by J. R. WRIGHT
There was another person, on occasion, that occupied her thoughts and kept her company during the quiet times after the girls were asleep for the night. He was a man from long ago, and it was almost as if he were a dream – a very good dream – and yet he was as clear in her memory as ever. He was the only man she would ever truly love. And even though he was dead, he was very much alive in her heart.
Breanne clung to her old Bible and read from it every night. It was the one she had taken from Preacher Pearson’s things after his death. The one he had used at her and Luke’s wedding. The cover was ragged, and the pages tattered and worn. Harry had given her a new one to replace it, but the new one was put on a shelf never to be opened.
“Why do you continue to read that old Bible when a new one awaits you on the shelf?” Harry asked once, which pretty much summed up her life.
The Methodist Board of Missions had asked that Harry move his wife and daughters to the rich farming community they had established in Oregon Country; however, Breanne would have no part of it. She had had all of the wilderness and savage Indians she could stand for one lifetime. Harry, whom she had told everything about her captivity before accepting his marriage proposal, understood. How she had remained sane, after being subjected to such torture, was beyond him to understand. Even so, she had coped and done her best to live a normal, outwardly respectable life. Inside, however, remained the torment she worked hard to shove aside in lieu of happier thoughts, all of which included one Luke Thomas McKinney.
Harry was off again, this time to the city for a few days. Rumor was that he would be appointed to the Board of Missions. If that should happen, he would no longer be expected to travel west unless he chose to do so. After all, he was getting to an age, a decade her senior, where life should be a little easier. Breanne, on the other hand, searched for more to occupy her already active life. With the girls in school, having their own activities, she had already doubled her duties at the school and recently taken on an extra function doing charitable work at night.
One evening at home, while writing letters to various people of wealth requesting contributions to the school, her mind wandered to Sarah Martin. She had been so kind in their brief acquaintance. Giving of herself in the dresses she had so professionally sewn for her, refusing pay for the labor involved. Even Harry was taken aback by her mysterious generosity.
Perhaps it was time she wrote, brought Sarah up to date on her life, as it was. How rude of her not to have done it before. She was sure the lady thought her ungrateful. The address was written inside the back cover of her Bible, and she went for it. Yes, there it was: Sarah Martin, c/o Sarah’s Fine Things, Independence, Missouri. Great! She pulled up a fresh piece of stationary and began.
Dear Sarah,
You may not remember me after all these years. You knew me as Breanne McKinney. My name is now Budd, and my husband Harry, you must remember him, insists I go by the first name Anne. I guess Breanne wasn’t biblical enough for him.
Harry and I were married thirteen years ago last July. We have two lovely daughters, Janie, twelve and Susie, ten. We are very happy and live in an attractive, but small house in Hanisville, a city in upstate New York State, not a great distance from New York City by train.
I felt after all this time that I must write and thank you again for all you did, Sarah: the beautiful dresses you labored so many hours on, the heartfelt kindness and the shoulder to cry on. I’ll never forget it. The white silk dress I still have. I’ve left instructions that I be buried in it, when the time comes.
As you must know, Luke was everything to me. Even though I still miss him, through your kindness and shared wisdom I was able to pull my life together and start over. Again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Harry has been great too. It is greatly because of his unwavering devotion that I have been able to endure and make something of this life I’ve been handed. It must have been God’s will that my early existence played out as it did. For what reason I have yet to grasp, but when the time comes, I’m sure it will be made clear to me. God works in mysterious ways, I’ve been told by Harry countless times.
I can honestly say that I am at last at peace with my life. Thank you so much, Sarah, for the part you played in that. Send me a line when you can. I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you, after all this time.
Please write!
With sincere love and gratitude,
Anne Budd
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A normal March in Independence, Missouri, was usually quite uneventful. The town of less than a thousand was, for the most part, left to the full time residents this time of year. Riverboats wouldn’t bring travelers again until the ice was gone from the Missouri in the spring. And overland migration always came to a halt with the first blizzard in the fall. This year, however, was different. Out on the prairie, five miles from town, a large group of soldiers was gathering, setting up camp and pitching their tents.
Luke first knew of their arrival when officers from the first group filled every available room in the hotel where he stayed. They roared into town of an evening, sounding very much like a stampede of buffalo pursued by howling Indians. It was happening, he knew. This was his first indication that General Harney surely was on his way.
Over the next few weeks, the group got larger and larger until the encampment was spread over an area of several square miles. Luke took to making the rounds of saloons at night in an effort to learn from the partying officers information on their numbers, as well as any orders they may have thus far received. Eventually, a well imbibed second lieutenant spilled the beans. The plan, of course, was to go after Little Thunder and his followers with the intent to annihilate them all as punishment for the Grattan Massacre, as it was called by newspapers in the east. Luke wanted so much to set the man straight on what really happened, but that wasn’t the reason for him being there.
As far as troops were concerned, Luke learned it was an assemblage of the 6th Infantry, the 10th Infantry, the 4th Artillery and the 2nd Dragoons. In all there would be four mounted companies under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Phillip St. George Cooke and five companies of infantry under the leadership of Major Albemarle Cady. Just the appearance of such a force moving along the Oregon Trail would be enough to ignite a full blown Indian war.
Having the information he needed, Luke revealed his plan to Sarah the following morning over breakfast. Knowing she would be disappointed to hear that he was leaving so soon, he was delicate in presenting the news to her.
“Sarah, you may not be pleased with what I’m about to say, but something has come up.” He felt her eyes on him from across the table. “I need to be gone for a few weeks.”
“That comes as no surprise. In case you don’t know it, you’re an open book, Luke McKinney,” she said, still glaring. “I’ve seen that wayward look in your eyes for weeks now. So where are you running off to this time?”
“I’m not running off, exactly. I have a duty fulfill…”
“Will you be moving out of that room over there, then? If you’re going to be gone anyway… They are in such demand now, with the soldiers in town, we’re getting triple our usual monthly rate.”
“I’m happy for your windfall.” He got up from the table. “I’ll move out today.”
“Oh, Luke, you promised!” She sprang to her feet and rushed to him.
“I did, but I didn’t expect this to happen so fast.”
“What?”
“I knew General Harney was coming, but I didn’t think he would gather enough troops to start an Indian war. I need to inform Colonel Snively what he’s up to. Little Thunder needs to know as well.”
“Will it be dangerous?”
“Not if I leave now, get the word out in advance. It takes time to move a few thousand Indians far enough to be out of harm’s way. It’s best it’s done before snow season is over. That way whatever trail they leave will be long gone before the advance army scouts arrive, come sp
ring.”
“Okay, go then. But if you don’t come back to me in a few weeks, I swear…!”
Luke put a stop to that with a lingering kiss, which was completely out of character for him, and a pleasant surprise to Sarah.
Within the hour Luke was aboard the calico mule and riding from town, leaving Sarah tearfully watching him go from her shop window. Once he could no longer be seen, she went to her bed in back and threw herself upon it. A wave of despair had come over her. She couldn’t seem to shake the notion she may never see him alive again.
When Luke reached Fort Kearny, he went directly to Colonel Henri Snively’s office. He was a month early, and the surprised look on Snively’s face gave testimony to that. “Harney has a thousand men gathered at Independence awaiting his arrival. Doesn’t anyone realize the uncertainty that will cause among the otherwise friendly tribes in these parts when he comes marching up the trail with that army?”
“I had no idea, Hill,” Snively said, rising to his feet. “I figured him to come with only the 2nd U.S. Dragoons. That’s his outfit. Why so many more, I wonder?”
“Well if you don’t know, how would I? It’s obvious that whole Grattan blunder has been blown out of proportion. There is even a company of artillery among them. I rode by their camps. They have forty cannon, for Christ’s sake. What in hell are they planning to do with those?”
“The new Indian Agent, a man named Twiss, is due in here come spring. This is something that will need to be brought to his attention. If Harney is of a mind to start a war, perhaps someone ought to know who may be able to put a stop to it. At least he has direct ties to Washington.”
“I’ll ride out to warn Little Thunder myself,” Luke said sternly. “And the other tribes on the plains will need to know what to expect as well.”
“I can’t authorize that, Tom. But nobody needs to know about it but you and me. In fact, you’re not even due in here till spring. Will that give you enough time?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll rest the mule and head out first thing in the morning.”
Luke found Little Thunder six days later, but not in Ash Hollow as he originally thought. He and his followers were scattered through the canyons adjacent to the Little Blue River. Luke must have ridden right past them on his way to the winter cabin last fall. But there was a blizzard occurring at the time. He could barely make out the trail as it was.
Near everyone stopped what they were doing to watch as he rode up to the edge of the village, climbed down from the mule, and began walking through it with purpose, as if he had an invitation for a parley with the chief. Most of these people, no doubt, had seen him around numerous times over the years and would recognize him as a friend. At least for now, he was comfortable in thinking that.
However, halfway through the large camp, things started to go bad. First it was kids dashing up and striking him with their coup sticks. Then an older boy ran in from the side, snatched the Hawken from its scabbard on the mule, and took off with it. Luke caught up with him in short order, tripped him up, and retrieved the gun. This stupid stunt, however, angered one of the elders, who just happened to have his bow handy, and he swiftly drove an arrow into Luke’s chest. A second arrow came from another an instant later. This one penetrated his right thigh, boring deeply into it.
Then, a gunshot sounded. It came from somewhere behind him. Luke, already crouched, whirled with the rifle, anxious to spot the person who had fired on him. But who he saw in the distance on a dead run toward him was Little Thunder. Red Cloud was at his side with a smoking rifle in his hand. He obviously had fired into the air to head off further attempts on the life of this person he knew as a friend. Too much damage had already been done.
“Son of a bitch!” Luke said, as Little Thunder ran past him, shouting threats in the Brule dialect to the advancing group.
“Go away! Look what you have done! This man is our friend! Go now! Go away to your lodges and pray I do not punish you for the evil things you have done!”
Luke was standing near breathless with his hands on his knees when Little Thunder returned to him moments later. Red Cloud, without warning, had yanked the arrow from his breast bone and was going for the one in his thigh when Luke pushed him away. He figured it would be much less painful if he wiggled it out himself, gently while still a bit numb from the ripping impact. Unfortunately, with swelling, the leg muscles refused to loosen their grasp on the flint arrowhead, completely buried in the thigh. He then whistled for the mule, and when he arrived, took a bottle of whisky and some clean rags from the saddlebag.
Little Thunder hovered over him, concerned as well. He spoke in signs, but Luke paid little attention, occupied with the removal of the arrow.
“Why you come?” Little Thunder finally said in what little English he could speak.
“You need to pull up stakes, my friend,” Luke groaned. “Get your people as far away from here as possible.”
“Why?”
“They’re coming, Little Thunder. General Harney. They mean business this time. Over a thousand bluecoats.”
“Harney!” Red Cloud injected and spit forcefully to the ground. Then, in a fit of anger, he reached in and yanked the arrow from Luke’s leg and broke it over his knee.
Fortunately, Luke had the rags between his teeth when he reactively chomped down hard from the excruciating pain. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” muffled through the rags as he fell to all fours. “Aaaaaahhhhhh. God damnit!” he said, spitting out the rags. Blood was now gushing from the wound.
“Cunks haho!” (Bring daughter to look at this.), Little Thunder demanded and flipped Luke to his backside, flat on the ground. He then slapped a hand over the hole in the buckskins over the thigh and applied pressure in an effort to stop the bleeding.
Luke rose up to a sitting position and braced his arms behind him, fists on the ground. The young Indian woman arrived and fell to her knees beside him. Then, once Little Thunder had made the hole in the buckskins larger, she silently went to work stitching the wound.
“How much time do we have to clear out?” Little Thunder signed.
Luke gathered the pint bottle of whisky from the ground, pulled the cork with his teeth, and poured some over the wound before taking a healthy belt. “Maybe not long. You will need to take your people far, or they will follow.”
“Are you telling me we must go to Canada?”
“That would be the best place. Harney will not follow you there,” Luke signed.
“Then I will tell my people they must go there as soon as they are ready to travel.”
“You’re not going with them?” Luke asked, bracing against the pain as Little Thunder’s daughter pinched the gaping wound together and needled in the stitches, using sinew for thread.
“I will remain with my warriors. Only the old, the unfit women and children will be made to go. Little Thunder will not run away like mouse in the prairie grass at the first sight of danger.”
“Then I’m afraid you and your warriors will die. They have many large cannons that can level a small village in one huge bang.”
“Then we will fool them.”
“How?”
“Red Cloud will come up with a plan. He is good at such things.”
Luke glanced around for Red Cloud and saw him surrounded by a group of young warriors. By the signs he could make out, Red Cloud was formulating a plan already.
Luke took another pull from the whisky. “How many warriors will remain here?”
“Maybe three hundred,” Little Thunder pounded his fists atop one another, and fanned his fluttering fingers skyward. “But they will fight like many times more.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Luke rode up to James Bordeaux’s store three days later, the exhausted mule having walked him there non-stop from Little Thunder’s camp on the Little Blue River. The leg had throbbed with pain the entire way. And, needless to say, he was anxious for some relief.
“Down!” he said to the trusty animal beneath him and stepped off, g
ood leg taking the weight as it hit the ground.
Bright Moon was first to see him. She came from the store at a run, looking remarkably thinner than when last Luke had seen her.
“Bright Moon have baby,” excitedly came from her mouth. “Name him after Chaska’s father. His name Kitala Tom (Little Tom) until he is older, then he will be Tom Too, Cola say.”
“Tom Too?” Even in light of the pain he suffered, Luke had to take serious note of what Bright Moon had just said. “How did you know…?”
“Chaska come!” she screamed with joy. “He stay till baby born. Then he go.” She dropped her head sorrowfully to express her disappointment in that regard.
Confused, Luke looked up to a smiling Cola as she came out onto the porch. “She has a beautiful baby boy, Tom. How does it feel to be a grandfather?”
Now he was confused. He’d only been made aware he was a father months ago. “Grandfather?” He limped away from the mule.
“You’re hurt!” Cola focused on the bloody bandage tied around his leg and the mass of dried blood on the chest portion of the buckskin shirt. She stepped off the porch to give him a hand inside.
“Chaska father going to die?” Bright Moon said as she hurried to support Luke’s weight on his right side, following Cola’s lead. “Chaska father no die, Cola will fix, yes?”
“Yes honey. Cola will fix. You needn’t worry yourself about that,” Cola said. “What happened, Tom?”
“It was an accident – just a silly accident. I should have known better…” he said, skipping along between the two of them.
“You shot yourself – twice?” Cola remarked.
“Not exactly,” Luke returned. “It was arrows. Some kid took my rifle and I chased after him. Big mistake…”
“There’s an extra bedroom in back,” Cola said. “We’ll put you up here until you can walk again.”
“I don’t have time for that,” Luke said. “I’ve got a passel of traveling to do before spring. I could do with some rest, though, and some whiskey for the pain.”
