The women managed to scrape together meals with the limited supplies on hand, while planning better menus for the next week. The fourth night, Wylder surprised them with a deer he had shot on the way back to camp.
Though conditions had improved considerably from the first day, Zillia was very thankful to climb into the wagon and head back to the train on Friday afternoon. She missed Orrie so much she ached. Though Soonie was with her, seeing Wylder’s sullen face every day, at every meal caused her heart to ache even more.
14 The Toppled Giant
An errant wind pulled at the treetops. Branches, brittled from past droughts, snapped and scattered on the forest floor. Some fell with loud cracks against the lean-to’s roof.
Mrs. Wiliams closed her eyes and clasped her hands in front of her. “Lord have mercy on us! If there’s a storm, this whole building will probably come crashing down upon our heads. Oh, I do wish it was afternoon so I could go home!”
“I don’t.” Zillia stirred a kettle of stew. “What if we were in the wagon and a storm hit? Or on the train? Can a train even travel through a storm?”
“I’m not sure.” Soonie paused from kneading bread dough. The sticky substance hung from her fingers in clumps. “But it will pass soon. These early summer storms never last long.”
“But they can be violent. Grandpa Walt lost the windmill last year when the weather was just like this,” Zillia pointed out.
“Ladies, ladies, we’re going to be fine!” Mrs. Dawson bustled in with a basket of potatoes. “Let’s focus on the tasks in front of us.”
Zillia tasted the stew. The spicy venison and fresh vegetables were cooked to perfection. “It’s ready.” She ladled the steaming liquid into large pails.
Soonie filled baskets with golden squares of cornbread. Each woman took what they could carry and hurried to the breezy outdoors.
Mr. Humphries had requested they bring the lunch out to where the men were working for the next few days. The crew was trying to get a section cleared by the end of the week.
“Now I know what a pack mule feels like,” Mrs. Williams struggled with her heavy bucket. Her shawl whipped around her shoulders.
“The men aren’t far. They had to take all the wagons today to try to get the area finished up.” Mrs. Dawson said, though her own face was red and her shoulders sagged under her burden. “We’ll be back at the camp in no time.”
Zillia and Soonie exchanged smiles. Over the past few weeks, they had become accustomed to the women’s contradicting attitudes.
Soon bright jackets moving through the trees let them know they had almost reached the men’s work area.
Zillia sat down her pails to rub her neck. Dark shadows crept over the skies and a chill settled over the forest.
Soonie shaded her eyes. “Goodness! What a monster.”
A massive pine creaked ahead of them. Axes bit into the trunk, creating a raw wound like a mouth, open in a silent scream.
“Why aren’t they using a misery whip?” Zillia pointed to the supply wagon, where the thin, long saws were kept.
“Wylder said they dull faster than you can think,” Soonie said. “It takes hours to sharpen them again. They’re miserable to use, that’s how they got the name.”
Mr. Humphries caught sight of the women and hurried over. “We’re gonna chop this tree afore we eat. You ladies stand over there, out of the way. We’ll be with ya in a coon’s wink.” He pointed to a distant clump of stumps.
“Happy to oblige.” Mrs. Dawson scurried over to the spot and set down her buckets. She kneaded her hands together. “That does smart.”
A loud creak announced that the mighty pine, had almost given up its fight.
Most of the men came across the gully to stand by the women.
Abel and Wylder stood on little platforms wedged several feet up into the tree’s trunk to finish the last blows. Two other men stood by to help them down from the platforms when they were finished.
A man leaned toward Zillia. “At’s a dangerous job, right der. Only the young and spry ones stay up for the last blows.”
Breezes tugged at Zillia’s hair, blowing it all around her face in a tangle. She pushed it out of her eyes and watched the two figures. Wylder seemed so confident, so sure of himself. Would he really be up there if it were such a risk?
A giant gust of wind sailed through the ladies’ skirts. The men shouted as hats were torn from their heads.
An unearthly groan from the huge pine tree interrupted the chaos. A shudder ran through the trunk, which teetered and then began to fall in the wrong direction.
Get out of the way. Zillia grabbed Mrs. Dawson’s hand and pulled the older woman along through the group of moving bodies. Everyone pushed and shouted, some trying to help, some knocking co-workers down in their haste to reach to safety.
Branches and trunk loomed towards them, smaller trees snapping and breaking under the mighty weight. The very tip of the tree crashed a foot away from Mrs. Williams, who screamed.
Zillia coughed and waved her hands in front of her face, trying to see through the clouds of dirt and bark. People huddled all around her, arms still covering their heads.
“Wylder!” Soonie dropped the basket of bread. She fought through branches to reach the chopped end of the tree.
Zillia stood as though one of the pines, rooted to the ground and unable to move. Her heart pounded a reminder. Forward. Help. She darted after her friend.
The other workers swarmed over the tree like ants, cutting at branches and calling for the missing men.
Zillia pulled at thick limbs, ignoring the needles digging into her skin. Her shin throbbed where she had bashed it against tree trunk during her flight. Where is Wylder?
Then came a voice from the farther side, close to the chop site. “Over here! Help me!” Wylder tugged at Abel’s motionless figure.
Blood trickled from a cut on Wylder’s cheek in a jagged stream. He was covered in dust.
Soonie reached his side and tugged on his arm. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Zillia couldn’t tear her eyes away from Abel. His face was ashen. The same hue Mama’s face had turned while her life-blood drained from her body. And Zillia knew why. A dark stain spread across the man’s bright orange shirt.
She clawed at the thick mackinaw until the fabric fell away to reveal a burly chest. A stick’s sharp point had worked into the man’s flesh.
“We had to jump.” Wylder’s eyes were wide, and his breathing heavy. “Abel made it down, but he tripped while we were running away. I tried to help him but he’d landed on that spike.”
Zillia tried to remove the stick, but the skin held fast, and she worried the loss of blood would be too great. I have to stop the bleeding. She pulled off her apron and pressed it around the stick with both hands.
Abel’s eyes fluttered, and he stared at her for a moment, then closed them again.
“You hang on, Abel Trent. Your mama’s already mad enough at me as it is, don’t you go dying on my watch!”
Wylder said, “Stay there, Zillia. We have an extra log boat coming; it should be here within an hour if the storm doesn’t hold it back. We’ll find a way to get him down to the bank.”
Big drops of rain splattered against Zillia’s shoulders and soaked through her dress. Her hands shook, but she kept the pressure against Abel’s skin. As far as she could tell, the flow of blood had stopped.
“God,” she prayed out loud, not caring who heard and not taking any chances. “God, don’t let this man die. He’s not too kind, but please don’t let him die. Please.”
The warm skin grew cold and the blood soaking the material beneath her fingers dried, stiffening the cloth.
Several men arrived with a stretcher fashioned from poles and two coats. With some effort, Abel was rolled onto the makeshift device. Zillia came with them, moving in swift steps to keep up with the men who carried the stretcher.
After an agonizing half mile through the rain, the miserable party
reached the riverbank.
A small overhang in the rocks gave a bit of shelter. The crevasse was a tight squeeze, but dry. The men set Abel down gently. Zillia curled in beside him.
Zillia hadn’t seen a response from the injured man since the beginning of the journey, but his chest still rose and fell under her hands.
Soonie’s face appeared through the crowd of men. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s nice to be out of the rain.” Zillia tried to squirm into a more comfortable position.
“I’ll try to get you something hot to drink.” Soonie disappeared before Zillia could tell her not to bother, she didn’t have a free hand anyway.
Mr. Humphries knelt down and studied her under bushy eyebrows. “I’m a log man. I don’t know nothin’ about healing folks. I’m thinkin’ you better keep holdin’ that wound until the barge gets here.”
“Shouldn’t they just take the wagon?” Wylder asked.
“Nope. Barge’ll cut the time down by four hours, plus it’s a smoother trip if the rain lets up.”
The acrid scent of blood mixed with the sweat and damp. Zillia shivered. People dropped like June Bugs on a lantern. If not from an accident, by some sickness or plague. Her parents, Soonie’s parents, Abel’s father, and now Abel. Why even bother going on with each day? It’ll end in some horrible way sooner or later.
A delicious scent drifted from the opening as Soonie ducked in. “Try to be still, I’ll spoon this for you.” She held out a tin cup of soup.
Soonie awkwardly tried to scoop the hot liquid into Zillia’s mouth and the two girls giggled, despite the situation.
“I feel like Orrie.” Zillia said, while Soonie wiped away a stray drop making its way down her chin.
“The barge is here!” came a call from the bank.
Soonie put down the cup of soup. She placed her hands on Abel’s forehead, closed her eyes, and murmured in her native tongue.
Zillia caught the words for “God” and “help,” so she knew her friend was praying. She couldn’t help but smile. How would Abel feel if he knew Soonie was praying for him in Comanche?
“We’re ready. Let’s go.” Mr. Humphries gestured to his crew.
When Zillia stood, trying to stretch muscles that had been cramped for far too long, she felt warmth drape across her shoulders. Wylder’s coat. She breathed in his familiar scent.
“Hold tight, Zillia,” he whispered in her ear.
The men heaved their burden of flesh onto the boat, with Zillia right beside them.
The boat began to move, and the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. Sun beamed down through the clouds, creating diamond droplets on the tree branches hanging above the river.
The last thing Zillia heard over the barge’s chugging steam engine was Mrs. Williams exclamation of “Glory be!” while the boat slipped around a curve.
###
Hours later, the doctor placed a gentle hand over Zillia’s. “You can let go now, Miss Bright.”
Pain buzzed through her fingers as she shook the feeling back into them. She scooted back against the wall, watching the doctor as he bent over the large man on the bed.
Abel stirred, lifted his head and looked around the room with glazed eyes. He sank back down on the ferry owner’s cot.
The doctor probed the skin around the stick. “Doesn’t appear to have punctured any vitals. But you definitely helped this man by stopping the blood loss.”
He adjusted his spectacles and glanced around at the concerned faces of the boat driver and his small crew. “I’ll have to operate in here to remove the object. Take this girl somewhere and get her warmed up.”
Zillia sank to her knees in relief. “I did it!” she whispered. “With God’s help, I saved a Trent!”
Someone knocked on the door. The ferry owner opened it.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for—“ Mrs. Fowler caught sight of Zillia. “Oh, you poor thing!” She swept across the room and gathered her into a hug. “You’re coming home with me right now.”
They crossed the river in a rowboat, then climbed into the Fowler’s buggy.
“Everyone is saying you are a hero!” Mrs. Fowler’s chin quivered beneath her bonnet’s silk bow. “Are you all right? Do you have a chill?”
Zillia drew Wylder’s coat tighter. “I’m fine.”
“You most certainly are not fine! Imagine us, thinking you were going into a respectable place. Surely they wouldn’t allow young, innocent girls into a dangerous area. And there you were, a tree could topple on your head at any moment. And almost did. The very idea!” Mrs. Fowler slapped the reins, and the horse looked back at her reproachfully.
Zillia stared out into the forest. Mrs. Fowler was right. She shouldn’t have taken such a risk. She was Orrie’s only caretaker. What would he do if something happened to me?
A realization hit her, like a sudden ray of sunshine during a storm. Peace filled her heart. and she knew what she needed to do.
###
Saturday morning, Zillia settled into the soft, cloth-covered chair across from Mr. Ulysses Alder, Attorney at Law.
Mr. Alder’s smile covered his face. “What do I owe the pleasure of today’s visit, Miss Bright?”
She pulled a paper from her pocket and smoothed it out on the table. “I’ve decided to sell the farm.”
July 1889
15 Dark Hour
The scrub-brush knew the floor well. The scratching sound it made while Zillia passed it over the boards was familiar as the song she always sang while doing this tedious chore.
“Oh dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
O dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.
He promised he'd buy me a fairing should please me,
And then for a kiss, oh! he vowed he would tease me,
He promised he'd bring me a bunch of blue ribbons,
To tie up my bonny brown hair.”
Zillia had never cared too much for Johnny. Poor girl, I suppose her hair wasn’t quite bonny enough.
Rocking back on her heels, she surveyed her work.
Hard to believe she’d never clean this floor again. Tonight was her last night in her parents’ home.
Every board had been carefully planned and chosen by Papa. After he died, Mama would sometimes go from room to room to touch a fixture, or lean her head against a wall. Zillia always thought she must be remembering the moments Papa stood in those places, explaining an angle to a foreman or tapping in a nail.
A part of Zillia wanted to cling to the scrub-brush and cry like a little girl. The last thing she possessed that had belonged to both of her parents was about to be wrenched away from her.
Buried in Mama’s trunk, under the few remaining articles of clothing she had held back, was the down payment for the house and land. Mr. Alder had delivered it earlier that afternoon. He’d spent several days going through the law books, but in the end he’d come to a conclusion; Jeb hadn’t contacted her in almost three years. By law, he had abandoned any rights to the farm.
Word had surely reached the Trent family, but the only thing she’d heard from Jemima was a stammered thanks for saving Abel’s life. She guessed they wouldn’t dare try to stop the sale now.
The house was clean as it could be. The buyer would arrive in the morning. Nothing left to do but go to bed, though sleep would be hard to come by. Their few remaining treasures had already been packed up and taken to the boarding house in town where they would stay until she figured out where to go next.
Orrie had been tucked into his little bed hours ago. Gruff slept in the barn for the night, to avoid the introduction of fleas to the house.
Zillia stepped on the porch. Darkness had settled over the farm like a velvet shawl. The stars seemed brighter then ever, but that could have been because of the tears in her eyes. She whisked them away and decided to walk down the bank, to say goodbye to her special bend in the river and all th
e prayers, hopes and dreams she had spoken there.
The scrub brush. If she didn’t remember to dump the bucket tonight, the house might be filled with the sour smell of the wash water. She went back inside and reached for the handle.
The door swung open behind her, and the floorboards creaked. She turned, and her heart fell to her very knees. She swallowed in an attempt to pull it back up to her chest.
J-- Jeb.” she managed to croak.
He stepped into the glow of her lantern’s flame. His wiry frame seemed leaner then when she’d last seen him, over three years ago, and a new scar ran up and over his left eye, still red and healing.
Zillia settled back against the table, her fingers searching for a gun, rolling pin, anything. Only bare boards met her skin; everything useful had already been packed away.
“Look at you,” Jeb hissed. One front tooth was gone. “Cozy and comfy in this home while I’ve traveled the country like a hobo. I’ve slept in barns and worked like a dog doing jobs you wouldn’t even imagine.”
“Oh wouldn’t I!” The words leapt off her tongue. “I’ve run this farm and cared for your own flesh and blood for three years. You took everything from us, Jeb!”
“Huh. Everything? Not everything, Missy. I waited in a prison cell through the four seasons three times.” He held up three grimy fingers. “For you. To give up and move out. You coulda given Orrie to my sister and gone to live with your kinfolks. Heck, you coulda found a man to take you away from here, if anyone’d put up with your sass. But no, you were too stubborn. And then, what do I hear?” Boots scraped the floor while he took another step closer. “You sell my land. Right out from under me.” A string of drool dribbled down from the corner of his mouth.
Zillia remembered the signs all too well. Jeb was drunk. She’d never understood how he could make it all the way from town on horseback in this condition.
“Well, Jeb.” She tried to steady her voice. “Mama’s bed is up in the attic. Why don’t you go get some rest and we can talk about this in the morning?”
The River Girl's Song: Texas Women of Spirit, Book 1 Page 12
