The Buffalo's Last Stand

by Stephen Bly

  When Retta reached the big Conestoga, Mrs. Ferdinand was tossing pots and pans into the back. “Get to your wagon, Retta darlin’. There are Indians at the top of the rise, and they’ll attack any minute now.”

  Chapter Two

  Bobcat Bouchet rode back into camp right after dark along two parallel lines of wagons parked in the mud. Cattle and horses milled around between the rigs. Colonel Graves’s wagon served as the front gate, and old Sven Neilsen’s heavy freight wagon was the back gate.

  Lerryn washed dishes near the tailgate of the Barre wagon. Retta hovered next to her, cotton tea towel in hand.

  “Mother, can you hear me?” Lerryn called out.

  “Yes, I’m just resting a moment. Are you through with the dishes?”

  “No, but I was wondering if I could ride in Mrs. Ferdinand’s wagon tomorrow. I’m learning so much about quilting.”

  “Fine, only don’t wander away from the wagon train—not with Indians about. Coretta Emily can help me if I need anything.”

  “What if I wanted to walk with Christen? Would you stay with Mama?” Retta whispered to her sister.

  Lerryn kept her voice low. “I have more important things to do than just play with my friends.”

  “I suspect you won’t be thinking about quilts tomorrow,” Retta challenged.

  “And just what do you mean?”

  “I went by Mrs. Ferdinand’s. You weren’t there. She said you had only stopped by for a minute.”

  “Nonsense. Mrs. Ferdinand is forgetful. We worked on a star pattern.”

  “She said she couldn’t find her star pattern. That’s why she gave it to me to bring to you.”

  “You have my pattern?”

  “It’s up in the wagon on your mattress.”

  “Why were you spying on me?”

  “Mother sent me to fetch you,” Retta retorted.

  “She did not,” Lerryn snapped.

  “Ask her.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think you lied to Mama so you could be with Brian Suetter. ”

  Lerryn slammed a cast-iron skillet into the wash pan. A wave of suds splashed toward Retta. “You’ll understand someday.”

  The two girls finished doing dishes in silence. Then Retta’s voice softened. “What’s it like, Lerryn?” she whispered. “What is what like?”

  Retta let her chin drop to her chest. “You know ... kissing a boy ... and stuff.”

  Lerryn brushed her bangs off her forehead and stared out into the dark prairie sky. A smile broke across her face. “It’s sweet.”

  “It is?”

  Lerryn stuck her hands back into the water. “Yes, especially if you warm him up first.”

  Retta draped the dishtowel over her head like a scarf and peeked out. “Do what?”

  “Hold his hand a little.”

  Retta chewed on a corner of the towel. “Papa says boys act like stupid dolts around girls. Does Brian act like a stupid dolt?”

  “He most certainly does not. That’s the kind of thing papas say to their daughters to keep them at home until they’re twenty.”

  “How does it feel to know a boy really, really, really likes you?”

  “You’ve never had a boy who really, really, really likes you?”

  Retta dried off an enameled tin pie plate. “Nope.”

  “How about Ben?”

  “Sometimes he sort of likes me. But he really, really, really likes Ansley.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Nope.” Retta looked down. “Well, sort of. I just don’t like the way Ansley always shows off and pretends to be so much better than me.” She offered a quick grin. “Yeah, I guess it does bother me.”

  “There are always people like that.” Lerryn scrubbed a knife long after it was clean.

  “People don’t treat you that way, do they?”

  “Maybe not exactly the same, but there’s always someone you’re competing with, I guess.”

  “Who do you have to compete with, Lerryn? I overheard one of William’s friends say you are the cutest girl in the wagon train.”

  Lerryn threw her shoulders back. “Who was it?”

  “The one they call Cherokee Washington.”

  “He said I’m the cutest?”

  “He said William’s sister is the cutest girl on the wagon train. He certainly didn’t mean me. So who do you have to compete with?”

  “The queen,” Lerryn whispered.

  “What do you mean, the queen? There’s no queen on the wagon train.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Who? I don’t know any queen. Is she in disguise?”

  “No.” Lerryn splashed another pan into the dirty dishwater. “Who does Papa call the queen?”

  Retta’s face brightened. “Mama? You have to compete with Mama?”

  Lerryn took a big, deep breath and held it.

  “Really, Lerryn?”

  “You don’t know how lucky you are, Retta.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which of us looks like Mama?”

  “You do. I don’t look like anybody in our family.”

  “Precisely. So everyone compares me to Mama. I have to live up to her standards.”

  “But Mama is old.”

  “Thirty-eight is not that old. And it’s not just her looks. Everyone thinks I should be as smart and wise and kind and talented as Mama. Sometimes they even call me Julia by mistake.”

  “They do?”

  “Did anyone ever call you Julia?”

  “No.” Retta giggled.

  “Did they ever call you Eugene?”

  Retta laughed. “No, of course not.”

  “You see. You get to grow up being Coretta Emily Barre. That’s all you have to be. Totally yourself. But I have to grow up being Julia Carter Barre, Jr.”

  For several minutes, neither sister spoke. Finally Lerryn dried her hands on Retta’s damp cotton towel. She brushed her blonde hair back off her forehead and stared up the line of wagons. “It’s sweet,” she whispered. “Real sweet.”

  “The kisses?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the other stuff?”

  The sound of someone running in the dark caused both girls to peek around the wagon.

  “Retta.” a voice called out.

  “It’s William,” Lerryn said.

  Retta grabbed her sister’s arm. “What about the stuff?”

  “I’ll tell you later. I promise.”

  “When?”

  “In about three years.”

  “Retta. Papa needs you,” William shouted.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “Up with the colonel.”

  “He needs me?”

  “You’re our Indian expert.”

  “That’s a laugh.”

  “Come on, they’re waitin’ for you,” William insisted. “For me? Really?”

  “You see, Coretta Emily, you get to be you.” Lerryn maintained.

  Retta hurried to keep up with her brother’s long strides.

  “What did Lerryn mean?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s just...”

  “Girl chat?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” I don’t think Lerryn and I ever had a girl chat in our lives. Maybe this was the first. “William, slow down. It’s dark and I can’t keep up.”

  “Here, take my hand.” He slipped his fingers in hers. Her brother’s hand was warm, callused, and strong.

  Retta scurried almost at a trot. I bet Ben Weaver’s hand is not strong like William’s. Lord, I really like my brothers. And I guess I like Lerryn a lot more than I thought I did. How come I always think everyone else has it easier than me? Except Ansley ... she really does have it easy.

  When they passed the cattle and reached the horses, they slowed down.

  “All the cows and oxen are lying down, and the horses and mules are standing up,” she murmured.

  “Our horses haven’t lain down since Ohio,” William said. “Whe
n I get my horse, I’ll teach him to lie down at night.”

  “Why? They stand because they can run away quicker. It’s a horse’s best defense.”

  “But what if they are against a canyon wall and can’t run?”

  “Then they turn their kickin’ end to the enemy and fight.” When they reached the first wagon, William opened the flap of the white canvas tent for her but remained outside. The colonel’s bright lantern caused Retta to squint.

  The first voice she heard was soft and familiar. “Darlin’, come over here for a minute.”

  She scooted in next to her father. His arm draped around her shoulder, and she reached up and held his fingers.

  Colonel Graves paced the dirt floor of the tent. “We can’t take that risk,” he insisted.

  “We can’t refuse to help,” her father replied.

  “They haven’t asked for help,” the colonel reminded him.

  “Landers and the others are too stubborn,” Mr. Barre declared. “But they are our friends nonetheless.”

  Bobcat Bouchet shrugged. “It’s their trouble, not ours.”

  “They wallowed in the mud and got stuck to the axles. But they wanted to be on their own. It will dry sooner or later,” Colonel Graves insisted.

  “But we’ll be two days past them by then. Ten wagons and a few men on horseback on the prairie will be a tempting target for the Cheyenne and Sioux.”

  She tugged on her father’s sleeve. “What happened, Papa?”

  “The California-bound need us to help them pull out of the mud. It will cost us another day.”

  “But then we’ll be back together,” she said.

  Bobcat fingered his scraggly gray beard. “Only until they want to split off again. We have to know who we can count on.”

  Retta stepped in front of her father. “I can count on Joslyn. She stayed right by me when Tall Owl came at us.” The colonel stopped his pacing. “Young lady, that’s what we need to talk to you about.”

  Bouchet stepped over by her side. “Missy, how many horses did your friends, the Shoshone, have, and what did they look like?”

  “Two Bears said he had twelve horses, but I only saw eleven. There were four stallions—one buckskin, two grays, and a black. There were five mares—a sorrel that looked like she was heavy with foal, two duns, and two blue-gray smoky-looking ones.

  “The sorrel had a bad knee and a kind face. There was a one-year-old pinto colt. He was sort of palomino on white with a very arrogant manner. And there was an old horse with eyes like a gelding. He was sort of dun-colored with tiger stripes on the back of his front legs and a dark line down his back, so I reckon he’s got some wild Spanish pony in him.”

  All three men gaped at her.

  She glanced up at her father. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Bouchet burst out laughing. “Missy, you just provided the best description of a remuda I ever heard.”

  Her father slipped his arm around her. “When did you get to look at all the horses?”

  “When I was in the cave, staying out of the rain. I was trying to decide which horse I would want to have as my own ... you know, if I was to get a horse.”

  “And which did you pick?” the colonel asked.

  Retta held her breath and puffed out her cheeks.

  “Well, darlin’?” Her father nudged her.

  She bit her lip. “None of them. I’m going to get a chestnut and white pinto gelding as soon as I have enough money.” She rocked back on her heels. “Is that all you needed to know?”

  “Yep. Missy, you’re a jewel.” Bobcat blurted out. “Why, if you were forty years older, I’d marry you on the spot.”

  “If this young lady were forty years older, she’d have been married for thirty-five years,” the colonel pointed out.

  “That’s true,” Bobcat said.

  “What’s all this about, Papa?”

  “Mr. Bouchet found tracks of two dozen or so Indian ponies between here and the California-bound.”

  “But it wasn’t your friends, because all of these ponies had big prints like northern horses.”

  “The Arapaho?” she asked.

  “More than likely.” Bouchet nodded. “Course, up in this land it could be Cheyenne or even Sioux.”

  “It wasn’t Two Bears,” she maintained. “He wanted to hide from the Arapaho. He wouldn’t leave his tracks uncovered.”

  “You’re right there, darlin’,” her father replied. “I reckon it was the Arapaho.”

  “But Tall Owl didn’t have a horse,” she said.

  “He does now. He probably hid it back in the brush, and you didn’t see it,” Colonel Graves declared.

  “Then why was he on foot?” Bobcat mused.

  “Without a weapon,” Mr. Barre added.

  “He did have a big knife,” Retta said. She leaned her head back on her father’s chest. “Is two dozen a lot of Indians?”

  “It’s a lot of horses but not necessarily a lot of Indians.” Colonel Graves paced again, his right hand resting on the grip of his revolver. “It depends on whether they are an advance party or just travelin’ with family or stole some horses from another wagon train.”

  “If any of the Arapaho are on foot, and they can’t find Missy’s Indians, they will come here to steal a pony or two,” Bobcat warned.

  “Or attack the California-bound,” Mr. Barre added. “We’ve got to catch up with them.”

  “I know you’re right, Eugene. But it’s the last time we hold up this train,” Colonel Graves said. “They have to know that if they pull out again, we won’t bail them out.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Mr. Barre replied. “But when it comes to women and children, I’m not very reasonable.”

  “You stop and help ever’body, Barre, and you’ll never make Oregon before the snow,” Bouchet asserted.

  Eugene Barre hugged his daughter. “A man’s got to live with his conscience, so I reckon we’ll stop and help any that are in danger.”

  When the meeting broke up, Retta clutched her father’s arm as they hiked back down the line to their own wagon. “Aren’t the stars beautiful tonight, Papa?”

  “I reckon they are, darlin’. I’ve been too distracted to notice.”

  “Do you think the stars will look as pretty in Oregon as they do out here on the plains?”

  “I reckon Oregon might have the best view of stars in the world. That is, when it isn’t raining.”

  “You really think it rains a lot there?”

  “Just enough to keep the crops growing all summer.”

  “I look forward to getting to Oregon, Papa.”

  “And I look forward to the sun comin’ up in the mornin’.”

  “Oh, Papa, the sun will come up. It always does.”

  “And I’m grateful to the Lord ever’ mornin’.” He paused by the wagon tongue that stretched out empty, like a spacer between wagons. “Did Mama go to bed early?”

  “I think so,” Retta replied.

  “How was she feelin’?”

  “She said she was tired, Papa. But she did seem more chipper tonight.”

  “I figured the talk of more Indians might touch her off again.”

  “Not nearly as much as it did Mrs. Wilson,” Retta said. “She started sucking in her breath and fanning her face, and she got the hiccups and couldn’t stop for a long time.”

  Mr. Barre pulled off his flat-brimmed felt hat and rubbed his chin. “Sounds serious. Is Lerryn up in the wagon with Mama?”

  “I think so.”

  “Take a peek for me.”

  Retta climbed up in the wagon. The lamp burned down to such a dim glow the wagon interior looked like a distant dream. Mrs. Barre slept fully clothed under the heavy quilt, sweat rolling down her face.

  “Is Lerryn with Mama?” Mr. Barre whispered.

  Retta stuck her head out. “Papa, she may have gone to Mrs. Ferdinand’s wagon.”

  “My, how that girl likes to sew, just like her mama. They are two peas in a pod, aren�
�t they?” Even in the dim light outside the covered wagon, she could see him smile. “How is everything in there?”

  “Mama’s sleeping. I’ll be here if she needs anything.”

  “Thanks, darlin’. And tell big sis to relax a little. She doesn’t have to sew day and night.”

  Retta brushed her thick hair back over her ears and watched her father disappear into the darkness. Papa, I’m not sure what my sister’s doing right now, but I don’t reckon she’s sewing.

  Chapter Three

  The air inside the covered wagon was slightly cool and stale. Retta could smell Lerryn’s perfume, axle grease, and wet earth.

  Mainly wet earth.

  She climbed over two pine crates and Great-grandma Cutler’s old trunk to her mother’s side. She tugged down the quilt to where her mother’s dress tightened around her stomach and studied the sleeping face.

  Lord, Mama’s been worried sick ever since last Christmas Papa told us we were going to Oregon. Her heart has never really been in it. She worries so. And lately she can hardly pull herself around.

  She sleeps so much. Her face is puffy. She cries at night. I hear her, Lord, but there’s nothing I can do for her. Papa said Oregon would be a whole new life.

  I liked our old life.

  Retta hunted for a linen towel and climbed out of the wagon. Propping up the wooden lid on the water keg hung on the side of the wagon, she dipped the end of the towel into the water and wrung it out.

  “Hi, Retta.”

  She spun around to see a boy approach in the darkness. “Oh ... Ben, hi.”

  “What’re you doin’?” he asked.

  “Getting a wet rag for my mama’s face. What’re you doing?”

  “I’m goin’ back to our wagon. I was visitin’.”

  “How is Ansley tonight?” Retta questioned.

  He scratched his head. “To tell you the truth, she’s kind of pickled.”

  “Who is she pickled at?”

  “You, of course.”

  “Me? I always try to avoid Ansley. What did I do?”

  “It’s ’cause you’re the talk of the camp.”

  “I thought the camp was talking about the Indians and those California-bound wagons.”

  “They are, but if they talk about anyone our age, they talk about that Barre girl who traded with the Indians,” Ben reported.