Sarah's Heart

by Ginger Simpson

  The braves had left behind most of the clothing in the Morgan wagon, so Sarah considered which of Molly’s cotton frocks to take. Picking up a pair of Gil’s britches, she pondered her trek. Maybe it would be smarter to dress like a man. It would certainly be easier to travel without having to constantly hike up a skirt and petticoat. Her shoes were sensible enough, and she remembered the extra hat she’d seen in the captain’s wagon. Maybe it was still there.

  She’d have to travel light, packing her valise with only essentials. Now that she’d decided to leave, she was anxious to get started—to put all this behind her—if she ever could. Shedding all but her chemise and pantalets, she wriggled into a pair of trousers and donned a green and white checkered shirt. Her trim form swam in the trousers, but with a couple of rolls, the shirt sleeves didn’t hide her hands. She folded a spare shirt and tucked it inside her case, along with an extra pair of socks, and wondered how she would hold up her britches. She was sure to find something.

  Her mind whirled, making a mental list of what she’d need for her trip, and bedding was the first thing she thought of. After kneeling to roll the spare blankets, she searched for something to tie around them. Her dress and petticoat lay heaped where she’d stepped out of them, so continuing the rip she’d begun for Molly’s dressing; Sarah tore yet another strip from her undergarment and with it, secured her bedroll.

  Still hitching her britches to keep them from falling to her knees, she tore a thin piece of material and wound it through two belt loops and tied the waist into a pucker, but at least she could walk without losing her bottoms. She rolled her eyes, imagining how ridiculous she must look.

  The wagon creaked. Sarah jerked her head around and eyed the bonnet opening. Her pent up breath released in a whoosh as she remembered the characteristic noise of the wagon bed, groaning in protest to the warming air. She took a moment to let her heart slow.

  Now she had clothes and bedding, but she still needed a jacket for the chilly spring nights. She searched through the strewn clothing and found a nice one, lined with sheepskin. It was bulky and took up far too much room in her bag, so she tied it around her waist. Her greatest find was the pair of suspenders in the pocket. She would have put them on right away, but her movements swayed the wagon and gave life to the blanket that covered Molly’s body. An eerie feeling urged Sarah to hurry. She hugged herself to quell a shiver and then grabbed her belongings. She paused only long enough to offer a silent prayer for Molly’s soul.

  Crossing the dusty compound one last time, Sarah dropped her bedroll and valise on the ground and climbed into the captain’s wagon hoping to retrieve a hat. Although the interior had clearly been ransacked again, luckily the wide-brimmed head covering was still there, along with a handy piece of rawhide that served as a chinstrap. Sarah had a better use for it, and bending, she swept her blonde hair into a bundle and captured it with the piece of leather. She tucked the bulky mass into the sweat-stained leather and pulled it snugly down on her head. Now her outfit was complete.

  Sarah recalled two canteens hanging on the side of the wagon, just above the water barrel. She climbed out and grabbed them and then slung them over her shoulder. She’d fill them at the stream on her way out of camp. Stooping, she picked up her gear and stood for a moment, surveying what remained of the train. In her mind, she still heard the children’s laughter as they plodded through the tall prairie grasses, trying to keep pace with the wagons, the squeak of each turning wheel moving an inch closer to a new destination, and the gentle lowing of the cattle as the sun set each evening. Clutching her worldly belongings in one small case, she took a last glance, then turned and started her journey, heading back in the direction from which she’d come.

  Chapter Five

  The morning dew, still clinging to the reedy grass along the stream, dampened the knees of Sarah’s pants as she knelt to fill her canteens. Bubbles gurgled to the surface when she sank the first container into the crystal water. She squinted against the sun's brightness glancing off the glassy liquid and finally looked away. Just downstream, the stony bed widened, and the gentle flow passing over a cluster of bigger rocks, turned into surging rapids. At that moment, a large fish leapt into the air then dropped with a splat back into the faster-moving current, and then, she imagined, it continued on its way. Sarah wished her travel could be so easy.

  She filled the second canteen and stood, brushing strands of grass from her knees. It would be awhile before she came upon water again, she knew that from the trip to this point, but if she drank modestly, her supply would last. With a deep breath, she eyed the empty trail, wondering exactly how far it was back to civilization. She wasn’t very good at judging distance, but the last town they’d passed through was days away. Her biggest worry was not how far, but what lay between here and there.

  She recalled the wagon master’s speech on departure day. Mr. Simms had calculated that with perfect weather it would take the train at least five months to reach California. Everyone had laughed when he emphasized ‘perfect,’ knowing there was no such thing. Frequent thunderstorms and barn-flattening winds were common on the prairie, and freak snowstorms sometimes dusted the higher plains. The captain had expected the wagons to travel about ten miles a day and Mother Nature had cooperated. Then the Indians came. She crinkled her brow as those horrid images flooded back. Sarah didn’t even know which tribe had attacked the train; she just knew she didn’t want to encounter them again.

  Putting the painful memories away, she turned back to estimating her journey. The wagons had left Independence just eighteen days ago. She figured she was about two hundred miles out, at most.

  Council Grove! The name of the last town the train passed through popped into her mind. She’d seen it lettered across the front of the trading post when she went in to get a few supplies. Mr. Simms had halted the train with a warning that it would be the last settlement until they reached Salt Lake, but she’d already stocked the wagon with plenty of dried meat, coffee, crackers, potatoes and cornmeal. All she needed was more bacon and eggs to refresh what she’d used so far. A lot of good it did, she thought, picturing the Indians enjoying her purchases and everything else they toted away.

  She kicked a dirt clod and heaved a sigh. Being afoot wasn’t the problem; she’d made most of the trip that way, so nothing had changed… except this time she walked all alone.

  She began following the clearly-marked trail, appreciating the fact that she didn’t have to slug through the prairie grass growing along the perimeter. Tics and chiggers were abundant in thick vegetation. Countless wagons moving west had wiped away any growth that once flourished in the now deeply-rutted dirt. Still, she watched her steps carefully. The last thing she needed was a twisted ankle. Her foot still smarted from where the Indian had stepped on it.

  Adjusting the canteens in a crisscrossed pattern over her chest, she pulled her leather hat low against the ascending sun. As Sarah walked, she thought about the distance the wagon train had covered. They’d followed the Kansas River just past St. Mary’s and then taken the ferry across. It took most of the day to get their small party to the other side, but at least they hadn’t lost anyone to drowning as she had heard happened on some of the other caravans. Mr. Simms continually warned everyone about the dangers of water crossings, prairie fires, and being crushed beneath the mammoth wagon wheels. He also spoke of buffalo stampedes, but luckily, they hadn’t seen any. Her heart thudded nervously, hoping her luck held out. She certainly didn’t want to cross paths with anything that traveled in a herd.

  She thought back to her apprehension at embarking alone with a bunch of strangers on a wagon train. That had been nothing compared to this. What she wouldn’t give to trade those nervous jitters for what roiled in her stomach now. She urged her mind to travel back to more pleasant times.

  After only two days of travel with the caravan, her fears disappeared. The people were friendly, and everyone pitched in to help one another. A few families had trekked across countr
y before, but it was easily apparent that she wasn't the only one new to the adventure. Her mouth curled into a smile as she remembered mornings filled with lusty cries of “all set” as the wagons prepared to move, followed soon by “stretch out” to keep one Conestoga from running into another. Once in a while, the “stretch out” turned to “catch up,” as some folks straggled. Mr. Simms had his hands full. Recalling his undignified death misted her eyes with tears.

  Sarah’s stomach loudly grumbled. Liquid no longer filled the hollow feeling in her belly. Her mouth watered as she thought of Ma’s freshly baked bread covered with butter, the best Sarah had ever tasted. She pictured the half-gallon crocks of milk always stored in the coolness of the springhouse, each covered by a square piece of board so that one could be stacked atop another. In the evening, she and Ma would skim the cream from the top of each container, let it set for the night, and then churn it into a wonderful spread for Ma’s baked goods. If milk soured, Ma used the clabbered liquid to make her famous pancakes. What Sarah wouldn’t give to enjoy those tastes again.

  She patted her belly and scanned the trail for wild berries or anything edible. Hunger gnawed at her innards. Bending, she yanked a dandelion from the soil and chewed on it. Gritty dirt caught in her teeth, and the acrid taste pulled the moisture from her mouth. At that moment, the enormity of her situation slapped her in the face. Food wasn’t as plentiful as she’d hoped, and the approaching sunset threatened her. Where would she safely sleep? She was a veteran walker, but she couldn’t imagine just opening her bedroll and sleeping in the open spaces; there were too many scavenging animals lurking in the darkness for that. The horrid rending sound of coyotes echoed in her mind, bringing with it the vivid images she preferred to forget.

  She shivered and turned her attention back to finding something to eat. With several hours of daylight remaining, she'd give her sleeping arrangements more thought once she had quelled the hunger that rumbled inside her. She pushed onward.

  Sarah sighed. Why had she thought she’d find food so easily? For at least two miles nothing but a sea of green prairie grass waved in the breeze. Not a berry bush in sight. Countless rabbits skittered across the trail, but by the time she pulled out her sidearm, they were long gone. If she held the gun in her hand for any length of time, the animals became invisible. It seemed they anticipated danger. If only they knew she posed a minimal threat to their lives with her limited pistol skill. She lifted a canteen to her lips and took a huge gulp, hoping to fool her complaining stomach for just a little longer. The lone dandelion had only left a bad taste in her mouth.

  Sarah felt light-headed and weak, each step an effort as her legs turned leaden. It had been far too long since her last meal, and she needed food to regain her strength.

  Ahead, she spied a stand of trees. The sheltering branches of three old oaks made it a perfect place to stop for a rest. Maybe she could set a snare of some sort and catch one of the many long-eared hares that taunted her, but she shook her head. The only kind she knew to use required a box. She chastised herself for not tarrying longer at the campsite to try to catch a fish, but she saved the idea for the time she found water again. A flash of encouragement brightened the moment. The Kansas River wasn’t that far away. She smiled, remembering when the train had crossed it.

  Her shoulders sagging, Sarah tossed her bedroll on the ground and dropped her valise. She sighed with relief and rubbed the aching arm that had toted the load. She eyed her belongings, trying to determine a way to turn the brocade bag into a knapsack she could carry on her back. She missed having the wagon bear everything for her while her only chore was keeping an even pace.

  Dropping to the ground, she leaned against the tree and took a deep breath. She surveyed the area around her, and her eyes widened when she spied a bunch of familiar green stalks growing nearby. She practically crawled to the plants and began clawing at the soil, her mouth watering in anticipation. About three inches below the surface, she found her treasure—prairie potatoes. Tearing the thin fibrous covering from one, she didn’t waste a moment taking her first bite, followed by a second and third, as she hungrily chewed and swallowed, savoring the life-saving flavor. Crunchy and porous, it tasted a great deal like the turnips her mother had grown in the garden. She felt so hungry, even if it tasted like tree bark, Sarah would eat it. She unearthed several more and ate her fill, and then moved back to where her belongings lay, carrying her bounty with her. Sated for the moment, she worked on her earlier idea of a knapsack. She unknotted the strips of her petticoat from her bedroll, and then shoved the blankets through the handles of her valise. By edging the pieces of undergarment through the handles as well, she created loops through which she could put her arms, allowing her back to bear the weight of her load. She stood and tried out her new idea—perfect. With her pistol in her boot, she had plenty of room for the prairie potatoes.

  She removed her new creation and sat, patting the bulging bag, pleased that at least she wouldn’t starve. After a drink of water, she wiped the corners of her mouth with her hand, and reclined against a bark-covered backrest. With her gun in her lap, she crossed her ankles and closed her eyes. She needed to rest for just a few minutes before resuming her journey. The light breeze felt like caressing fingers against her cheeks, and the sound of the leaves rustling above her lulled her into momentary peace.

  Sarah awoke with a start to a rumbling noise. She immediately scanned the sky for storm clouds. To her surprise, she saw only one piece of white fluff floating in a sea of clear blue. She shrugged her shoulders, thinking that maybe her imagination played tricks on her.

  Her gaze drifted to the sun’s position, and she sighed. Evidently, she had dozed for a lot longer than she’d planned. At best, she had only a few hours till dark, and she still had to find some type of shelter for the night. She got to her feet and bent to pick up her belongings, but she heard the thunderous noise again, only this time it sounded real—so real that the earth trembled beneath her feet. Turning to look behind her, Sarah's eyes widened at the billowing dust storm coming at her. It stretched from one side of the horizon to the other, and fear constricted her throat when she realized that the brown things dotting the dirty expanse were buffalo, and lots of them—one of the very things that Wagon Master Simms had warned about. As they neared, their massive heads and shaggy-coated bodies became clearly visible, and their pounding hooves and panting breaths were all Sarah heard. She couldn’t outrun them, and with nothing but open plains beyond where she stood, she had nowhere to go but up.

  Sarah’s heart pounded in rhythm with the racing animal’s hoof beats as she scanned the trees, deciding which one to climb. The one she’d slept against had a limb within her reach. Sarah stood on tiptoe and stuffed her belongings into the ‘v’ where the branches began, and then with strength she didn’t know she had, she hefted herself up and onto the lowest bough. Grasping the one directly above her, she stood and inched her way over and up higher. She’d barely straddled the limb when a sea of furry beasts passed beneath her, furrowing dust upward and carrying with it a musky smell. She covered her nose and watched the wondrous sight through protective half-lidded eyes. She’d never seen buffalo before, but knew they traveled in huge herds. It wasn’t a lie. Had they been smaller, she would have thought she watched a colony of eager ants scurrying in search of food. She laughed aloud at her comparison. If only they were the size of ants, she wouldn’t be clinging for life six feet above the ground. The tree swayed back and forth as the huge animals brushed against it. Rough bark bit into Sarah’s back as she fought to keep her balance. “How long can I hold on,” she mumbled through clenched teeth.

  It took what seemed like an hour for all the animals to pass out of sight. The prairie grass beneath the tree and beyond lay trampled flat, and buffalo chips littered the ground. Too bad they were fresh. She’d learned on the wagon train that dried ones made great kindling for campfires, but wriggled her nose in disgust at the idea of handling them in their present state. Stil
l clinging to the tree, she pondered climbing down, wondering if it was safe.

  The orange sun had drifted closer to the horizon. Sarah scanned the trail from her lofty perch and grimaced. She saw nothing in the distance but endless prairie; no more trees or hills. At the thought of sleeping out in the open, being easy prey for scavengers and in plain sight of possible marauding Indians, she shivered. And she certainly didn’t want to catch up with the buffalo.

  She eyed the tree crotch where her belongings were nested and thought of the possibility of staying put until daylight. She’d never slept in a tree before, but given her choices, it seemed the best solution. The weather was mild enough that her jacket would keep her warm, and she could lean her head against her bedroll. She inched down, and while holding everything, she tried to get into a comfortable position. With her feet resting on one branch and her bottom supported by the trunk, she tucked her valise next to her body and held her gun in her lap. The hard wagon bed had been more comfortable than this.

  The sun turned the sky into a pallet of pastels before the blazing orange orb disappeared below the horizon. She held her breath as the last thread of light faded and night encompassed her. The breeze that had earlier rustled the leaves fell still, and the silence of the empty prairie sent a shiver down her spine. Realizing isolation she’d never felt before, she sensed a lump forming in her throat. The loneliness when her ma and pa had passed had been horrid, but at least there were other humans around. Now, she felt like the only person in the world.

  * * *

  Hours had passed, and no matter how hard Sarah tried, she couldn’t sleep. Her legs had long ago turned numb, and her bottom ached from being in the same position for so long. She moved her upper body, trying to work out some of the kinks, wondering if the night would ever end. Her eyelids were leaden, but still sleep evaded her. Even nestled securely in the tree, her nerves were on edge. She heard noises below her—creatures of the night rutting for food, and she prayed none of them knew how to climb. After adjusting her bedroll beneath her head for the hundredth time, she quietly hummed a lullaby. It helped drown out the skittering sounds and brought back memories of her mother’s angelic voice.