Prairie Courtship

by Dorothy Clark

  Zach again tapped himself on the chest, made walking motions through the air with his fingers, then drew his hand across his arm in the signal for Cheyenne and pointed behind him. The brave stiffened. Quickly, Zach, again, slashed his hand across his arm, then lifted his fisted hand to his forehead and turned it back and forth in the signal for anger. He held his hands forward and spread the fingers wide, clenched them, then repeated the process four more times. He pointed down to Comanche’s tracks, then swept his arm back and pointed his finger. “Cheyenne war party…fifty strong.”

  The brave turned, shouted a guttural command. The other four Indians rode forward, one galloping off along his back trail. In minutes he reappeared, signaled the others to come. The four warriors raced off. Zach let out a long breath, heeled Comanche into a lope and headed for the pass. Things were happening too quickly. He had to get back to the train.

  Chapter Ten

  My beloved family,

  I take up my pen to write you of the odd thing that has happened. Mr. Thatcher, being accosted by five Pawnee warriors, warned them of the presence of a large Cheyenne war party nearby. I believe this saved his life, for it seems though they are wild and savage, as evidenced by the bloody scalps dangling at their waists when they suddenly appeared at our wagon train a few days later, these Pawnee have their own code of honor. Those five warriors have escorted us safely through what Mr. Thatcher calls Sioux territory. During the past weeks, they rode ahead of us to discover the best path for our wagons, and to warn of any Sioux close by. And though we all were wary and distrustful of their intent, they proved to be excellent guides. They led us to the safest fording places and helped us to cross our wagons. We did not, during their time with us, lose one animal to the wilds or to ravening beasts thanks to their prowess.

  There is so much I wish to share with you all. I have seen my first buffalo. Swarms of them! At the meeting of the North and South Platte rivers, the horizon was black with the beasts as far as the eye could see. There are elk there, also.

  I do wish you could see this country. We have traversed plains, valleys and now hills that come down to the banks of the river and oblige us to climb the heights then curve around and again descend to the river below.

  It is now late July, and tomorrow we will reach a place called Fort William where, Mr. Thatcher assures us, we shall stop for a day to wash, bathe, purchase available supplies, repair wagons, doctor ill or hurt animals and trade with Indians. Having brought us here, the Pawnee have now left us to return to their homes.

  I am well. Anne is healed of her injuries but remains distant from everyone. How I wish I had news of you all. My concern grows for Caroline and the baby.

  As ever, I am your devoted,

  Emma

  Emma addressed and sealed the letter, placed it atop the others she had written and rose to put the lap desk in her wagon. Dusk had chased away the sunlight and mellowed the heat of the day. A breeze played among the trees strewed along the riverbank and carried the voices of mothers calling to their children. She lifted her head and listened to the squeals and laughter of the playing youngsters echoing off the rocks behind the camp then smiled and returned waves as they came running in obedience to the mothers’ summons—Gabe and David Lewis dragging in last, as always. The clamor quieted, stopped. From the direction of the river, a harmonica began a soft, languorous lament.

  Emma glanced toward the herders bringing in the grazing stock and searched out the wiry form of the small, dark-haired man riding in a wide loop around the animals in the water to turn them back to land. Charley Karr said the beasts calmed when he played. But the music always brought an ache to her throat. She glanced toward Anne’s wagon, noted the canvas flaps tied closed and sighed. It would be so lovely to have someone with whom she could visit while the other emigrants settled in for the night. Would Anne ever get over her grief?

  A vague sense of failure gnawed at her. Had she left anything undone that might help her sister? She sighed and retrieved the oatcake she had saved from supper then headed for the horses grazing at the far end of the inner oval, mentally reexamining her treatment of Anne. She could think of nothing to do but continue to love her, even if she wanted to be left alone. Loneliness washed over her, creating a longing in her heart, a hollow feeling in her stomach. If only Mother and Papa Doc were here. Or William. They would know what to do for Annie.

  Emma came out of her musings, stared at Traveler. He was growing gaunt since they had left the good grass of the prairies behind. And his feed was gone. Would he survive the arduous trek ahead over the mountains? Or would it destroy him? Tears stung her eyes. “I brought you an oatcake, boy.” She fed him the treat and finger-combed snarls from his forelock and mane as he munched, noted the dull, lusterless condition of his coat and wished she had saved the other oatcake for him instead of eating it herself. Tomorrow she would—

  “Sharing your supper?”

  Emma jerked her head up, stared across Traveler’s back at Zachary Thatcher. How was it possible a man of his size could move as silent as a shadow? She nodded. “A bit of it. I wish I had more to give him.”

  Understanding flashed in those bright blue eyes. He stepped closer, ran his hand over Traveler’s proudly arched neck. “A journey like ours is hard on the stock. Mules fare better than horses. Especially when the good grass gives out when they are climbing the mountains.”

  That was not what she wanted to hear. Especially not with the sympathetic undertone of warning his voice carried. Would she lose Traveler? Her throat tightened so she was afraid to try and speak. She clenched her jaw and stared at Traveler’s shoulder, fighting the urge to lean her head against him and cry.

  “I saw you writing earlier and thought you might like to know if you leave your letters at the fort tomorrow, when someone passes through, headed east, they will most likely carry them with them.”

  She lifted her gaze to his face. “To St. Louis?” She snagged her bottom lip with her teeth to stop the trembling.

  His eyes darkened, the rugged planes of his face softened. He reached out his hand, lowered it to Traveler’s back, close to where hers rested. So close she could feel the warmth radiating off it. “That is the end destination, yes. If they are not going that far they will pass the letters on to someone else.” His thumb moved, brushed against the side of her palm, stayed.

  She glanced down, fought the urge to slip her hand sideways, to know the feel of the warmth and strength of his hand covering hers. A strange reaction to his accidental touch, yet it remained. Grew. She moved her hand before she yielded to the temptation.

  Zachary Thatcher stepped back and cleared his throat. “There is no guarantee the letters will make it back, you understand. There is a lot of rough, wild and dangerous territory they must pass through on the way.”

  She looked up, felt that same, strong draw when their gazes met and curved her mouth into a polite smile to hide behind. “Yes, I know, Mr. Thatcher. I have just come through that rough, wild and dangerous territory.”

  He nodded, held her gaze a moment longer then looked away. “So you have, Miss Allen, so you have.” He touched his hat brim and walked off.

  Emma stood and watched him go as silently, as quickly as he had come, feeling somehow cheated. It was only when the darkness swallowed him she realized night had fallen. Traveler nibbled at something and moved on. The horse’s plight settled like a stone in her heart, drew her thoughts from Zachary Thatcher. What was she to do about Traveler? What could she do? “If I had known about the grass failing, I never would have brought you, boy. I am so sorry.”

  Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away and walked to the closest wagon she could see then made her way slowly along the circle toward her own in order not to startle the animals in the wagon corral. A spot of light flared ahead, steadied to a soft glow. She paused and stared at the small beacon, then moved forward more surely, guided by the light, trying to ignore the feeling of warmth stealing into her heart. She could be wro
ng…

  She approached her wagon, looked around. There was only the empty night, and the welcoming light of her lantern. She picked it up and again searched the darkness, considered calling out to thank him in case he were near. But how foolish she would appear if she were wrong. Still…no one else knew she was out there in the darkness, alone.

  Alone. But not as lonely as before. He had lighted her lantern and placed it on the water barrel shelf to see her safely to her wagon. The warmth around her heart grew. It was silly of her to feel so…so cared about. She was certain Mr. Thatcher would do the same for any of the emigrants on the train, but still… She climbed into her wagon, placed the lantern on top of the red box then pulled the canvas flaps into place and tied them closed.

  She was safely inside. Zach stepped away from the rock he was leaning against and jogged off toward his campsite, the moonless night no challenge to his skill. Something he refused to identify coursed through him, bathed his heart in unwelcome warmth. She had smiled when she picked up the lantern. A small smile to be sure. One that merely played at the corners of her rose-colored lips. And it had not been directed at him, as she had smiled at Josiah Blake. No, she had smiled because of him. And that was better. There was no danger of his emotions becoming entangled that way. And there was a danger of that. No sense in fooling himself about it. There had been a moment tonight when she had looked at him….

  Zach scowled, spotted the deep black of the fissure in the rock face and climbed to his bed on the shelf above. He had wanted to leap right over that horse and take her in his arms. He had touched her hand, hoping. But she had moved hers away. And that was for the best.

  He stepped to the edge of the shelf, stood listening to the night, absorbing the normal sounds of the area so his senses would warn him if danger neared the train. Tonight had been a close thing. Too close. Dr. Emma Allen was like a magnet to him. He needed to keep his distance.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Annie, please come with me to visit the fort. I am certain you will find—” Emma stopped, stared at the russet-colored curls set swaying by the negative shake of her sister’s head.

  “You go, Emma. There is nothing of interest to me there. I shall stay here and rest.”

  Emma lifted her chin. “I will not go without you, Anne! There are Indians camped nearby and—”

  “And Mr. Thatcher has set guards over the wagons and the stock. I shall be fine.” Anne turned, focused her gaze on her. “I am not being difficult, Emma. I cannot—the children…the families…”

  “Oh, Annie.” Emma reached out her hand, took a step forward. Anne shook her head and turned away. Emma stopped, lowered her hand to her side. “All right, Anne. I will go without you. I must inquire as to getting my letters carried back to St. Louis.” She cast a hopeful look at her sister’s back. “Have you any letters—”

  “No. None.”

  Anne’s curt tone told her not to inquire further. She held back a sigh. “Very well. I shall return shortly.” She lifted her skirt hems out of the way and climbed from Anne’s wagon, let the flaps fall into place.

  “We’re goin’ to the Injuns’ camp, Dr. Emma!” Gabe Lewis raced by, wheeled and ran back. “Pa says maybe I c’n trade my marble fer a bow and arrow!”

  “Me, too!” Little David Lewis, never far behind his older brother, held out his hand and unfolded his pudgy fingers. A large amber-colored marble resting on his palm winked in the sunlight. He grinned up at her.

  “Oh, my, that is a lovely marble!” She returned his grin, looked over at Gabe. “I wish you well in your barter.” He flashed her a grin and raced off, David close on his heels.

  “Gabriel and David! Do not go outside this wagon circle without your pa!” Lorna Lewis looked up at her and shook her head. “Those boys will be the death of me. Always runnin’ off and gettin’ up to some mischief!” She glanced toward the closed wagon flaps. “I come for your sister’s laundry—sent Lillian to fetch yours. My wash water is heatin’ down beside the river.”

  Emma ducked inside the flaps and drew out a pillowcase stuffed full of Anne’s laundry. “Is Jenny using her arm normally, yet?”

  Lorna chuckled and shook her head. “She’s still tellin’ the other kids it’s her ‘special hurt’ arm. The little minx uses it to get her own way.”

  Emma laughed. “Very clever of her.”

  “Except she forgets now and again when they get to playin’, so the kids are on to her high jinks.”

  “Will you be taking her and your other girls to the fort?”

  Lorna glanced toward the palisade, then looked back at her and shook her head. “Mr. Lewis will buy what we’re wantin’ in the way of supplies. I aim to get the wash done, and the wagon emptied out and put to rights. Those young’uns make an awful mess of things. And then I mean to bake bread and biscuits enough for a week whilst there is light to see and wood to make a good fire. After that, I aim to bed down the children and enjoy the pleasure of sittin’ still.” She laughed and took the pillowcase from Emma’s hand. “Tell Lillian to hurry on.”

  Emma nodded and headed for her wagon.

  Emma stared at the fort. Indians roamed around the area, going in and out of the fort at will. So many Indians. She flicked her gaze toward the conical skin shelters dotting the grassy field. At least they were on the opposite side of this tongue of land formed by the Laramie and North Platte rivers. She drew her gaze back, lifted it skyward to the guardhouse overhanging the wide, gated entrance in the palisade wall. Surely they would watch and see her safely across—

  “Dr. Emma! Dr. Emma!”

  Emma whirled about. Mary Fletcher was running toward her. “What is it, Mary?”

  “Ma says come quick!” The young girl clutched her side and drew in a ragged breath. “Daniel cut hisself bad…with the hatchet!”

  “Where is he?”

  “They’re bringin’ him…to…yer wagon.”

  “Stay here until you catch your breath!” Emma lifted the hems of her skirts and ran back across the inner oval toward her wagon. Charley Karr was climbing the slope from the river, young Daniel draped across his arms. Hannah Fletcher walked at his side, holding her son’s hand. There was a bloody gash in the calf of the boy’s leg, a gash so large it was visible even over the distance. She scrambled up to the driver’s box of her wagon, gave a hard shove that folded the collapsible canvas overhang back against the first rib of the wagon body. Sunlight poured down on the driver’s seat. She climbed over it, scooted across the red box behind it and yanked a sheet out of the chest.

  “Where do y’ want me to put him, Doc?”

  “Here—on the driver’s seat.” She flapped the sheet open and spread it over the tops of the seat and red box.

  Charley Karr hopped up onto the wagon tongue. “Y’ might want to take that there sheet off, Doc. He’s bleedin’ pretty bad.”

  “I know, Mr. Karr. Please put him down.”

  The man shrugged, leaned forward and placed Daniel on the seat then stepped down.

  Emma glanced at Hannah Fletcher. The woman’s face was pale, but her grip on her son’s hand was firm. “Please come up into the box, Mrs. Fletcher. I may need your help.”

  The boy bit down on his lower lip, stared up at her out of hazel-colored eyes that were clouded with pain and fear. The freckles marching across his nose and cheekbones stood out in stark contrast to the pallor of his skin.

  Emma smiled, then fisted her hands, placed them on her hips and shook her head. “You are supposed to use the hatchet on firewood and trees, Daniel—not on your leg.”

  “I k-n-now, Dr. Emma. It s-slipped.”

  She glanced at his calf. “That’s a nasty wound. I shall have to clean it, then stitch it up.” The boy’s face turned pasty white. He swallowed hard. She patted his shoulder. “But I promise you, you shall not feel it.” She glanced up at Mrs. Fletcher, read the disapproval in her eyes.

  “Daniel is eleven years old, Dr. Allen. He’s old enough to know the truth.”

 
“That is the truth, Mrs. Fletcher. Now, please sit down and let Daniel rest his head in your lap while I get things ready.” She opened the red box, took out various stoppered bottles, a shallow bowl, suturing equipment, a pile of clean rags and a bandage roll. Thank you, dearest William, for these supplies. And for your faith in me.

  She closed the top of the box, smoothed the sheet, placed the shallow bowl, the rags and bandage roll on top of it. The rest of the items she placed on top of the water keg. It gave her an excuse to turn her back so Daniel could not see her thread the needle. When she finished she placed the suturing material in the shallow bowl, opened one of the stoppered bottles and poured alcohol over it, then set the bottles on the box. Almost ready. She turned back to the keg and frowned. There was no time to heat water. Cold water would have to do. She dipped some water into her washbowl, pushed up her sleeves and scrubbed her hands and wrists with lye soap. Thank you, Papa Doc, for teaching me to be a doctor. I wish I had more practice at this next part.

  Emma put on the long doctor’s apron Ruth Applegate had made her, climbed from the wagon, walked to the front and climbed into the wagon box. Her patient looked up at her, his eyes dark with fear. She smiled down at him. “Do you remember I promised you you would not feel me stitching up your wound?” He bit down on his lip and nodded. “Well, this is the reason.” Emma reached across him to the equipment on top of the red box, poured some alcohol into a small vial, opened one of the stoppered bottles and added some of the heavy, oily liquid to the alcohol. “This will put you to sleep. And when you wake up, it will all be over.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “For true?”

  Emma grinned at him. “For true. Are you ready?”

  He looked at his mother, then nodded.