by Risner, Fay
“Why would anyone not like y'all. I just met you. I like you already,” Sarie Lee said.
“Thank you, dear. There's a history between me and these women. They have known me for years, and they aren't about to change their opinion now. Main thing is I wouldn't bow to Florence. I have a friend back home that says Florence reminds her of a vulture, ready to pounce on her prey.”
Sarie Lee studied the stern face woman marching their way. “That sounds right from the looks of her. Much oblige for filling me in. How come y'all don't talk funny?”
“My husband and the others came from Sweden and settled in Minnesota. My family moved there from Illinois.”
After sign up, Wilbur and Anselm talked to their wives. Anselm sounded as if the trip was going to be a cake walk. “Dat four months vill go by fast enough. You vill see, Miranda. With any luck, ve should be in de valley by late September.
De trip iss around twenty-two hundred miles long. Clarence says we vill haf plenty of time to help each other put up cabins and a meeting house before snow comes if we all work at it together.”
Miranda had never been more than twenty miles from home when they went to Redwing. Anselm went by that two thousand miles plus so fast like it was a short trip. Thinking about the miles she'd have to travel in the wagon over rough ground made her anxious. To her it seemed like a mind boggling feat.
She was ready to changer her mind, but she saw no way out of this trip now that they had sold the farm and traveled this far. No doubt other pregnant women had made the trip and endured the hardships.
She just hoped this one time Clarence and the wagon master knew what they were talking about. At that rate once they got to Willamette Valley, she'd still have close to two months before the baby came to get settled in a warm house.
Chapter 6
The jaunt to Fort Kearney turned into a long six weeks. At first, the trail was ground packed hard by other wagon trains. They made fifteen miles a day from dawn to dusk which was good for oxen.
The land as far as Miranda could see was thick blue stem switch grass, waist high to her. Here and there was a bush of some sort and scrub trees. Such different scenery from Minnesota with all its lakes and timbers.
When Anselm rode his horse, Miranda drove. It wasn't hard to keep the oxen in line with the Mast wagon in front of her. The oxen just plodded along after the other wagons.
One evening, there was a gentle spring rain all night. Anselm suggested they bed down in the wagon. He didn't want Miranda to get a chill from sleeping in damp bedding.
Anselm made his pallet on the floor, and Miranda slept on her coffin. She'd been right to think she'd be so tired she wouldn't concern herself about what was her bed. The soft patter of rain drops on the canvas lulled both of them to sleep.
When the rifle shot woke them the next morning, the sky was overcast, but the air was cool and sweet. The rain was enough to settled the dust that had choked them for days.
The cheerful singing of meadowlarks, blackbirds and sparrows mingled together with whippoorwills at dawn while Miranda started breakfast. She listened to the cheerful bird songs and missed her home.
After the ground dried out, Miranda wore one of Anselm's kerchiefs over her nose and mouth. The wagons ahead of them pulverized the soil into fine dust. The strong wind kicked up the dust and blew it around the wagons. The air was so thick Miranda found it hard to breathe even with her nose covered.
When the train came to the Platte River, the wagons stayed close to the muddy water, knowing that would lead them to the fort.
Anselm and some other men hunted often, bringing in ducks and geese. Anselm shot more game than Miranda and he could eat so he shared with the other families in the wagons nearest them.
Water birds sailed over the train in large flocks, headed for the river. Whooping cranes deserved their names by loudly announcing their flight path. Majestic eagles soared over head along with red tail hawks and other birds Miranda couldn't identify. They landed in the cottonwood groves along the river.
One sultry day, black clouds rolled toward the wagon train from the west. Miranda listened to loud rumbles of thunder. As the thick clouds shut out the sun, the wagon master came racing by to let them know the train was stopping for the night.
Miranda didn't think it was time to stop. The storm's darkness just made it seem that way. She imagined Mr. Coopersmith saw how threatening the sky looked and wanted to wait it out. Even she could tell they were in for a soaker.
It was always a slow go to make a large circle with that many wagons. While Anselm and Miranda waited for their turn to stop be-hind the Mast wagon, lightening streaked violently across the sky from several directions. The thunder's rumble caused an awful vibration to shudder the wagon. The hair on the oxen backs actually stood up. Thunder storms scared Miranda, and she'd never seen one so peculiar and violent.
Anselm and Miranda slept in their wagon that night, listening to the hard rain pound the canvas. The motion of the roaring wind shook the wagon. That movement reminded Miranda her boat ride on the Mississippi River.
She flinched as sharp forked lightning lit up the wagon's interior. Knowing what was next, she steeled herself for each deafening boom of lightning. Never had she been in such a terrible thunder storm as that one in Kansas. She hope that kind of storm didn't happened where they were going to live.
The next morning, the storm was still as strong as when they went to bed. Miranda handed Anselm three cold biscuits out of the larder. There was no way she could start a fire to cook breakfast.
Before the wagons moved, Miranda unpacked two black rain slickers and gave one to Anselm. The slickers helped protect their clothing, but the pelting rain stung their faces and hands as the oxen plodded along.
Anselm glanced at Miranda. Her drenched bonnet bill droop heavily over her eyes. She visibly shivered. “You need to get in de wagon. Cover up vit bedding until dis rain lets up. You vill get sick if you stay here vit me.”
“Maybe you're right. I'm chilled to the bone,” Miranda agreed as she climbed over the seat. She chose to sit on the pile of bedding stacked on a crate of kettles rather than sit on the coffin.
The train traveled through the morning in rain until they left the storm behind. By that time, there was a foot of water on the ground that couldn't soaked away fast enough. The laggardly oxen had trouble moving the wagon through the deep ruts. The mud sucked up around the wheel spokes to slow their travel.
Anselm twisted to look in the wagon. “De storm is over. You feel all right?”
“Yes, much better now that I'm warm and dried off,” Miranda said.
“De sun is shining. It might do you good to come back out here and warm up,” Anselm surmised.
“I'd like that. It's no fun sitting in here where I can't see the country side,” Miranda said, climbing over the seat.
She lifted her face to the sun and pleasured in its warmth. It was good to finally have sunlight as the wagon labored through the muddy ruts.
The only solace she saw from that horrible storm was the rainbow from God that glowed so colorfully above them. She recited in her head the verse from Genesis 9:13. I do set my rainbow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth.
When the train neared the fort, the wagon train master rode along the line to announce the fort was ahead of them. The wagons need-ed to follow him to a spot on Plum Creek to camp.
As they passed the fort, the sight of wooden buildings surrounding a central parade ground surprised Miranda. The whole fort was out in the open. She'd expected fortified log walls around the buildings to keep everyone at the fort safe as she supposed all forts had. She remarked about it to Anselm.
He explained, “De fort vas set up as a supply depot and message center for travelers so no need for walls. Coopersmith said dey rarely haf any trouble vit Indians.”
As they poked along in the circle the wagons made near the creek, Miranda pointed with a shaky finger at a cluster of w
ooden crosses. “What could have happened to those poor folks?”
“I do not know. Sickness comes easy to some I haf heard,” Anselm replied solemnly.
Coopersmith planned to spend two days at the fort to rest the oxen and people. That afternoon, Miranda walked along with Anselm to the trading post. He bartered for flour, sugar and canned goods to replace what they had used.
Anselm bought a good supply of shells. He hoped that would do for the next leg of the trip. After all, he was a good hunter so with any luck they should have enough fresh meat to eat along the way.
The clerk shared they would have one more supply post at Fort Hall, Idaho before they reached Oregon. “You best stock up good there cause I hear Portland has raised the price of flour from fifteen dollars a hundred weight to hundred dollars.”
Miranda said sternly, “We're going to Oregon, motivated by hard times where we came from and with a promise by the government of better times. How does price gouging help make things better for us?”
The clerk turned red and didn't offer a comment.
“Ve dank you for de information, Mister. We vill heed vat you say and make sure to buy plenty of flour to make due,” Anselm said, ignoring Miranda's complaint.
“I'm sorry to sound so cross, Sir,” Miranda apologized.
“That's fine ma'am. I expect you're tired out from the trip is all,” the clerk replied.
“Yes, I am. Tell me something. We noticed several wooden crosses when we camped by Plum Creek. What happened to those people?” Miranda asked the clerk.
The clerk grimaced. “A stray Indian attack on stragglers that didn't stay with the train they started out with. The Indians killed and scalped twelve men. They took off with two women. The troops went after them and got the women back.”
“That's good,” Miranda said. She raised an eyebrow at Anselm as she said to the clerk, “But I thought the Indians rarely raid anymore in this area.”
The clerk shrugged. “They never bother the fort cause there's too many soldiers here. But heed those poor travelers' bad luck and just stay with your wagon train. There's safety in numbers. That way you will be fine.
Farther west, you might run into raiding Shoshone. They steal from everyone, including other Indian tribes. Mostly, they like to catch wagons that decided to go it on their own. Easy to take advantage of folks when there's just a few men fighting them.”
“Ve vill heed dat advice,” Anselm said.
“I hear tell Oregon is the land of milk and honey. I expect you will like it's just fine and dandy to live there,” the clerk said to Miranda to encourage her. He added to Anselm, “This country is filling up fast. By this time next year, the railroad tracks will be connected all the way to the west coast. People won't have to travel in wagon trains after that. They can ride in comfort in a train car and get where they're going faster. Ain't that something?”
Anselm nodded agreement as he felt Miranda tense at his side. He gripped her elbow and headed her for the door, before she could make another snappy reply.
As Miranda helped Anselm carry the supplies to their wagon, she mulled over what the clerk said. His news didn't help her disposition. It only made her wondered why they couldn't have waited one more year. The baby would be a toddler by then. Maybe the trip would have been easier on her.
The middle of July the train came upon two burnt wagons. It hadn't happened too long before they arrived. Small gray plumes of smoke still hovered in the air. The only items recognizable were the blackened iron bed frames and wooden wheel rims. A thick array of arrows pierced the ground around the spot.
The wagon master halted the train back from the site until the scout looked around. Anselm's wagon was so far away Miranda had to squint and focus hard to pick out the scout walking around the burning wagons.
The wagon master rode along the train to tell everyone the arrows belonged to Shoshone. The scout found four bodies near the two wagons, burnt and scalped. He wanted men for a burial detail. With a grim face, Anselm climbed off the wagon and went to the back to get his shovel.
The wagon master said to stay on guard until they away from that place. Usually, the Indians didn't attack a large train so he wasn't too worried. He just wanted to take every precaution. If an attack happened, he reminded everyone they should to start forming the wagons into a circle right away.
The burials didn't take long with so much man power. Preacher Claymore read briefly from his bible. Once the men were back aboard their wagons, the wagon master blew his bugle and waved for them to roll.
Chapter 7
Later in the afternoon, Miranda relaxed and breathed easier. It looked like they would make it without an Indian attack. They stopped for the night and readied the camp.
While Miranda built the fire, she heard an owl, perched in the grove of trees on the far side of the train. Another owl hooted near her wagon. As she added sticks to her cook fire, she wondered why the owls didn't wait until dark to call.
From bushes came the call of a meadow lark. Miranda enjoyed the bird's flute song, but something was strange about the tooo weet tooo tee deloo. When the meadow lark was answered by a similar tune, she tensed and looked across the circle. None of the other women noticed the birds. They were too busy preparing supper.
Worse yet came the song of mourning doves that had the cadence of hoot owls. That was a red flag to Miranda. She untied the chicken crate and walked to the wagon tongue to sit the crate in grass. The chickens needed to eat. After being crated so long, the hens had stopped laying. She placed the crate in the grass and shaded her eyes with her hand to searched the surrounding scenery.
She didn't like how quiet the timber was except for those strange birds calls. Miranda panicked at the thought there might be Indians lurking behind the nearby trees and bushes. She wheeled around and ran to find Anselm just as an arrow plunked into the Bjornson wagon seat three wagons away.
Birgit Bjornson screamed, “Indians!”
Men scrambled for their rifles while the women gathered up the children and huddle in the middle of camp. Arrows whizzed into the circle, plunking into wagons and the ground.
Savages, wearing nothing but face paint and breech cloths, rushed from the trees, screaming their attack. The men fired. Miranda saw a few Indians fall, but the rest kept coming.
Florian Bjornson squalled in agony and clutched his chest as an arrow sank into his body and came through his shoulder blade, driving him backward. He landed hard on the ground, pushing the arrow tip into the earth. By the time, Birgit, crying hysterically, knelt beside him, her husband had passed out which was a blessing.
Miranda ran to help Florian and comfort Birgit. She had to pull the woman off his body. “Let me help him, Birgit.”
The woman straightened up so Miranda could see Florian's wound. She stuffed a piece of cloth around the arrow shaft to stanch the bleeding from the front side.
Miranda patted Birgit's hand. “Just comfort him until this is over. The men will know what to do to get the arrow out of Florian.”
“Dank you,” Birgit said through trembling lips.
Miranda waited with Brigit for the fighting to stop, patting the woman's shoulder to keep her calm.
It didn't take long for the Indians to realize they were out numbered and out gunned. They retreated into the underbrush, mounted their paint ponies and raced away.
A few of the men were nicked by arrows. The worse injury was Florian Bjornson. He was bleeding badly from the look of the dark red pool seeping out from under him.
Some of the men gathered around. Coopersmith saw blood stained the front of Birgit's dress. “Ma'am, you get hit too?”
“Na, but please help my husband,” she pleaded.
Wilbur Mast went to his wagon for a bottle of whiskey to disinfect a knife. Another lifted the man's shoulder off the ground to bring the arrow out of the soil. They held the limp man up while Coopersmith cut off the arrow tip and jerked out the shaft.
One steady pull on the shaft fre
ed the arrow from Florian's shoulder. Miranda couldn't bear to watch. She was so thankful Florian remain-ed out cold until that part was over.
When men picked up the limp man, a trail of blood splatters followed them. By then, Birgit had a pallet made for him in the wagon bed. She packed the wound with bandages. Now all they could do was wait to see if the man lived through the night.
Wagon master Coopersmith put on extra guards that night to protect the train and the cattle. He was afraid the Indians might sneak back in the dark and scatter the herd. To everyone's relief that didn't happen.
The next morning, Anselm hitched the Bjornson oxen to their wagon and drove so Florian's wife could tend to her husband. Sarie Lee rode with them to help with Florian. Miranda had to drive her wagon, but she offered to stay through the night with Florian so Birgit could get some rest.
As Miranda drove away from camp, she noted the dead savages' bronze bodies, dressed only in loin cloths and war paint, sprawled on the ground. She closed her eyes and prayed a prayer of thanks to God for letting the men triumph over the Indians.
What was it her mother used to say. Expect to live forever but prepare to die tomorrow. She expected those Indians lived that way. She'd feared during the attack while she sat out in the the open with Brigit and Florian, with all the arrows flying, she might not see morning. If she'd died from an Indian arrow, she'd preferred that over being taken captive.
After a week of around the clock care, Brigit told Miranda and Sarie Lee Florian was mended enough they wouldn't have to help anymore. She gave each woman a hug and thanked them for all they did. Two weeks later, he was driving his wagon again.
One morning just before the wagons forded the South Platte River, Miranda was so worn out she didn't wake up when everyone else did.
A shower went through about bedtime the night before so the ground was damp. They had spent the night in the wagon. Anselm was able to slip out of the wagon, make a fire and cook coffee. He ate two cold biscuits from the larder, before he hitched up the team.
