The men, too, although the fools would never admit it.”

  The extra caution Clint and Charlie displayed brought home the danger. All morning Lucy sensed their unusual tenseness as they rode up and down the line of wagons, ceaselessly scanning the trees and bushes that lined the trail.

  Like all members of the wagon train, at the beginning of the journey she and Jacob had devised a plan in case the Indians attacked. Now, with Jacob and Benjamin gone and Martha utterly useless in a crisis, the plan was somewhat altered. If the Shoshones should strike while the wagons were circled, Lucy would take her stand behind the wheels of Abner’s wagon. He owned two Hawcan rifles. While he aimed and shot one, Lucy would load the other. Before heading west, she’d never even touched a gun, so she’d had to practice loading, ramming the rod down the barrel swiftly as she could.

  Jacob had also owned two Hawcan rifles, but Henry, their remaining hired man, declined to use them. He carried a Colt revolver and would take his stand behind the wheels of Lucy’s wagon. An expert shot, he boasted, “The cylinder is loaded with six bullets, and that means six dead Indians, so don’t you worry.”

  “That’s certainly comforting to know.”

  When they stopped at noon, the guides insisted the wagons form a circle, usually done only at night.

  “Keep your weapons close,” Clint warned.

  “Be prepared to shore up them wagons,” said Charlie.

  Had it not been for her fear of an Indian attack, Lucy would have enjoyed the warm, windless summer day as she and Martha prepared their midday meal. A few puffy white clouds hung over the low, tree-covered hills close by. Birds chirped. Colorful wildflowers dotted the clearing where they stopped. Beside the wagon to her left, Hannah Richards prepared lunch over a campfire while her husband, Elija, cleaned his rifle. Beyond Abner’s wagon to her right, Chad Benton helped his mother unhitch the oxen. Lucy never ceased to marvel at how the spoiled little boy they all thought so horrid had changed into a reliable young man, eager to step up and take his father’s place.

  Nearby, in the shelter of the circle, Noah played quietly with Jamie Helmick. The two five-year-olds squatted in the grass, engrossed in tracking some sort of bug.

  Bent over the campfire, stirring a pot of beans, Lucy mused what a perfect day it was, the kind of day when nothing bad could ever happen, the kind of day ...

  “Indians! Indians!”

  The cry of alarm jerked her from her reverie. She straightened, saw nine-year-old Timmy Potts standing on a wagon tongue peering outward toward a distant batch of pine trees. “I see them! Indians on horses! Indians a’crawlin’ through the bushes!”

  Martha dropped a pan of biscuits and burst into hysterical screaming.

  “Get in the wagon, Martha!” Lucy called. “Hunker down and don’t raise your head.”

  Lucy watched her sister-in-law scamper into her wagon fast as she could go. Across the campground, she saw both Clint and Charlie grab their rifles. “Men, get your weapons,” Clint called. “Shore up those wagons.”

  Abner and Henry had been greasing one of the wheels. Henry stood up and yanked his Colt from its holster. Abner stood up and looked around in surprise.

  Blood-curdling war whoops cut through the air. Between the wagons, Lucy saw mounted Indians with painted faces gallop by, all whooping and hollering. The children. Lucy dropped her spoon and ran to her stepson and Jamie Helmick. Tucking a child under either arm, she saw Abner still standing there, as if in a daze. “Get the rifles, Abner!” Carrying the boys, she raced for her wagon and hoisted them inside, then practically dived in after them. “Lie down!” She grabbed a mattress, some pillows, and covered the boys, now both pale and wide-eyed. “You’ll be all right.” She tried to keep her voice from shaking. “You must stay where you are, and don’t you dare raise your heads.” She grabbed a pouch containing powder and shot, hopped from the wagon to the tongue—faster than she would ever have thought possible—and dived to the ground.

  An arrow flew past, so close she heard its whooshing sound.

  A wave of sheer terror swept through her. She wanted to turn back, hide in the wagon with Noah and Jamie, but she couldn’t. She must help Abner. Frantic screams caused her to glance around the circle of wagons.
Amidst a horrendous, deafening noise, people ran in all directions, women grabbing their children, dashing for cover. Puffs of smoke arose from men crouched behind wagon wheels, already firing rifles randomly, some helped by wives doing the reloading. Outside the circle, she saw Indians on horseback, Indians afoot, all yelling terrifying war hoops.

  A barrage of arrows came flying toward her. She ducked behind a wheel. Most of the arrows landed harmlessly, but some, aimed in a high arc, found their mark. Screams went up. She saw Stanley Helmick fall to the ground and writhe in pain, an arrow in his shoulder. She saw Inez rush to his side. She wanted to go to them, but now wasn’t the time.

  Henry knelt by one of the wheels, his pistol resting on one of the spokes. His gun barked. Lucy heard him holler, “Got him!”

  Abner had finally retrieved his two rifles and knelt at the other inside wheel. He aimed, fired off a shot, and yelled, “Quick, Lucy, the other rifle!”

  Lucy rushed to kneel beside him. “I brought the powder and bullets,” she shouted over the din of screams, gunfire, and whooping Indians. She picked up the other rifle, a ramrod, and small horn. Just as she’d practiced, she used the horn to measure just the right amount of black powder. From the brass patch box in the rifle butt she took a tallowed greased patch cloth, carefully centered the ball on the patch, drove it down the barrel with a smooth thrust of the rod, and tamped it down.

  She pulled the rod out and thrust the rifle at Abner. He gave her the first rifle, and she did the same. Abner kept firing. She couldn’t tell if he hit anything, but she kept loading, nearly choking on the acrid smell of gun smoke that lay heavy in the air. Back and forth, almost in a rhythm, they exchanged the rifles. Then, through the wagon spokes she saw a pack of Indians afoot. Waving bows, arrows, and tomahawks, they rushed toward the circle yelling bone-chilling war hoops. “Oh, my God!” she heard Abner call.

  She continued loading, quickly as she could, her gaze focused on her task. “Here, quick!” She looked up and thrust the loaded rifle at Abner, only to discover the other rifle on the ground and no one there. “Abner?” She glanced around, saw him running toward the center of the compound. “Abner?” An arrow arched down. She gasped in horror, watching it strike him square in the middle of his back. She heard his grunt of surprise, saw him fall to his knees then flat onto the ground.

  “Hit bad.” He reached a hand behind him, trying to clutch the feathered shaft. He couldn’t reach it and winced. “Come help me!”

  He could be dying. The pain must be terrible. She wanted to run to his side, but here came the Indians, now practically atop her, and she knew she must stand her ground. To her left, both Hannah and her husband, Elija, blazed away. To her right, Henry kept firing and beyond ... could that be Cordelia firing off a shot? No time to lose. She hefted the rifle to her shoulder. Never in her life had she fired a gun, but she didn’t hesitate. She aimed at one of the advancing savages. Could she kill a man? Him or me. She fired. No one fell. Damnation. She picked up the powder and shot and began a frantic reload.

  She had just drawn the rod out of the barrel when a painted, feathered savage, bare except for a breech cloth, leaped to the tongue of the wagon. For a horrified moment she stared at the fur, feathers, and beads dangling from the leather-wrapped tomahawk he brandished over his head. She swung her rifle around, jammed the rifle stock against her shoulder and aimed. Can I kill a man?

  The Indian raised his tomahawk, a savage, murderous gleam in his eyes.

  She pulled the trigger.

  A hole appeared in the middle of the attacker’s forehead. His face grew slack. The tomahawk fell from his hand. He crumpled to the ground in front of her. She had killed a man, but no time to think about it. She must reload.

  “Mrs. Schneider, give me one of your rifles!” It was Chad, running toward her. “Ma’s rifle jammed.”

  Lucy tossed Chad her rifle. “You’ve got to reload!” She was reaching for the rifle Abner dropped when a horse carrying a Shoshone in feathers and full war paint sailed through the space between the wagons, causing a cloud of dust to rise where its hooves met the ground. For a few moments, the horse danced around, as if its rider were searching for a target. Chad was closest. Lucy’s heart nearly stopped when she saw the rider reach down and grab the boy by his long, blond hair. In his other hand he held a tomahawk raised high. The boy struggled, yelling at the top of his voice but couldn’t break away.

  “No, no!” Cordelia appeared from out of nowhere and hurled herself toward the Indian. “You let go of my son!” Wild-eyed, clawing and scratching, she grabbed the Indian’s bare leg and tried to pull him from his mount. The rider gave her a look of annoyance, as if she were a mere bug he needed to brush away. He drew back his leg, then struck her in the face with one swift, mighty kick. The blow sent her reeling. She fell to the ground and lay there, stunned.

  The Indian still held Chad’s hair firmly in his grasp. Helpless, Lucy watched as he raised his tomahawk higher. Oh, no, he’s going to scalp the boy! Suddenly a hole appeared in the Indian’s chest. An arc of blood spurted out. His eyes rolled upward as he let Chad go and fell from his horse, stone dead. Lucy took a swift look around. There stood Hannah, twenty feet away, lowering her rifle. “Got him!” She grabbed up another rifle and started shooting again.

  Another Indian on foot leaped through the opening, followed by another on horseback. She heard Charlie yell, “They’re a’comin in through there, boys!”

  Men came running from around the compound. In an instant, Lucy found herself in the middle of a pitched battle, dust flying, men shouting, guns firing. She threw the useless rifle down and tried to run, but the swinging flank of a horse knocked her to her knees. Dazed and hurting, she tried to stand while all around, yelling, grunting men brandishing knives and tomahawks fought hand-to-hand. Foolish to stand. She’d be better off escaping on her hands and knees. She started to crawl, only to have her way blocked by the fallen body of an Indian, blood spurting from a gash in his neck. Hopeless. No escape. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the end.

  From out of nowhere, a strong arm encircled her waist. She opened her eyes. Clint. In one hand he held a rifle. With the other arm he swooped her off the ground. Without a word, he half carried her unceremoniously out of the melee, hauled her to the middle of the campground, and set her down by Hannah, who was wiping blood from Cordelia’s bruised face. “Stay here,” Clint commanded. “Watch this for me.” He laid down his rifle, pulled the knife with the long blade from its sheath and ran swift and sure-footed back to the battle.

  “Lucy, are you all right?” Hannah called.

  “Fine.” Her heart pounding, Lucy bent forward and braced her hands on her knees. She gulped deep breaths, fighting to control the spasmodic trembling. Her eyes followed Clint as he plunged into the hand-to-hand fighting again. Surely he’d be killed. She watched, fearing everyone would be killed, but soon the Indians that were left began a hasty retreat, slipping through the space between the two wagons where they’d entered. In another minute, the last Shoshones had gone.

  Through a gunpowder haze, Lucy gazed around the campground, fearful of what she might see. Sure enough, the bodies of three dead Indians lay on the ground. Of their own party, one of the Helmick’s hired hands lay dead, an arrow through his neck. One of Adam Janicki’s children, a little girl of six, was badly wounded, her stomach pierced by an arrow. Her mother wept by her side, wringing her hands. Inez Helmick tended to her husband, Stanley, now propped up against a wheel.

  The boys. Lucy looked toward the wagon. Henry had already climbed inside to take a look. “They’re fine, ma’am Just scared.”

  Abner. Lucy looked to the spot where her brother-in-law had crumbled to the ground. He hadn’t moved. He lay face down, the shaft of the arrow protruding from his back. Lucy rushed to his side and knelt down. “Are you all right?” She shook his arm. “Answer me!”

  Abner winced and groaned. “My God, the pain! Get the arrow out.”

  “Somebody help us,”
Lucy called.

  Several men, including John Potts, came running. Charlie Dawes arrived and knelt beside Lucy. The old trapper seemed unperturbed, even though she’d personally seen him slit at least one savage’s throat. “We’ll get that arrow out, Captain.” Knife still in hand, Charlie tugged at Abner’s shirt. “T’wouldn’t be the first arrow I’ve dug out. Now this might hurt a bit, but ... well, I’ll be hornswoggled!”

  Of its own accord, without Charlie touching it, the shaft tipped and the arrow fell from Abner’s wound and lay on the ground. Charlie pulled Abner’s shirt aside, revealing a shallow cut made by the arrowhead, no more than half an inch long, from which oozed the thinnest trickle of blood. “I do believe he’ll live.” Charlie’s voice held more than a touch of sarcasm. He picked up the arrow and handed it to Lucy. “Here’s a souvenir for his wife. Her husband’s a lucky man. This here arrow was just about spent before it hit him.” He sat back on his haunches and regarded Abner with shrewd old eyes. “How come it’s in your back? Was you going somewhere?”

  Abner struggled to his feet. For a brief moment he appeared uncertain, then raised his chin with confidence. “God is my guide in all matters.”

  Charlie waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen more than one man turn tail and run when a pack of Indians was aiming down his throat.”

  Subdued but audible laughter trickled from the crowd gathered around. John Potts spoke up. “Did God tell you to turn tail and run?”

  More laughter. Turn tail and run? Lucy felt her face burn with embarrassment for Abner. Could she now add cowardice to his many faults? Worse, not only laughter rippled through the crowd. She also heard a low, hostile grumble. She had better get Abner out of there. She took his arm. “Come, I’ll tend to your wound.” She turned to Charlie. “Will the wagon train stay here or must we move on?”

  “I reckon those Shoshones are long gone by now, ma’am. We’ve got wounded that shouldn’t be moved, so we may as well stay right here.”