by Adell Harvey
Ingrid approached them from her hiding place, feeling quite safe. Washakie had already assured her Mormon trains left the trail at Fort Bridger, and none would come this way. Surely boys who enjoyed their surroundings so much would be harmless.
But as she emerged from the trees, they looked like they had seen a ghost. “Consarn!” one of them shouted. “It’s a white injun!”
“I’m not an Indian,” she assured them. “I’m from Copenhagen, and I’m looking to buy a ride on a wagon train heading west. Could you take me to your parents?”
The boys looked at Ingrid skeptically, then at each other. “If you’re not an injun, why are you dressed like that?”
“Yeah, and how do we know you ain’t setting us up for a massacre?” another questioned, eying her warily.
“Trust me,” she offered. “I’m dressed like this because I’ve lived with the Shoshones since my own traveling company broke up last year.” Mustering what she hoped was a sincere and honest look, she added, “And the Shoshones wouldn’t hurt you, anyway. They’re good people.”
The tallest of the boys shook his head. “Ain’t no good injuns. Pa says so.”
“Maybe he just hasn’t met the good ones yet,” she argued.
“Ain’t met any yet, and don’t plan to,” he replied. “We aim to keep our scalps.”
Ingrid patted her long braids and laughed. “Well, I’ve lived with them for a year now and still have my scalp, so they can’t all be bad!”
She held out her hand and waited. “My name is Ingrid, and I would very much like to meet your folks.”
The spokesman glanced at his companions. “Whaddaya think?”
“Okay by me.” The boy who had blown his hat to bits shrugged.
The others readily agreed and led Ingrid back down the trail to where a large number of wagons were camped. Ingrid struggled with uncertainty, feeling ill equipped to meet total strangers and ask them for an enormous favor. But such was the reason she was here; not doing so would delay the inevitable.
Aspen and afternoon shadows harmonized with the late summer sunset as they approached the train. Men lowered camp stoves from the rear of the wagons and pitched tents. Women busily rounded up the utensils and began cooking the evening meal. All activity suddenly halted, however, as soon as Ingrid appeared.
“What in tarnation?” one of the men asked the boys. “Who ya got there? Why’d ya bring an injun into our camp?”
“She ain’t no injun, Pa,” the oldest boy explained. “She’s lookin’ for a ride out west with us.”
“Ain’t no room in our wagon train for no injun-dressed female,” the man declared. Ingrid surveyed him guardedly. From his position in the lead wagon, she assumed he was the wagon master, and her hopes sank. If the wagon master refused her, no one on the train would take her in.
Ingrid swallowed hard, attempting to appear more confident than she felt. Measuring her words carefully, she spoke the words she had rehearsed previously, “I have pelts and furs to exchange for my passage. Further, I understand the Shoshone tongue and several other Indian dialects. I would be a great asset to anyone traveling through Indian territory.”
The man pulled on his beard, obviously considering her offer. Finally, after what seemed to Ingrid an eternity, he said, “Ain’t got no room in our wagon, too many kids. But I’ll check with the others and see if anybody’s got room for ya. Come along.”
She rushed to keep up with the man’s giant strides as he led her past wagon after wagon. Finally halting in front of one, he told her, “These folks are from Wisconsin and only got one small boy with ‘em. Mayhap they could use some help.”
A small, thin woman came around the side of the wagon, a skillet in her hand. “This here’s Mary Wallace.” He thrust Ingrid forward in a move that startled her. “Ingrid here wants to go to Californy with us and thought you might have room for her.”
Mary regarded Ingrid quizzically for a moment. “Don’t rightly know how the mister will feel about it. He’s pretty tight right now, savin’ every penny for the claim he’s bought.”
Ingrid barely heard her. California? She thought everyone on the Oregon Trail was headed for Oregon. Was this yet another change of plans? Old Gabe had told her much about the wonders of Oregon, the rich farms, the fertile fields. She was certain she could find employment there. But California? What was there except gold-hungry prospectors?
“She can pay with furs and pelts,” the man was saying. “Might be a big help to ya with the little one, too.”
The young woman’s eyes brightened wide. “Henry!” she called. “Come over here and meet this young lady.”
A handsome, rugged man came out of the wagon. His blond hair was tousled as though it hadn’t been combed in weeks, and what had been fair skin was now sunburned, tanned, peeled, and freckled. Ingrid felt an instant kinship with him, knowing how her own fair skin had suffered in the long trek westward.
She held out her hand to him. “My name is Ingrid, and I would like to pay for safe passage with your wagon. My own company met a terrible fate last year, and I have been living with the Shoshones.”
He looked at her odd garb. “Reckon that explains the injun clothes,” he observed. “How much can ya pay?”
She told him of the piles of buffalo robes, tanned hides, and furs Washakie had given her. “I also have my own horse, a small pinto.”
“Do tell.” He looked at his wife. “Kin ya use some help on the rest of the ride? We kin sure use the money them robes will bring.”
Mary nodded. “Reckon we can tuck her in, but it’ll be a bit crowded. And she’ll have ta do her share.”
Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat as she suddenly remembered Ammie. Would there be room for her as well? Struggling with uncertainty, she ventured, “I have many robes. Enough to pay for both me and my baby Ammie’s travel.”
“A baby? Ya got a baby girl?” The shock in Mary’s voice was apparent.
The wagon master took stock of this new revelation. “She ain’t no injun baby, is she?”
“No, sir,” Ingrid explained the best she could. “She was born to a friend of mine along the way. Her ma died right after she was born, and I promised to care for her. The Shoshones gave me a wet nurse to keep her alive, but now she’s weaned and old enough to travel. She’ll not be a problem, I promise.”
The Wallaces considered this bit of information. “Sure will be squeezed in,” Mary said, “but mayhap it’ll be fun to have another little one along.”
“Just so’s she don’t keep us up all night squallin’,” Henry insisted.
Ingrid sighed, relief written all over her face. California would be her destination, her destiny. The words of the locket sprang into her thoughts. “May God be with you always.” Did God also live in the gold digs of California?
“Might as well go get your young’un and things,” Henry suggested. “We’ve got fresh steaks for supper tonight, and we’ll be headin’ out first thing in the mornin’.”
In less than an hour, Ingrid had collected Ammie and what few personal belongings she still had and had become a member of the wagon train headed for Gold Flat, Nevada County, California.
Grace was being said around 60 different campfires, and ravished families dug into their steaks joyfully. Long before the sun went totally down in the west, kids were out playing, climbing on the rocks, wading in the spring pools, and obviously having the time of their lives.
Ingrid watched with interest as Henry and his father, Floyd Wallace, got out their horns and joined an orchestra of sorts. Soon teens and adults were dancing to the music of the fiddle, horns, a harmonica or two, and a flute. The music of “Arkansas Traveler,” “Hand me Down My Walkin’ Cane,” “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain,” and similar favorites wafted through the night air, competing for attention with the periodic roar and hissing of the hot springs.
It was a lovely evening, one Ingrid would always remember. She couldn’t help but contrast it to the wearying, dreadful
nights the Mormon emigrants had endured in their long trek pulling the handcarts. Apparently, these people had enough funds to enjoy the trip in relative comfort. And they have no foolish prophet to issue ridiculous orders, she thought ruefully.
She was welcomed gladly by the other women in the train, especially Henry’s mother, Gladys Wallace. To her great relief, no one expressed too much interest in the circumstances that had brought her to this place, maintaining a discreet silence about it. It was obvious to all that she had suffered much and was reluctant to discuss her ordeal.
Ingrid had no way of knowing how these new friends felt about the Mormons, but something deep within her urged caution. She determined to tell no one about her former connections with the Saints, her mock marriage, or her fear of Salt Lake.
Thoughts about Salt Lake brought a shudder to her soul. Was Salt Lake on the way to California? Would she have to go through the dreaded Utah Territory?
Her fears were allayed the next morning as they approached a huge rock formation about four miles west of the springs. “That’s Sheep Rock,” Henry informed Mary and Ingrid. “Accordin’ to the Trail Book, we take the Hudspeth Cutoff here to Californy.”
“Does it take us through Salt Lake City?” Ingrid asked, carefully trying to keep the fear out of her voice.
“Nope. We go straight across to the Raft River, then follow the Humboldt River across Nevada and into the Sierras. Then we’s home!” He finished his explanation with a triumphant shout, almost as if in simply outlining the route, the journey was already accomplished.
Would to God it had been that simple, Ingrid thought, as the wagon jounced along one agonizing mile after another across the desert wasteland. “Does the guidebook mention how many days we have to travel across desert?” she asked.
“Don’t rightly know,” Mary replied. “But Henry says it’s a long way.”
Ingrid brushed dirty sweat from her brow. “How I would love to see a real tree again! And water!”
Mary followed her gaze to an ugly mass of gray-brown rock, bare except for a gnarled, wind-twisted juniper clinging tenaciously to an outcropping. “Henry says there’ll be lots of trees in Gold Flat, just like at home in Wisconsin. I kinda wanted to go to Oregon, but when our neighbor came back from the California gold rush and offered to sell Henry and his pa the gold claim, I ain’t heard about nothin’ else since.”
Mary laughed, an infectious full-hearted sound that rippled across the desert flats. “Probably just as well. Henry ain’t much of a farmer anyhow. Spends too much time tootin’ that durned tooter of his. Maybe he’ll make his fortune in the ‘gold diggins’.”
Mary’s enthusiasm and optimism were so contagious, Ingrid’s own spirits lifted. She actually found herself looking forward to the new life that lay ahead in California. Together they plotted and planned, sharing their hopes and dreams.
“I’m going to have a catslide roof and a real puncheon floor in my cabin,” Mary boasted. “And a big fireplace, and a separate bedroom.”
“You’ve got big dreams,” Ingrid teased.
“Oh no, it’s fer real. That’s how the fella we bought it from described it.” She laughed again. “But beats me what a catslide roof looks like!”
The wagon train suddenly halted, interrupting their happy banter. A scout rode up shouting, “Injuns up ahead, camped at the Raft River.”
A tremor of fear rippled throughout the train as the men planned their best line of defense. Some argued for a direct frontal attack; others suggested an alternate route be taken, circumventing the Indian camp.
“Ain’t no other route,” Henry insisted. “According to the guidebook, if we miss the river, ain’t nothin’ but salt desert for hundreds of miles. It’d be certain death.”
“Wal, it’s certain death to face them Injuns,” the scout argued. “There’s a passel of ‘em. Shoshones, I think.”
Ingrid stepped forward. “Maybe I can help. If they’re Shoshones, I can find out what their intentions are.”
Henry shook his head. “It’s too dangerous. They’ll have yer scalp afore you kin say ‘skat!’”
Ingrid was insistent. “Please let me try. Most of the Shoshones are still friendly. If we attack, a lot of innocent people could be killed. If I’m not back within a day, promise me that someone will take care of Ammie.”
The wagon master shrugged. “Might work. Don’t see that we have much choice. Meantime, we’ll circle up the wagons and get our ammo ready, just in case.”
Ingrid changed from the calico dress Mary had loaned her, putting back on the buckskins. Mounting her pinto, she hugged Ammie. “I’ll be back soon, little one,” she promised, feeling totally confident that it was so.
Her confidence deepened as she approached the Shoshone camp. The wickiups looked very familiar. She was certain she spotted Washakie’s double-roomed tepee up ahead. Her heart pounded with excitement and anticipation. It seemed like months rather than weeks since her Indian friends had left her to go to Salt Lake.
Hanabi was the first to see her. “My friend! My friend!” she exclaimed. “We have been looking for you!”
“Looking for me?”
Washakie came out of his tepee to greet her. “Pocatello’s bands are on the warpath, raiding wagon trains and killing whites.” He shook his head sadly. “It means trouble and sorrow for all of us.”
Hanabi looked at Ingrid, a quizzical expression on her face. “But what are you doing down here? We thought you would be on a wagon train going to Oregon.”
“We came up this way from Salt Lake so that we could catch up to your wagon train and escort you through the narrows,” Washakie explained. “That is where Pocatello is hiding.”
Touched by their concern for her welfare, Ingrid briefly explained how she had found a train going to California. “They’re camped back a few miles, afraid of an Indian attack.”
A glazed look of despair spread across Washakie’s finely chiseled features. “It is always the same. White men are afraid of all Indians; all Indians are afraid of every white man. When will both our peoples learn the color of a man’s skin does not determine what is in his heart?”
Ingrid nodded, totally in agreement. Impulsively, she blurted, “Come with me back to the wagon train. You’re my friends. They’re my friends. Together, I know we can work something out.”
Washakie hesitated, as if measuring the situation. Abruptly, he raised his head, a look of stark determination in his eyes. “We will go,” he said simply.
Accompanied by Washakie, Hanabi, and two young braves, Ingrid led the way back to the wagon train, her heart pounding with uncertainty. Would her new friends accept her old ones? Had she promised too much?
Her misgivings increased when they approached the wagon master, who was already fingering the pistol at his side. She jumped from the pinto and ran to Washakie’s side. “This is my friend, Washakie, chief of the Shoshones,” she began. “And Hanabi, my friend who wet nursed Ammie. They come in peace, and they want to help.”
Wagon flaps began to raise almost imperceptibly. Ingrid was aware of dozens of suspicious eyes staring out. Finally, the wagon master raised his hand in the sign of peace and invited the Indians to dismount. A sigh of relief, almost in unison, wafted through the train. Flaps opened wider, and the boldest among them came from the wagons to greet the visitors. Children, unable to contain their curiosity, surrounded the Indians, studying them openly.
Washakie explained their mission to the wagon master. “Ingrid is our great friend. We want to get her safely from Pocatello’s men.” He invited the wagon train to stay in their village on the Raft River that night for protection. “Then we will go with you until you are safely away from Pocatello’s lands,” he promised.
The stark landscape became a place of great beauty as the Creator’s paintbrush lavished the sky with shades of red to gold to lavender. As deepening shadows cast blue hues across the rocks, the wagon train circled near the Indian encampment, alongside the Raft River. Ingrid sighed, c
omparing the landscape to her own soul. From bleakness to beauty, she mused. Maybe the Creator can do something with my life yet.
Mary nudged her. “This night should go down in history. Who’d ever think white men and injuns could have so much fun together?” She nodded toward the center of the fire circle, where men from the wagon train and the Shoshone warriors were trying to outdo each other in games of skill. “Just look at those fellas showin’ off out there.”
Hanabi giggled. “All men are the same, always showing off.”
Ingrid was more impressed by the children. Ammie, Hanabi’s toddler, and Mary’s “Little Toad,” as she affectionately called baby Hank, played happily together, along with a number of other Indian children and youngsters from the wagon train. “Children know no color barriers,” she observed.
Mary nodded in agreement. “They don’t seem to have much of a language problem, either. Look at Little Toady out there having the time of his life!”
Traveling south and west along the Raft River, the gala scene repeated itself nightly. The whites ate at their own wagons. The Indians put up their tipis, then the fun and games began. Races, stick games, and horseback challenges were part of the nightly ritual. One evening, much to the delight of the Shoshones, Henry and his father brought out their horns. Fascinated by the white man’s music, the Indians brought out their own drums and began to dance.
Soon everyone was caught up in the strange mixture of music and emotions – white men laughingly attempted the slow shuffled Indian dance; warriors tried their best to mimic the steps of the Virginia reel.
“I can’t remember ever having so much fun!” Ingrid panted, following a hectic dance.
Hanabi shot her a coy glance. “Not even with Major Crawford?”
Ingrid was unable to control her gasp of surprise. “Major Crawford? How do you know about Major Crawford?”
A merry twinkle played in Hanabi’s eyes. “I thought so. A handsome soldier does not look for a woman unless he loves her.”
An unsuspected warmth surged through Ingrid, bringing a bright flush to her cheeks. “Major Crawford is looking for me? Where?”
