Next came a stealth attack on supplies. One family found the body of a dead chipmunk moldering in their only barrel of flour; another discovered that a slash at the bottom of their gunny sack full of rice had allowed most of the precious contents to drain away; for still a third, the disappearance of their tin of coffee beans proved the most crushing blow, especially since a number of gold coins had been buried in the bottom of it.
Halfway to Fort Kearney by this time, Jordan called a special meeting of every traveler during their stop that night. Standing grim-faced and grave before those he had chosen to lead, with several of his men providing backup, he explained the situation, that searches would begin, that thievery and vandalism would not be tolerated. Anyone caught in a crime against his fellow pilgrims would receive swift and absolute justice.
“That bein’ what, exactly?” someone called out from the rim of the crowd.
Jordan glared him down. “At the very least, he’ll be put off the train. At the very worst, he’ll be hangin’ at the end of a rope.”
“And just how d’you know,” came the Reverend’s sly voice, from the opposite rim, “the perpetrator is a man?”
More whispers. This time, right out there in public.
Janetta’s face drained of blood. Turning, she pulled her shawl more closely together and fled. Or, at least, as quickly as she could flee, in her burdened state. Oliver, helpless against a rising tide of animosity, followed more slowly.
Even from their wagon, as a cluster of evening stars drifted across the purple sky, and coyotes began to wail in the distance, they could hear the minister working his crowd from down the line.
“Godly folk should not be associating with this sinner,” he harangued them.
A few male words of agreement chimed in, with a “Hear, hear.” and “You got it, brother.”
“Why d’ you think these mishaps are going on? Because Janetta McCain has brought a blight onto this train, that’s why. God is telling you the sin needs to be exorcised and the sinner cast out.”
“Amen to that!”
The men. Always the judgmental men, willing to point fingers and cast stones. The women were more understanding. And forgiving.
The diatribe continued for a while. Then was, as suddenly, silenced.
“Jordy shut ’em down,” said Cole, appearing out of the semi-darkness at the McCain site. “Most of us are gettin’ tired of hearin’ that preacher spout his filth.”
In the month or so that had passed since the Reverend’s great revelation, Janetta had lost color and spirit just as her body had gained heft. Even her stride had changed, Cole noticed, feeling at ease enough around their campfire to pour himself a cup of coffee. Slightly straddle-legged, with posture acquiring a sway-backed position—all to accommodate the growing child.
“Oliver off seein’ t’ the teams?”
A small nod. She had collapsed onto the camp stool, leaning against the wagon, with an expression on her face that showed she never wanted to move again.
For a minute he watched her, in the flickering firelight, while others round about settled down for their evening meal. A gang of boys, in trouble with their mothers for being late, went rushing by. Someone called across the clearing with some question; another answered.
Janetta, too tired even to stir for their own supper preparations, had closed her eyes in a half-doze. She came abruptly and roughly awake as she felt someone’s hands moving her skirt aside to unlace her shoes. “Stop it! What are you doing? Go away, leave me alone!”
“Shush, Janie. Just takin’ care of you a little.”
Shoes off, stockings off, and she felt her weary feet being settled in a basin of cool water. The sensation was so wonderful that she brought up a sigh all the way from her toes. For a few minutes Cole simply knelt before her, scrubbing gently with soap, massaging her insteps, rinsing away suds. The sigh slid into a sound he had never heard before from a human: a catlike purr of utter content.
Feeling smug, he lifted one small foot at a time onto his thigh to dry off.
Finally Janetta opened her eyes, only to laugh aloud. “My dish towel!” she discovered.
If some clumsy male thing he’d done would bring her to this brief moment of humor, he refused to apologize. “Yep. Couldn’t find any other’n. Reckon this’ll have t’ go int’ the laundry basket.”
“Cole.” Leaning forward, she placed both hands on his shoulders, wide as the mighty Mississip’. “Thank you. I know I haven’t always been—uh—pleasant to you, or polite. But you—you’ve been a good friend to me, and to Pa, and I want you to know that I’m—that I’m grateful.”
They were mere inches apart. To his surprise, a couple of tears gathered and overflowed from her Irish green eyes. “Janie—”
“No.” Her forefinger touched his lips, light as a butterfly’s wing, halting speech. “No more for right now. Let’s just—leave things…for right now—”
Her hand moved, to curve along the side of his square jaw, before sliding down over the chin he hadn’t bothered to shave today. This was the first time she had voluntarily touched him, and the caress was so sweet, so poignant, that his own couple of tears might have matched hers.
Just then Oliver quietly returned to the fold, with Barney beside him, and the moment went flitting away into the star-dusted twilight.
The next incident showed more intent to destroy than just the past cases of petty malice.
Rumbling along, sometimes single file, sometimes three or four schooners abreast, a sudden crash brought the whole train to a halt. No wheel had broken, as occasionally happened, nor did a wagon tongue finally fall apart.
The wagon itself almost folded in on itself as its team of six draft horses simply trod away, leaving harness and hookups in a jumbled mess behind.
It was discovered that someone had put a knife to work, fraying fastenings almost to the edge. Just enough to hold together until the prairie road was once again being used. Had this vehicle been rolling along at its usual speed, far more serious consequences might have ensued.
That the leather had been cut, rather than worn through under normal use, was obvious.
Of course, no one admitted to the deed. Nor were there suspects.
As it was, the owner, who had foolishly not checked over his equipment beforehand—taking fair-weather routine for granted—was able to repair and replace what was needed.
Another delay.
And more mutterings, and slanted ugly glances, sent around the train.
But the real tragedy lay just ahead.
At Fort Kearny, a stronghold maintained by the army about 200 miles from the Missouri River, settlers were given a brief respite from the treeless sea of green. With a number of trails converging in the area, traffic moved steadily and briskly, both ways. Here the settlers could purchase emergency supplies, avail themselves of a physician’s care, make repairs of one kind or another, even send off mail to the folks back home, desperately hoping for news.
Jordan allowed two days. Then it was time to push on once more, westward, ever westward, toward the North Platte.
So winding and crooked were its various channels, so shallow and muddy, that the river was considered “too thin to plow and too thick to drink.” Still, the Platte led to valleys with access to grass, water, and buffalo.
For the most part, the travelers had been blessed with fair weather. Quite windy, on the open plain; occasionally hot and drenched with humidity, in the zenith of summer; once in a while, light to heavy rain, even hail.
The worst of a storm lay rumbling ahead, laying down a silver sheet of rain through stabs of lightning. Miserable, everyone hunkered down under their less-than-waterproof canvas covers and tried to stay dry. In such conditions, keeping children from driving themselves and their distracted parents to the edge of bedlam became an exercise in futility.
By the time Jordan and his convoy reached Ash Hollow, with its sharp plunge down Windlass Hill, the skies overhead had lightened from teary gran
ite-gray to soft opal blue, and the rain had stopped falling. Water rushed between the river’s banks in torrents, however, and any crossing must be made with caution.
Even then, on the advice of his scout and his own common sense, he prudently waited another day before sending the chuck wagon across. After a few anxious moments down, through, and over, Luther arrived safely and waggled a thumbs’-up.
Cole had ridden back and forth several times, choosing the best route for a single path. And so it started out. But a few drivers lost patience and pushed ahead, despite Jordan’s orders, and within minutes three or four at a time could be seen making the ford.
That was when disaster struck, with the Simmons schooner halfway across. Ruth was perched beside Neal on the high seat, nervously cradling baby Charity in her arms, when one of the wheels fell into a sizable rut underwater. The sideways jolt was so unexpected and so violent that Ruth was flung out of the wagon, with a wild scream, and down into the fierce current.
Forward motion immediately ceased as men came racing to help. Neal tossed aside the reins for his team and dived head first; Cole was next, with young Austin and older Caleb right behind.
Ruth was dragged out, coughing and choking, by her husband. After making sure she would be all right, once the muddy Platte had been ejected from her system, he left her in Janetta’s capable hands and dashed back to search frantically for the baby.
Too late.
Thigh-deep in swirling, frothing waters, Cole was making his unsteady way toward shore with the tiny drenched unmoving body of Charity Simmons. His face, as he approached her barely conscious mother, said it all: lined, set like steel against any show of emotion, and infinitely sorrowful.
Half-lying, half-sitting in Janetta’s embrace, Ruth reached up to recover her child.
First joy and relief, then puzzlement, then awareness, then denial, all in a matter of seconds.
“No,” she whispered, slowly shaking her head as the baby was placed respectfully in her arms. “No. No. No! No—! No—!” until she was shrieking her grief and despair to the world.
By then, Neal, dripping wet and sobbing, had clumped to her side, to encircle her and their poor little drowned infant in shelter, away from the horrified eyes of spectators.
Cole grabbed Janetta’s upper arms and pulled her upright, careful of her condition yet imperious. “C’mon,” he ordered grimly.
Weeping, she still managed to start a protest, “But, I—”
“Not now. Come on, I said. Leave ’em alone.”
If he’d had the strength, he would have picked her up and carried her back to her own wagon, where her father waited. But this morning’s work, and a catastrophe that had happened in the blink of an eye, had sucked every last bit of stamina out of him. He wanted dry clothes, he wanted a good stiff drink, and he wanted hard hot sex—in that order. If he were lucky, he might get two out of three.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A funeral service was held next day.
Whatever his other failings, Reverend Ross at least did his best to comfort the bereaved couple, and to provide the necessary final farewell as dictated by faith. A grave was dug under one of the few trees nearby, and a wooden marker set in place.
Her face reddened and swollen by tears, her body shaking, Ruth, still in a state of shock, collapsed at the end. Her cries of “No! No, it can’t be, please bring me my baby!” echoed through the camp and stabbed a sword of anguish through every woman’s heart.
Much as Janetta wanted to sit with her friend during this time of despair, to grieve with her for the loss of a child just starting out in life, she obeyed Cole’s dictate, as did everyone else. The Simmons wagon had been moved farther away from the usual cluster, to afford its occupants seclusion and privacy.
It came as no surprise to anyone the following morning that, when the train gathered itself to continue on its journey west, the young couple decided to turn back. Janetta was able to offer farewell, as they were loading up their gear.
But, with overwhelming grief, Ruth’s normal sensibilities had turned inward, and she had locked away emotion as something useless and no longer necessary for existence. How this would affect her husband for the present was anyone’s guess. He, too, had shut down.
What about their dreams for the future? What about their hope for a better life?
“But where will you go?” Janetta, aching in sympathy, begged for information.
“Dunno yet,” was Neal’s distant response. “Back t’ the fort, for now. Maybe find a town somewheres, settle there.”
“Godspeed,” she whispered then, as he picked up the reins.
Violet stood beside her in support, to watch as the wagon began rumbling away. East.
It was enough to break a more valiant spirit than anyone might hope to possess.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
As it turned out, Reverend Ross quickly exchanged his façade of grief counselor for riot inciter. Now he was doing his best to stir everyone up by blaming Janetta, that Whore of Babylon, for everything from all the acts of vandalism to an incidence of sick cattle to the actual tragic death of Charity Simmons.
While Jordan had sternly warned him to keep such agitating talk to himself, Cole went a step farther. During one of the rare times he was in camp, he paid a brief visit to Reverend Ross, in which he promised to punch the man’s teeth down his throat if any more of this bullshit babble got spread around.
Of course it did. The preacher could no more obey a direct order from someone other than God than he could take flight to the moon. The gossip made its rounds, and the mood was becoming surly.
“Good evenin’, folks.”
“Why, hello, Jordy,” Oliver greeted the wagon master, pleased; and the dog, tail wagging, immediately trotted over for a friendly head-rub. “Come t’ join us for some supper, didja?”
The long, winding Platte River was a brackish thing, not fit for drinking or washing. After making an early camp today along one of the fresh water streams which fed into the Platte, Oliver had unhooked his fishing pole from under the wagon and caught several fat trout.
Skinned, boned, and fried in cornmeal, this delicious alternative to the usual beef jerky or salt pork had everyone within sniffing distance hoping for a taste.
This being one of her better days, thanks to less mileage and fewer exertions, Janetta had gone all out with supper preparation. Potatoes and onions, sliced and fried together in a bit of lard; cornbread with maple syrup; and fresh apple pie, made with fruit purchased at the Fort.
The bulk of a seven-month pregnancy kept getting in her way. No matter how much she tried to work around it, there it was, insistently and impudently pushing itself forward with every move.
Too, grief for the Simmons family still darkened her eyes and weighed down her mood. Would she ever be able to dispel that haunting image of Ruth and her baby being pitched headfirst into the drowning river?
“Janie, honey, we got comp’ny,” Oliver reminded her gently.
For her father’s sake, and for that of their guest, she would do her best to throw off depression and present them with a cheerful hostess.
“Hello, Jordy,” she welcomed him with a smile. “We have plenty.”
“Well, ma’am, I must say, the offer is mighty temptin’. You got quite a reputation for the meals you cook, so I—”
“Oh, hell. You hornin’ in on my territory, son?” Cole came rounding the wagon’s corner only to skid to a stop.
“I seem t’ remember our talk about stakin’ a claim,” replied Jordan in a mild tone. “Can’t remember gettin’ an answer, though.”
Cole could feel his hackles rising. “Well, sounds like you got an invite for t’night. You’re turnin’ it down, though, ain’tcha?”
“Nope.” Tall and bronzed, Jordan shambled over to the camp stool just waiting for the weight of his posterior. “I’m tired of Luther’s sowbelly and beans. Think I’ll see what draws you down this way whenever you ma
ke it back t’ camp.”
“Huh. Sounds t’ me like you got an ulterior motive.”
With a sigh, Jordan lay his neat gray Stetson on the ground at his feet. Close and ready, just in case he needed to make a run for it. “Well, now, you ol’ sidewinder, reckon you know me better’n I realized. Yeah, I have t’ admit, I got an ulterior motive.”
Enough occupants of the train had begun to clamor for the McCain wagon removal that Jordan had determined he would need to take steps from here on to relieve some of the pressure being brought to bear. Therefore, he would like to request that, for the present, they travel at the very rear, preferably with several miles separating their schooner and the main body.
“As punishment, by God!” Cole accused. “And at the track end, where they’ll be eatin’ the dust of everyone else.”
“It ain’t punishment, it’s safety,” said Jordan, irritated. “I don’t give two hoots in hell about some of them crackpots, the ones bein’ led around by a ring in their noses by the Reverend. But you know what mob action can do, Cole.”
Across the campfire, built solidly enough from an earlier collection of buffalo chips, Cole narrowed his eyes. “Trouble.”
“Ahuh. And I don’t want these nice people caught up in somethin’ that ain’t their fault. So—outa sight, maybe outa mind. Ain’t tryin’ t’ throw you to the wolves, Oliver. We’ll be up ahead, should somethin’ come along that you need help for.”
Oliver had been sipping from a cup of coffee into which a dollop of something stronger had been poured. “I understand,” he said slowly. “Seems like the smartest thing t’ do, Jordy. Reckon we can make it on our own, trailin’ behind.”
“Well, then. Much as I’d like t’ stay and sample some of these vittles,” Jordan sounded plaintive and wistful, all at once, “I figure Janie is about ready t’ toss me out on my ear, after this.”
She smiled at this big man with his easygoing ways. “Certainly I would do just that, if I were in fighting trim. But, since I’m not…” Deliberately she glanced down at the bulge under her apron, and shrugged. “You may as well take a plate.”
A Western Romance: Cole Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking The High Road Series Book 9) Page 8
