Sarah's Heart

by Ginger Simpson

  Just a short time ago the scattered bits of tattered cloth and bones picked clean of flesh had been living, breathing people. She looked away from the foot only to spy other bodies that strangely remained intact, frozen in place by death. The rising sun must have sent the coyotes back to their dens before they finished their feast. God, how she wished she was somewhere else—anywhere else. Even with despicable Silas McCann. A scream of frustration, fear and helplessness bubbled deep in Sarah’s throat but she swallowed it and continued on.

  At shadowy outlines on the ground, she paused and glanced skyward, raising a shielding hand against the sun to investigate. Her stomach knotted at seeing buzzards circling overhead. But she knew it was inevitable. Her father had always referred to them as ‘death birds’ with the patience of Job. They lingered until their prey died or became so weak it could no longer struggle before swooping down to gorge on the remains. Sarah bit her lip and looked away. Maybe their presence was a blessing. At least she wouldn’t have to learn what rotting flesh smelled like. The odor of fresh blood alone sickened her.

  Seeking sanctuary from the ongoing horror, Sarah quickly crawled into the back of Mr. Simm’s wagon. After a minute to allow her eyes to adjust from the brightness outside, she took a deep breath. The interior smelled of the familiar pipe smoke that had followed the wagon master around. In her opinion, the crooked stem and carved bowl hanging from his lips had given him a distinguished air, and she warmed at the remembrance of his shared adventures around the campfire. Some were barely believable. He’d always cast a wink in her direction when he told a whopper, but despite his embellishments, he’d clearly led an interesting life. Although she barely knew the man, a pang of sadness tugged at her heart, knowing that he’d be spinning no more exciting yarns.

  His wagon was a mess of clothing, bedding, and empty crates left haphazardly tossed about. A pair of Mr. Simm’s long johns hung from a wooden peg on the wagon bow, appearing to be the one thing left undisturbed. A gentle breeze passed through the canopy, sending an unnerving ripple through the underwear and hackling the hair on the back of Sarah’s neck. She felt somewhat ridiculous at being frightened by a mere garment, but she yanked the unmentionable from its hanging place and tossed it aside.

  Remembering her mission, she knelt and crawled around the wagon floor, moving through the mess and searching every nook and cranny. The Indians had taken all the foodstuff, and there appeared to be no trace of anything that might cure Molly’s fever. They had even smashed the Captain’s lamp. Sarah had hoped to find a spare one. As a last resort, she could try some kerosene on Molly’s wound. Maybe it would help her as it had Sarah when she had the croup as a child. Her mother had mixed the lamp fuel with sugar and fed Sarah a spoonful. Her face pinched, recalling the awful taste.

  Abandoning her search there, Sarah moved on to the next wagon, and then the next. She paid little attention to how badly burned some were, taking great care to scour through anything that hadn’t been totally destroyed. Gazing down at her blackened hands, her despair grew. She bordered on defeat when her knee came to rest on a hard lump beneath a pillow in the Holstein’s wagon. Mr. Holstein’s gentle face flashed in Sarah’s mind. He reminded her in many ways of her father—tall, slim, and a gentle man of few words. Mr. Holstein had sold the livery stable he owned in St. Louis, and with his wife, Marjorie, traveled to California to mine for gold. His eyes had gleamed when he spoke of his prosperous destiny. It seemed to Sarah that most of the travelers on the wagon train had been stricken with the same affliction—that distinctive sparkle marking those seeking the elusive treasure, that glimmer of hope showing on their faces despite leaving family homes and loved ones behind. Sarah viewed it as greed rather than an adventure, but then she had left Missouri for an entirely different reason, and it had nothing to do with getting rich.

  Her mouth spread into a wide grin when she pulled a whiskey bottle, half-full, from beneath the bedding. Thank God for Mr. Holstein’s taste for the devil’s brew. At last, something positive amidst all the carnage. She scooted on her bottom across the wagon bed, dangled her feet over the end and scurried back to Molly. Sarah felt so excited, she paid no mind to the unpleasantness now.

  “Molly, I’m back.” Sarah began yelling before she even reached the wagon. The amber-colored liquid swished from one side of the bottle to the other as she ran.

  Hoisting herself up on the tailgate, Sarah swiveled around and crawled to Molly’s bedside. She held up the whiskey. “Look what I found.”

  Molly’s eyes were closed, her parched lips cracked and bleeding. For the moment, she lay still, but the flush of her skin showed that the fever still raged within her.

  Sarah feared it too late, but she knelt next to Molly, untied the binding cloth, and planned how to remain calm and rational. She took a deep breath. “Let’s get that bandage off and take care of your shoulder. Once you’re better, we’re going on a journey.”

  She tried to remain optimistic, but bile bubbled into her throat as she eyed the pus-oozing lesion. It was no wonder Molly was so sick. No telling what coated the arrowhead Sarah had pulled from Molly’s body, but hopefully the whiskey would help get rid of the deadly infection.

  Sarah held the bottle above Molly’s shoulder. “This is probably going to hurt like Hades, but I have to do this. Do you want something to bite on? Molly? Can you hear me, Molly?”

  There was no answer.

  With a disappointed sigh, Sarah used her free hand to swat a wisp of hair away from her mouth. She clutched the whiskey bottle, wondering again why God had picked her to be the one to live, the one to help Molly survive. Sarah wasn’t strong. Nothing in life had ever prepared her for something like this. Even when her parents were sick with the fever, the doctor and a neighbor lady came and took care of them until nothing more could be done. Had those folks felt this way? Helpless and scared? Sarah’s hands trembled as she grasped the bottle.

  Tipping the container, Sarah winced as the liquid trickled out onto Molly’s pale skin. Although her face screwed with pain, she didn’t make a sound, as if she just didn’t have the energy. At least Sarah noticed some reaction and felt encouraged. She allowed more whiskey to seep into the wound, and then doused a new piece of flannel with even more and pressed it against Molly’s shoulder. She retied the securing bandage, tucked the blankets beneath her friend’s chin and sat back on her haunches. It was up to God now.

  Any improvement would take time. She pulled her pillow closer to Molly’s pallet and leaned back against it, gazing at her patient’s face and hoping she enjoyed a peaceful slumber. She reached beneath the cover and grasped Molly’s hand. “Well, my friend. I’ve done everything I can do to help you. Now it’s up to you. You have to fight, Molly. Fight with every fiber of your being. I know this isn’t at all how you planned to start a new life, but we can share one together. You just have to want to get better. Gil would want you live, Molly. I know he would.”

  Sarah sighed again. She hadn’t even known Gil, other than what Molly had shared with her. The two lovers had met in St. Louis and moved to Independence to wait for the next wagon train. Gil had hopes of finding gold in California, but even if he didn’t, with his carpentry skills, he knew he could find a job building sluice boxes for the other miners. He and Molly had only been married for six months, but she already had babies on her mind, lots and lots of babies. Sarah glanced over at Molly, still a child herself, and remembered how her eyes sparked when she talked about having Gil’s children.

  “You know, Molly, you’ve at least had time with the man you loved. I’ve never had the honor. My family moved around so much, from one town to another, that I considered myself lucky to even find a beau.” Sarah stopped short of dredging up painful memories. “Ma used to say that Pa was born with his valise packed to move.” Sarah chuckled. “I thought for sure when we settled in Hannibal that things would change, that I might have a chance to make friends and have a social life, but as the only child, I spent all my time helping my parents to
get the farm going. Finally, Pa had found the land for which he searched. Of course that meant I had to pitch in. There were fields to be plowed, seeds to be planted, and cows to be milked…” She sighed. “Oh don’t get me wrong. I loved my parents, and I nearly died myself when they were taken from me, but I wish I could know the kind of love you shared with Gil. That’s why I know he would want you to fight to live.” Her gaze lingered on Molly’s face, and then moved to the slow rise and fall of her chest.

  Poor Molly, not only had she lost her husband, but her dream died with him. Sarah’s mouth pulled into a frown. At least Molly had had a dream. Sarah hadn’t looked any further than tomorrow when she joined the wagon train. She only knew she had to get away from Silas McCann.

  Lost in her feelings of hatred, Sarah heard footsteps outside the wagon. Her breath caught in her throat as images of painted faces and blood-curdling war cries replayed in her mind. Had the Indians returned? Sarah quickly got to her knees, leaned across her friend and whispered, “Molly, please, you have to be quiet. Don’t move.”

  Using her body, Sarah pinned Molly to the bed to keep her from stirring. For a fleeting moment Sarah worried she might injure the woman further, but realized one noise might make death imminent for both of them.

  The hackles on the back of Sarah’s neck rose as the distinct sounds of rifling grew louder in the camp. Wood splintered, dishes broke and strange voices spoke in an unknown tongue. Sarah’s heart beat so loudly she feared the intruders might hear it. She rose just long enough to lock her fingers around the butt of her father’s gun. Her mind spun.

  Afraid to move, Sarah tried to plan her actions. What would she do if the Indians came inside Molly’s wagon? They’d already gone through everything, what more could they want? It appeared her only chance for survival was to play dead, but how? Even a little movement might give her away. She had to do something, and quickly. The voices grew closer. The hair on her arms stood at attention.

  Something else seemed wrong. Molly hadn’t stirred for quite a while. Concern overcame Sarah’s immediate fear, and very slowly she moved her hand to Molly’s mouth, checking for breath. Her bow-shaped lips were slightly parted, but no air passed through them. Eyelids that had fluttered in fretful sleep were now eerily still. A silent scream rose in Sarah’s throat, but still hopeful, she inched ever so carefully down the girl’s body to press an ear against her chest. The only heartbeat Sarah heard was her own. Her accepting gaze rested on Molly’s peaceful face—once flushed with fever, it now appeared gray and lifeless. Sarah lifted her eyes toward heaven. Biting her lip until she tasted blood, she wondered if in a few minutes she might join her friend in death. A menacing shadow crossed the bonnet. Sarah took a huge gulp of air and held it. She was too afraid to breathe out.

  Chapter Four

  The voices outside grew louder and were close enough that Sarah knew they came from two men. She choked back tears, daring not risk even a sob for the loss of her friend. Sarah held fast to her pistol, even though it seemed her last resort since she had never actually fired it. It was one thing to hold a rifle and take all the time you needed to find your mark, but with the sidearm, she doubted she could hit the side of a barn. Even if she was fortunate enough to shoot one of the savages, the other would certainly overtake her. She feared there might even be more Indians in the camp, other than the two she heard, and discharging a weapon would draw their attention. Frantically, her gaze searched the wagon’s interior, looking for something—anything to crawl under.

  Sarah’s mind fixed on a desperate plot for survival when she focused on the arrow lying on the floor just a few feet away. It had landed just where she tossed it after pulling it from Molly’s shoulder. Would it be possible that the very thing that took her friend’s life could save Sarah’s?She inched forward and, with trembling fingers, grabbed the feathered dart.

  Glancing at Molly’s body, Sarah’s throat tightened with fear. No matter how awful things seemed, she wasn’t ready to die. She wasn’t sure what life had in store, but she wanted a chance to see. Clenching her teeth, she moved with the stealth of a mountain lion so as not to sway the wagon. She stretched out on her stomach alongside the pallet and Molly. Sarah hid the gun beneath her and tucked the arrow in her armpit so that the shaft stood tall in the air. Preparing to hold her breath, Sarah hoped her ploy gave the Indians the impression that she had already been mortally wounded. She held that arm still at her side to keep the arrow steady, and waited. Her mind flashed back to the horrid scene in the compound, and she gingerly fingered a long strand of her hair that had come lose from its binding. Would she end up scalped like most of the others? She winced at the image.

  Within moments, the tailgate dipped under the weight of a body. A chill ran through her, but she quietly inhaled and remained perfectly still. The distinct sound of the tarp rippling, the movement of the wagon bed, and shuffling feet close to her made it easier to hold her breath than she expected. Fear froze her inhalations. The hard, cold metal of the gun dug uncomfortably into her hipbone, but terror petrified her.

  From the location of the voices and a sudden sway to the front, she felt certain that one person searched inside and the other perched on the wagon tongue. She heard rifling noises from the driver’s box and angry words in that same strange dialect. Sarah prayed that the beads of sweat she felt forming on her forehead didn’t give her away. She took a tiny breath, struggling to keep her eyes shut, although she longed to take just a peek. Then the intruder stepped alarmingly close to her head, and she fought a shiver. God, please don’t let him see me breathing, she silently prayed.

  Sarah knew he searched through the wooden box just a few feet beyond her, the very one that had held the flannel and shears she’d used. From the soft things cascading onto her body, and heavier things thudding to the floor around her, she guessed he tossed things about. He seemed so close, Sarah smelled him—the musky scent of animal hides and sweat. She crinkled her nose in disgust.

  Against her common sense, she lifted her lids to mere slits but stared directly into a moccasin-clad foot which indicated he stood straddling her. She quickly closed her eyes and released an undetectable exhalation escape through her nose. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she felt the Indian’s heavy breath on the side of her face. Would this torture ever end?

  Stepping back, the brave landed firmly on her ankle. Sarah’s brain screamed in agony, but fearing death more, and despite the throbbing pain, she somehow managed to keep her face impassive and her body still. The intruder’s footfall moved away as he called out to his companion, the wagon swaying as he dismounted. Sarah released her pent up breath slowly and remained frozen in place.

  Finally, she could stand the pain no longer and dared move only slightly enough to dislodge the gun from poking her. She cocked an ear toward every noise, hoping for the sound of departing horses. Too afraid to move, she stayed where she was, wishing to hear the U.S. Calvary as they bugled their arrival. It wasn’t likely, but it didn’t keep her from hoping. One thing for sure, she couldn’t lay there and wait for the off chance they would come.

  Sarah hugged the floor until the sun shifted from one side of the wagon to the other. When the light had all but faded from the interior, she finally felt safe enough to move, but her stiff limbs were un-cooperative. Her face screwed with pain as she pushed herself up into a sitting position and massaged her foot. She found herself gazing directly upon Molly’s body.

  Anger whitened Sarah’s knuckles as she clutched the deadly arrow and cursed those who had killed such a beautiful young person. Tears she had earlier denied now ran down Sarah’s cheeks as she gave in to her grief and mourned her friend and the other innocent people now lying dead and cold. Guilt tore at her soul, knowing she had cheated death, not once, but twice. She questioned again why God had spared her and no one else. Maybe he had a plan for her.

  Her crying turned to sobs as she grasped the wooden shaft with two hands and snapped it in half. The crackling noise seemed al
most deafening in the silence. She shuddered as she curled herself into a ball. With Molly gone, now Sarah found herself truly alone. She cried herself to sleep.

  * * *

  Sarah awoke. It was morning and the wagon bonnet sparkled with sunlight, and the cheerful chirping of birds sounded outside in stark contrast to her mood. Feeling the hardness of the floor against her spine, she stiffly transferred her weight to her side, letting thoughts of yesterday wash over her. A feeling of dread expanded inside her chest. What was she to do now?

  Her throat hurt from having sobbed for such a long time, and her eyes felt gritty and sore. She felt certain they must be bloodshot. With curled fists, she wiped the sleep from them, keeping her gaze straight ahead and away from Molly. Although Sarah doubted she had anymore tears to shed, she dare not risk being overcome by emotions again.

  She couldn’t spend another night in this wagon or in the camp for that matter, but her mind reeled beneath the weight of her decision. There were only two choices—forging onward or going back. Despite longing to see the beautiful coast of California that she’d heard and read about, the safest and sanest thing to do was to retrace the path the wagon train had taken to this point. She had no idea what lay ahead, but she did know what was behind.

  Forcing herself, she took one last look at Molly’s angelic face, and the tears Sarah thought were spent clouded her eyes and drizzled down her cheeks. She steeled herself and pulled the blanket over Molly’s head and began gathering the things needed for the trip.

  Sarah picked up the remaining flannel squares from the floor where the Indian had thrown them and searched unsuccessfully for the shears. The intruder must have taken them along with the remaining whiskey. Her plan to be prepared for another emergency fell short. With a sigh, she glanced down at her soiled and torn dress and ran a hand through her disheveled hair.