“Yes, my da’s a farmer. He wants to claim a half-section. He says the land is rich and fertile in Oregon.”
“That’s what I hear,” Ezra replied. They both turned at the sound of someone approaching. A young willowy woman walked up carrying a small baby swaddled in a blanket. She carefully lowered herself to the grass next to Ezra and put the baby in his lap.
“Ah! Here’s my hired hand. As you can see, Conor, he’s not quite up to the task yet.”
Conor looked at the small baby and laughed.
“Your son is fed, dry, and ready for his mid-day nap,” the woman said in a melodic voice. The chubby baby gazed up at his father and cooed contentedly from his blanket.
Conor looked at Ezra’s wife. She was a delicately beautiful woman. Her heart-shaped face was framed by auburn hair pulled back into a loose braid. Light smiling eyes regarded him, and her cheeks dimpled when Ezra leaned over and kissed her forehead affectionately.
“Conor, this is my wife Eliza Jane, and my son, Marion,” Ezra said. “Conor helped me water the oxen,” he explained to Eliza Jane as he played with the infant.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“It’s my pleasure, Conor,” Eliza Jane replied with a sweet smile. “Will you stay and have lunch with us?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I have to get back to my family. My da needs my help,” Conor said, glancing at Ezra.
“Yes, Conor’s a big help,” Ezra said. He leaned over and tickled the baby’s stomach. “Someday you’ll be a help to me like Conor is to his father.” The baby gurgled and grabbed Ezra’s finger. Conor blushed with the praise.
“I have something to send with you for your family,” Eliza Jane said.
Conor carried the pie to his camp where his family was eating their mid-day meal. Apple pie was an unusual item to find on the trail. They hadn’t had anything so grand since they left Missouri. They all exclaimed over the rare treat, and Conor described the Meeker family’s hospitality as he ate his bread and bacon and drank his tea.
“Ezra said he could use my help from time to time,” Conor said, holding his breath and looking at his da.
Michael Flannigan regarded his son. “As long as your chores are done, there’s nothing wrong with helping a neighbor. I’m sure Mr. Meeker could use your help. You’re a good hand.” Conor let his breath out and smiled appreciatively at his da. A moment later he bowed his head, and his face reddened. “I’m sorry about leaving you with the chores. You’re right—I need to learn patience.”
Michael Flannigan let out a sigh and roughly tousled his son’s dark hair.
“I could use a little of that meself,” he said roughly. They all laughed as Conor’s mother cut the pie and served it up.
That night in front of Independence Rock, Reverend Mueller led the travelers in a prayer. Afterwards he talked about the journey and the triumphs and losses they had had, and about how important it was for everyone to help each other. Conor listened as the reverend spoke of each person being a pioneer and making a mark on the world.
“Each of you is leaving a legacy for those who will follow. Each of you, through your actions and your words, are creating a small part of a larger history. Make sure your part matters.”
Then, in celebration of Independence Day, they sang patriotic songs around the campfire. There was dancing to fiddle music and merrymaking long into the night. Many of the women had made special treats that were shared around the fire. Many of the men toasted the union with their tin cups full of whiskey. The wagon train would stay here another day so the travelers could rest. The men would make repairs, and the women would catch up on baking and laundry.
Conor sat atop the huge turtle-shaped rock that fur traders had named Independence Rock. It was over 125 feet high, and it had been a strenuous climb. The view from the top of the nearly two thousand-foot-long rock formation was spectacular. The full moon illuminated the scene below. The Sweetwater River was a silvery highway disappearing into the western horizon. He looked down at the camp and at all the people dancing and singing. Everyone was in high spirits. He ran his hand over an inscription carved into the rock. It was one of hundreds—maybe thousands.
“Jack Carson 1849”
So many had already passed by here on their way west. So many had left their marks on this rock. It was somehow comforting to him to see the evidence of those who had followed their dreams. He felt like he was their witness—like it was important for him to see their marks on this rock. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of the starry sky and with this journey.
These people who had gone before—they had faith that they would make it, Conor mused. They carved their names into this rock so that we would see the inscriptions and know that we aren’t alone—that others have gone before and have done what we are doing.
It was still a long way to Oregon. Conor thought about all he had learned since leaving Missouri. What was in store for him in the months ahead? He thought of his family. He felt responsible for them—for their safety and well-being. Today he had acted like a child. He knew that whatever happened, he wouldn’t storm off again. He had learned a lesson and made new friends, and he felt older and wiser.
He took his knife out of his pocket. He would leave his mark alongside those left by others. He would carve his name into this rock, and future travelers would see it and have faith that they, too, would finish their journey. He bent over the rock and dug the blade into the granite. A little bit of hope—that’s what he would leave behind. A little hope that someone who would see his name would know that it was possible to travel two thousand miles across unknown country to a better life. A little hope that it could be done because others had gone before and had done it. He carefully scratched his name into the rock. Just a little hope—that would be his legacy.
Ben And The Indians
Chapter Eleven
July 6, 1852
“I’ll replace this rim, Mr. Douglas. It’s not usable now.” Ben Hansson was surveying the damage and calculating how long it would take to fix the wheel. The hoop iron that went around the wheel was broken, and the wooden wheel wouldn’t last long without it.
The wagon train had moved ahead without them, and Ben had stayed behind to help Mr. Douglas. He was annoyed that Mr. Douglas had waited until the last minute to mention the broken rim. The other wagons had been readied for departure, and Ben had volunteered to stay behind to help out.
Mr. Douglas’s bleary red-rimmed eyes surveyed him. “I appreciate it, Ben. In all the celebration I forgot to take care of it.”
Ben looked at him askance. Mr. Douglas had been celebrating since they made camp at Independence Rock. He had seen him numerous times stumbling around camp with his tin cup in one hand and his whiskey bottle in the other. Ben bit his tongue. Mr. Douglas enjoyed his whiskey. He was traveling alone, but he always had a friend or two join him for a drink in the evening after camp was made. Ben wondered how many bottles of whiskey he had brought with him.
“Well, your wagon isn’t going anywhere with this broken hoop iron, Mr. Douglas.”
It took a couple of hours to repair the wheel and a few more wagon parts that needed fixing, and Ben was just finishing up when they saw the Indians approaching. There were seven of them advancing at a gallop with their bows drawn. Terrible whoops and aggressive gestures indicated their displeasure. Some of them had guns.
“They don’t look too happy, Ben,” Mr. Douglas said nervously.
Ben had already surmised this and reached for his gun. Mr. Douglas had his gun drawn. When the Indians rode up on their horses and noticed the guns, they lowered their bows, dismounted, and extended their hands.
“Shake their hands, Mr. Douglas, and then get on the wagon and let’s get out of here,” Ben said under his breath.
They shook the hands of all the Indians, and Ben mounted his horse while Mr. Douglas climbed up into the seat of the wagon. Before he could encourage the oxen to move, however, an Indian grabbed the yoke of one of
the beasts, preventing all of them from moving forward. Another Indian climbed on the wheel, grabbed Mr. Douglas, and pulled him from the wagon. Before Ben could do anything, an Indian grabbed the bridle of his horse, and Ben was forced to dismount.
“Don’t do anything hasty, Mr. Douglas. There’s more company coming,” said Ben desperately as he watched another hundred or so Indians riding towards them.
One of the Indians seized their guns and made Ben and Mr. Douglas sit on the ground. Four of them guarded the prisoners as the large group of Indians arrived and dismounted. A few of the younger Indians began a sport of running past Ben and Mr. Douglas and hitting them with their bows or arrows.
“I don’t like the looks of this, Ben. What do you think they have in mind?” Mr. Douglas queried breathlessly as another brave ran past and hit him on the back of the head with his bow.
There seemed to be a difference of opinion among the Indians, who were arguing animatedly and looking at their captives. Ben surmised that the argument was about what to do with him and Mr. Douglas. Meanwhile, some of the Indians were unloading the wagon. All of the dry goods were passed around; the pots and pans, tools, food, clothing—everything was taken out of the wagon. When the picture of his mother was handed around, Mr. Douglas jumped to his feet.
“Hey! That’s my property!” he yelled. He was rewarded with a blow to the head from the butt of a rifle. He hit the dirt hard and moaned softly.
“Keep quiet, Mr. Douglas. Don’t rile them any more than they already are.” But Mr. Douglas was very quiet, and his head was bleeding where he had been hit with the rifle. Ben nervously looked at the hostile faces.
Just then, an elderly gray-haired Indian came forward and stopped the arguing. He appeared to be in charge, and he was accompanied by a slight young man who looked to be about Ben’s age, and who Ben figured was a mixed-blood Indian. The two men came towards the prisoners. Ben extended his hand to the chief.
“How do you do?”
The chief took his hand readily and said something in the Indian language. Then Ben looked at the younger man.
“How do you do?” he asked, extending his hand again. The little man took Ben’s hand and said in accented English, “How do you do?” He was short and thin, and he wore a black wide brimmed hat over his close-cropped black hair. Dark shrewd eyes with a hint of humor surveyed Ben.
“Do you speak English?”
“Oui, Yes. I am John LePointe. My father was Canadian and trapped game and traded with the Indians.”
“Mr. LePointe, would you tell the chief that I would like to talk to everyone?” Ben was taking a gamble that he hoped would pay off. Mr. Douglas sat up and held a bandana to his bleeding head. The little man addressed the chief in the Indian language. The chief looked at Ben and then nodded. He spoke loudly to all of the braves, and soon all were seated in a vast semi-circle around Ben, Mr. Douglas, the chief, and John LePointe. Ben stood up next to the chief.
“We are from the United States,” he began. “We have been sent by our great father to the great waters—the Pacific—where we shall settle with our families and remain.”
The little man translated to the chief and the braves sitting in the circle.
“We are friendly with all the red men and we wish to treat you kindly. It was reported to us by some Canadians at Fort Laramie that a story has spread that we are going to join with your enemy, the Blackfeet. This is a lie!”
Ben knew he had hit on the truth when the Indians looked to one another and murmured.
“We are traveling with our women and children. If we were going to make war with you, we would not have them with us. Like you, we do not bring our women and children in our war parties.” Some of the Indians nodded at this.
“I invite you to come with us to our wagons where we will welcome you and trade with you and give you gifts.”
After John LePoint translated, the chief addressed the group for a few minutes. One brave angrily said something and the chief rebuked him harshly. Then he appeared to issue an order. All of the Indians got up and mounted their horses. Ben was given his horse and his gun, and Mr. Douglas was permitted to get onto his wagon. The whole party proceeded in the direction of the wagon train. Ben, the chief, and most of the braves rode ahead while Mr. Douglas and a few Indians proceeded more slowly at the pace of the oxen.
It was evening when Ben spotted the wagon train circled by the river. As they drew nearer, he saw that the travelers were looking their way and milling about in an agitated manner.
“It would be best if your men waited here,” Ben said to the chief, nodding to John LePoint to translate. “My friends do not understand why you are here. They may fire on you if all of your men try to come into camp.”
The chief looked at the confusion in the camp and then at Ben. He said something to John.
“The chief says he will take six men with him. The rest will wait here.”
“Good,” Ben said with a look of relief on his face. He could only imagine what everyone would do if he brought a hundred Indians into the camp.
The chief quickly chose six braves and the small group extricated themselves from the others and rode slowly towards the wagons with Ben in the lead. Captain Wyatt rode out to meet them halfway.
“What’s this all about, Ben?” he queried, looking from Ben to the chief, to the small mixed blood man.
“It seems these Indians thought we were in league with their enemy, the Blackfeet. Before they had a chance to take our scalps, I was able to persuade the chief that we are friendly and mean them no harm.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Cap’n, this is John LePointe. He speaks English, and he translated for me.” The captain looked at the little man, and a slow smile spread over his face.
“Well, I’ll be! I never thought I’d see the likes of you again. You’ve grown a bit!” He moved his horse next to the younger man’s and they shook hands enthusiastically.
“Ah, Captain, we meet again, my friend!”
“The last time I saw you, you were half drowned at Three Island Crossing.”
“Yes, my father thought I could swim. He discovered I couldn’t.” Captain Wyatt laughed heartily and LePointe smiled. Captain Wyatt turned to Ben.
“I met John four years ago at Fort Laramie. I was leading a group west and he and his father were trading with the settlers. They traveled with us to Three Island Crossing. They were very helpful in communicating with the Indians and they assisted us in crossing the river.” He looked at John LePointe. “Is your father with you?”
“Sadly, my father was killed in a hunting accident two years ago. I live with Chief Lone Bull, my mother’s uncle,” he said, indicating the chief.
“I’m sorry to hear about your father, John. He was a good man.”
John made the introductions in the native language, and Captain Wyatt shook hands with the Chief. “Chief Lone Bull was invited to your camp by this man,” John said, indicating Ben. “We were promised a warm welcome and gifts.”
Captain Wyatt looked solemnly at Ben. Both he and Ben knew it would be a sacrifice for the travelers to have to let go of anything. “Of course! Just make sure the others keep their distance,” Captain Wyatt said, looking at the large group half a mile away.
“They will remain where they are as long as everything is peaceful, Captain.”
“Tell your chief that it is my honor to invite him to smoke with us. We have gifts for him and his men.”
John translated to the chief, and the small party made their way to the wagons.
The Indians and the settlers sat around the campfire, and a pipe was passed around many times. Mr. Douglas had his wound tended to, and he sat quietly in the circle. Ben sat with Brenna, who seemed very happy that he had returned safely. She had insisted he tell her the whole story twice, and she marveled at his bravery. Occasionally they heard whoops and gunshots from the Indian camp, but John LePointe assured everyone there was nothing to worry about. The women broug
ht food and drink to the Indians who seemed to enjoy the fare very much. Someone played the fiddle, which amazed the braves. They looked at it, inside of it, and at the strange bow, wondering how the sound was made. The musician allowed some of them to try it, and their efforts were greeted with loud laughter from everyone. Then gifts of food, clothing, and a few trinkets from various wagons were brought out for the chief’s inspection. Someone donated a mirror, and all of the braves took turns looking at their reflections. Mary brought a cornhusk doll. The chief smiled at her and nodded his approval.
Captain Wyatt spoke to John LePointe.
“Tell Chief Lone Bull that Mr. Douglas’s property must be returned. He is not a wealthy man, and that is all he has in the world.”
John translated to the chief, who agreed to the condition.
“Chief Lone Bull will make sure everything is returned in the morning,” said John.
Sometime later, the Indians left the camp and returned to the larger group a short distance away. They had enjoyed the evening immensely, and they were happy with the trades they had made and their gifts. Before they left, Captain Wyatt said goodbye.
“John, it was good to see you. I hope we meet up again someday. Please tell Chief Lone Bull that it was an honor to have his company.”
“Farewell, my friend. I’m glad our meeting ended happily.”
In the morning, when the contents of Mr. Douglas’s wagon were returned, Mr. Douglas vehemently expressed his unhappiness. Half of his supplies were missing, and all of the whiskey was gone. Judging by the subdued state of the Indian party, it had been consumed the night before.
“You can thank your stars you got half of your supplies back,” Captain Wyatt said tersely. “Next time pay attention to your wagon instead of to your whiskey.” Then he turned on his heel and left Mr. Douglas staring at his back.
At the Flannigan camp Conor was quiet. They had passed many graves, most unmarked, but one of them near their camp had caught Conor’s attention. The crude wooden marker read, “Alva Unthank.”
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