CHAPTER THREE: MEG JAMESON
Nebraska Territory, Spring 1865
Meg Jameson gripped her legs around her horse’s belly as the mare thundered across the prairie at full gallop. Terrified by the men chasing her, she had to keep reminding herself to relax her hold on the reins, allowing her rescuer unrestrained movement. Biscuit, her beloved companion for nine years, was faster than the wind when allowed to stretch out. Meg let her, because at the moment, Biscuit was the one in greater danger.
Her guardian uncle had threatened to kill Biscuit. His breath on Meg’s neck, his doughy hand moving too close to her breast, the smell of powerful cologne making her eyes water—all of it was repulsive. But the words he’d whispered, “Let me touch you, or you’ll find your precious horse gutted in her stall,” induced her to act. Meg escaped on her horse that night.
John Sutter, a heartless soul who did all of her uncle’s dirty work, had picked up her trail in Omaha City. She had no choice but to abandon the road and flee into open country. For days, following tributaries and using the shrubbery along the riverbank for concealment, horse and rider traveled upstream. When they climbed out into the open again, Meg was lost, and a long way from home.
The sun slipped below the horizon. The blanket of twilight would allow her to travel a while longer before the heavier quilt of darkness enveloped them, but Meg saw a good hiding spot in a thicket along a stream and decided to stop. She unsaddled Biscuit and ate some jerky. She pulled down her breeches and relieved herself. The buttery soft, deerskin breeches protected her legs from chafing, and she was glad she had had the sense to grab them before she fled. She wore them under her skirts whenever she rode. Sore from so many hours in the saddle, skin abrasions would have made matters worse. Gus had given her a new pair of riding breeches every year since she was eight years old. Dear Gus. She’d give anything to be with him right now.
She shivered as the humid night air condensed into dew. Afraid that a fire would give away her location, Meg grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her head and shoulders. The nocturnal animals began to stir. Crickets chirped loudly to each other, as if seeking companionship in the dark. Meg leaned against the saddle and held the loaded rifle close. Exhausted, but unable to sleep, she watched the stars come out, pulling the blanket closer and wondering what Gus would say about all this. You’re in a pickle, he’d say; a goddamn pickle—that’s a fact. The old stableman didn’t sugarcoat words. He always spoke the truth and set her straight. She relied on him for everything, and he’d never let her down. Meg loved Gus. He was the father and mother she lost a decade earlier. He was her whole world. Once she came of age, her inheritance would be released to her. She’d be free from her depraved uncle, and planned to buy a spread of land and take care of Gus in his old age—like he’d taken care of her.
Often she and Gus took the ferry across the river and rode into the wilds past Omaha. Once when they were out riding, Gus pointed out a rider cutting across a long, flat stretch of prairie. He told Meg he was a rider for the Pony Express—he could tell by the special saddle. He said they were the fastest riders ever to cross the plains. Meg took off after the rider before Gus could stop her. The rider spurred his horse into a gallop once he spotted her coming. She rode alongside of him, pushing Biscuit hard, exhilarated by the race. The rider finally tipped his hat to her, at which point she grinned and slowed down, letting the rider continue without her. Why she wanted to challenge the fastest riders on the prairie she couldn’t say, but she rode back to Gus triumphant. With pride and delight in his voice, Gus quoted some philosopher. What had he said? He said friendship was a single soul dwelling in two bodies. She and Biscuit were a single soul, he said. You and I are a single soul, too, Gus, she thought. I miss you.
Gus cared about her more than anyone else—of that, she was certain. When she told him how her uncle would leer at her, try to touch her, and say scandalous things to her, Gus smoothed his wiry, white mustache, squinted sharply at her with his piercing, blue eyes, and said, “Meggie, darlin’, I won’t let that bastard scrape away your sparkle.” He showed her how to kick a man to disable him and how to jam the back of a chair under a doorknob. Perhaps most helpful of all was just knowing Gus was on her side.
She wished now that she hadn’t panicked and run away before finding him.
The moon was up, so full and bright it cast shadows. Biscuit grazed quietly nearby. Her indifference to the night sounds gave Meg some assurance that all was well. A breeze swirled around her, and the scents of the prairie soothed her. The grasses, the flowers, even the soil itself had an aroma that, despite her circumstances, drew her in and calmed her. She drifted to sleep.
Biscuit’s soft nose tickled Meg awake as the sun first lightened the eastern sky. Startled, Meg sat up abruptly and spun her head in all directions, looking for danger. She and Biscuit were alone.
The breeze rustled the stately, big blue stem and airy switch grasses, each catching the wind differently, the movement captivating Meg. Pasque flowers, the first to bloom in the spring, were beginning to fade as new flowers emerged. Meg plucked several prairie violets and stuck them in Biscuit’s coarse mane as she tried to decide if it was safe to turn back.
Biscuit directed her ears forward, then back, then forward again, as if searching for a sound. Meg thought she heard something, too, and quickly mounted, preparing to flee if necessary. But the sound was that of a child crying. Meg told herself it must be her imagination playing tricks on her, or the grasses whispering, perhaps, and yet she heard it again. Biscuit snorted nervously, her ears pointed straight ahead.
Meg stood in her saddle and looked around. Only the trees and bushes hugging the riverbank broke up the endless expanse. She pulled her rifle from its sheath. “Hup,” she whispered, and the horse advanced toward the sound.
Biscuit snorted again. The crying stopped abruptly. Meg peered into the tall grass in front of her and saw the frightened face of an Indian child not thirty paces away. She and the child both gasped. Then the child disappeared in the grass.
“Wait!” Meg called, startled by her own voice. She could see the child trying to scramble away. She rode over to a young Indian boy, about ten years old—probably Pawnee, considering she was in Nebraska Territory. He turned and produced a knife, ready to fight. She pointed her rifle at him.
He wore only a breechcloth, and both of his ankles were badly swollen. He tried to look fierce, but Meg could see that he was just frightened, and in pain. His cheeks were stained with tears. It was hard to imagine someone was worse off than she, out in the middle of nowhere, but it seemed to be the case. She felt a little braver for it, and bolder. Gus always said that most people were decent if treated with a little respect. He also said that kindness had a way of circling back to itself. She lowered her rifle. The boy looked relieved. She put it back in its sheath and pulled out some jerky. She showed it to the boy and tossed a piece to him as a gesture of goodwill. Keeping a wary eye on her, he felt for the jerky, sniffed it, and wolfed it down.
Gus would try to help the boy, she thought. She certainly couldn’t just ride away, seeing he was hurt. “I’ll find some sticks for a splint,” she said. He jumped, as though her voice startled him. Meg pointed to his ankles and gestured for him to wait there—which seemed a little silly, since he couldn’t go anywhere anyway.
She rode over to the stream, cut cattail leaves and hemp stems with her own knife, and gathered moss and as much mud as she could carry on a mat of leaves. When she returned, he’d disappeared in the tall grass. Meg and Biscuit meandered back and forth, scanning the area, until suddenly his hand popped up, waving. She felt oddly flattered that he’d signaled to her and hurried over.
Together they fashioned crude splints for both of his ankles. The supple grass secured the thicker stems used to brace the ankles in place. When she packed mud around his ankles, his expression softened a little, as though the coolness eased his pain. He pointed to her face and said something she couldn’t understand. She t
ouched the tender area where her uncle had struck her. Apparently, she had a black eye.
“Do you speak any English at all?” Meg asked. The boy looked at her blankly. She pointed to herself and said, “Meg,” and then pointed to the boy with a questioning look. The boy responded with a long string of sounds. She furrowed her brow. The boy leaned forward and spoke slowly, emphasizing each syllable patiently, as if speaking to a stupid child.
“Wa-sha-nee-ko-mo-se-ma.”
“Wa . . . sha . . . nee . . . o—”
“KO-mo-se-ma.”
“Wa . . . sha . . . nee . . . ko . . . mo . . . se . . . ma?”
The boy nodded and pointed back at Meg. “Mig.”
“Meg,” she corrected him.
“May-g,” he said, imitating her emphasis. She nodded. Close enough.
She stood up and patted the saddle. “Washaneekomosema,” she said, indicating that he would sit there. Then she held the reins, as if to lead the horse. The boy nodded and allowed her to help him into the saddle. He blinked rapidly as the blood rushed to his ankles. He grabbed Biscuit’s mane tightly. Meg knew he must be in pain, but there was nothing else to do. Meg pointed out into the prairie. “Which way?” she asked. He pointed. Meg led Biscuit north.
Although thankful for the company after being alone for so many days, Meg worried about the direction they were headed. The Pawnee lived on a reservation along the Loup River in the central part of Nebraska Territory, and if they were going there, she had wandered too far north. But Pawnee men served as scouts for the US cavalry, so maybe he was taking her to a fort.
The boy began to chat. He pointed to Meg’s hair and then touched his own. Meg couldn’t understand him, but figured he had never seen hair the color of hers before. She knew it was unusual, mostly because none of the girls at school had ginger-colored hair and seemed to resent her for it. Meg never understood what all the fuss was about. She shrugged at the Pawnee boy, who laughed, pointed at the sun, and said something else she couldn’t understand.
A moment later, he pointed at the horizon, where she saw a mustang pony, presumably his, grazing next to the stream. Meg figured the boy must have hurt his ankles falling from the pony. She whistled a low, soothing melody the way Gus did when he had to calm skittish horses. The mustang lifted its head and perked up its ears. Meg led Biscuit slowly toward the mustang, whistling softly. The boy’s pony walked right over to her. She gently grabbed the rope around its neck and stroked its nose affectionately while the boy, agile even with mud and grass boots, transferred himself to the pony’s back. Meg then climbed into her own saddle, relieved to be back on Biscuit again.
“Gus would be pleased that you climbed right back on to what bucked you off. Shows grit; he likes that in a person.” She knew he couldn’t understand her, but enjoyed pretending that he did. “Well, I’d better go before your family finds you. They must be out looking for you. I don’t think I want to meet grown-up Indians.”
No sooner had she said the words when three Pawnee men appeared. The boy called to them before Meg could stop him. Her instinct was to flee, but as fast as Biscuit was, Meg didn’t think she could outrun them.
An older man and two young men approached on horseback. By the way the boy greeted them, she assumed they were his family. Reluctantly, she followed the boy as he rode over to them. When they crested a small hill, their village came into view. At least twenty domed earthen structures dotted the north side of the riverbank, their long passageway entrances facing east. Smoke rose from the opening at the top of each of the lodges, all of which stood well over ten feet high and over forty feet wide. Meg could see people moving about. The village looked peaceful, even serene, in the early morning calm. The three Pawnee men did not, however, and loomed large as they approached. Necklaces rattled against their bare chests. The younger men’s heads were shaved, except for a strip of tufted hair down the center. The older man was missing an ear, but several earrings dangled from the other. The men looked fierce; she held her breath, her heart pounded. The boy cheerfully greeted them as their eyes traveled from her to the rough splints on his feet and back to her again. Meg gripped her reins as they studied Biscuit, worried they might take her. The youngest of the men spoke harshly to the boy, but Washaneekomosema ignored him and chattered away to the older man, gesturing to her and to his feet. The boy whistled the same melody she used to call his horse. All the ponies pivoted their ears toward the boy. Meg assumed he was giving them an account of what she had done, and was glad she had helped him.
The boy finally pointed to her and said, “May-g.” They all stared.
Meg felt the blood drain from her face. She felt woozy, but managed to utter the only Pawnee word she knew. “Wa-sha-nee-ko-mo-se-ma,” she said carefully, pointing back at the boy.
The boy laughed with delight. His family remained stoic, so he quieted and looked back and forth from the older man to Meg. The older man had not taken his eyes off her.
The Pawnee spoke among themselves. Meg remembered Gus telling her Pawnee weren’t as hostile against white people as their enemies, the Cheyenne and the Lakota. She wondered what they were saying, if she could do anything to help her situation, or if her fate had already been sealed. The boy didn’t seem concerned; Meg hoped his account of her actions would weigh in her favor.
The older man pointed to a notch on the horizon, where two sets of rolling hills converged. Then he waved her away, as if to shoo flies from food. He said something to her she couldn’t understand, but it appeared he wanted her to go in that direction. The boy smiled at her and raised his hand. Meg automatically raised her hand to wave, thinking he was waving good-bye, and felt embarrassed when she realized he, too, was pointing to the notch. The Pawnee family turned to head back to their camp. Meg galloped away as fast as she dared.
For the rest of the day, Meg angled her way south and west across softly rolling terrain. She scanned the landscape for a line of vertical telegraph poles directing her to a relay station or a road leading to a stagecoach station or a farm. With a burst of renewed hope, she loped to the crest of a high hill. Surely from such a vantage point, she’d be able to see something. She gasped when she saw the hills roll out endlessly in front of her and cried out in despair.
“Oh, my precious girl, what are we going to do?” Meg leaned forward to hug Biscuit. She watched the sun dip behind storm clouds gathering in the west. She’d spend another scary night on the prairie—undoubtedly, a wet one. Her heart sank.
But as the clouds blocked out the sun’s glare, they allowed for a clearer view of the landscape. A white line in the sea of grass caught her attention. A wagon train! Behind the train, and only about five miles away, a lone prairie schooner appeared to be chasing after the rest of the train. It must have fallen behind, she decided. She looked for the fastest route toward it as the wind shifted and the sky darkened.
By the time she reached the wagon, the wind had picked up and light rain fell. A young couple waved to her, but didn’t stop.
“Wagons!” the man shouted so the wind couldn’t carry away his voice. He pointed west.
“I saw them!” Meg shouted back, a gust of wind sucking away her breath. “I’ll ride ahead and tell them to wait for you!” The man nodded and Meg signaled to Biscuit. A few miles ahead, she came upon a river. The wagons were nowhere in sight, but the ruts left behind in the sand showed where they had crossed.
She rode back to the couple. “There’s a river up ahead. They already crossed!”
“We’ve got to get across before the rain!” The man slapped the reins hard. The scrawny oxen seemed to go at the same speed regardless of how much encouragement they were given. A low rumble of thunder warned of the rain that soon followed. Meg found herself riding along next to them, not knowing what else to do. After days of solitude, an encounter with Pawnees, and now a storm, she was grateful to be with people who spoke English.
“I’m Beth!” the young woman shouted through the rain. “This is my husband, Jim! What’s y
our name?”
“Meg!” The wind took her voice away.
“We just got married!” Beth shouted, trying to make conversation, but after Jim said something to her, she shrugged at Meg, a gesture indicating she was postponing pleasantries for the time being.
When they reached the river, rain poured from the sky; the water level had already risen to the top of the bank. “I don’t think we should cross,” Meg shouted to Jim. “It looks dangerous.”
“If we don’t cross now, we’ll never catch up,” he shouted back.
“I’m sure they will wait —”
“We aren’t part of their train. They don’t know we’re here.”
“We just eloped, ’cause my parents didn’t approve,” Beth shouted, as if that explained everything. So they were runaways, too.
Jim looked haggard. “It’s the first train we’ve seen. We’ve got to get across.”
“But the water . . .”
“It hasn’t been raining that long.” Jim had made his decision. He jumped down from the wagon and led the oxen into the water. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed overhead. Hail pelted down on them briefly—chunks of ice hurled from the sky, startling the oxen, which lurched forward in a panic. Meg hunched over Biscuit to protect her. Biscuit danced about nervously, but followed her command and waded into the river.
The river spilled over its shallow bank. With every step, the other side of the river moved farther away. Meg saw only gray; the opposite bank disappeared completely as the water and the sky became the same color. The water rose quickly and rushed faster and faster. Meg felt the river wash over her feet, tugging at her stirrups. Biscuit slipped, and regained her footing, but snorted in protest. Meg turned back. Only a fool would cross a river so swollen. She wasn’t going to risk it, even if it meant being left behind. The oxen bellowed at Jim, who was now chest deep in water. Water spilled over the sides of the wagon. Beth called to her husband, who tried in vain to get the oxen to move. Biscuit clambered up the muddy bank to safety. Meg turned around just in time to see the wagon tipped sideways by the rushing water, pitching Beth into the river. She screamed; Jim dove into the water after his young wife. Meg watched in horror as the oxen lost their footing and were swept downriver, the weight of the wagon pulling them under. Meg rode along the bank in the pouring rain, trying to keep up with the wreckage and the drowning couple, shouting their names.
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