by Marie Caron
I had heard about the reservations, federal lands where the Indians were made to live, but I’d also heard they weren’t all of a mind to live where they were told, and the idea that there could be some renegades out there, waiting for a chance to scalp us white folks, scared me some. But I held my tongue, not wanting to look frightened in the buckskin-clad man’s eyes. For some reason I couldn’t name, his opinion of me mattered.
“If we see any Indians, just you be sure to stay near the wagons and let me and Mister O’Hara handle ’em,” Baker reiterated. “Unless you have any more questions…We leave at sunrise, so you best get some sleep. Mister Cranmer and Mister Powell, you’re on guard duty tonight with me, so let’s mosey,” Baker added, and then he and the other two men picked up their rifles and left the campsite.
Our wagon, which was smaller than the others, some of which carried families of as many as eight people, necessitated only four oxen. I helped Papa unhitch the four stout beasts, and then we led them a slight distance away from the wagons, to a grassy field where they could eat their fill of the lush grasses. We would need to make sure they didn’t wander off or run away if coyotes came prowling during the night. Papa picked up his rifle and gave my cheek a quick peck. He had insisted on helping any way he could, and tonight he was going to act as shepherd, along with two other men. Since his recent illness, Papa had become a shadow of the handsome, robust man who had raised me. His brown hair was almost totally gray now, and it seemed like his eyes were less blue. I tried not to worry about him as I got ready for bed.
After washing my face and hands in a bowl of cold water ladled from the barrel strapped to the outside of our wagon, I climbed inside where I traded my old gingham dress, camisole, petticoats, and drawers for my nightgown. And, after brushing my waist-length, blonde hair fifty strokes with the silver brush that had been my mother’s, I crawled into my narrow bed. Near my head was the box where we kept our money and our guns. Above the box was the seat where my father and I took turns driving. Even though I hadn’t grown up on a farm, Papa had taught me to handle a team of horses or mules—the Army had had many of both—and oxen really weren’t much different in temperament than the latter. Papa had also taught me to ride and to shoot, “Two necessities for a girl living so far from civilization,” he had said, followed by, “Please forgive me, Ariana.” His apologies to my mother each time he handed me the reins or put a gun in my hand told me what she would have thought of her daughter behaving like a man. But Papa had raised me as he thought best under the circumstances, and now it looked as though my less than ladylike education was going to come in handy.
My last thoughts before falling asleep were about the man my father had in mind for me to marry. He was the nephew of Papa’s friend Colonel Hudson, and I’d never even seen a picture of him. All I really knew about Thomas Parker was what the Hudsons had told Papa, that he was at least twenty years older than me, a recent widower with two children, and the owner of a very lucrative dry-goods business. He and Papa had exchanged a letter of introduction, and though there was no agreement between the two, he seemed to have his heart set on me marrying the man. I was much less enthusiastic. What if Mr. Parker and I didn’t suit? What if his children didn’t like me? What if, by the time we reached him, he’d already found a new wife? Pushing these unsettling thoughts from my mind, I finally fell asleep.
Chapter 2
Within days we had all fallen into a routine. At the communal campfire, the women cooked for the entire group while the men hunted, took care of the livestock, and maintained and repaired the wagons. When we stopped for the night, my father and the other men who’d been assigned to take care of the oxen often had to drive the big animals away from the beaten path to nearby meadows where food was still in plentiful supply. Then, after the great beasts fed for a few hours, the men would drive them back again. Even though I knew he was not out there alone and that he was a good marksman, I worried about Papa during these times.
Walter Drummond, who was a single man and a schoolteacher by trade, was one of the volunteer herdsmen. During the day he tutored some of the children, the ones whose parents thought book learning was important. They would gather in his wagon right after breakfast, perching on the bench seat next to him or inside the wagon, wherever there was space among the many boxes of books and other school supplies he had brought along to start his school in California. The eager children read aloud and recited their sums, and we could often hear their cherubic voices chiming in cadence, the pleasant, innocent sounds carried on the cool spring breezes.
It became clear that first month that Mr. Drummond saw me as a prospective wife. And, while I liked the man, and even found him attractive in a sort of ordinary way, I did not wish to lead him astray. Though I wasn’t actually promised to any man, I felt that I owed it to my father to remain faithful to Mr. Parker, the man he wished for me to marry.
* * * *
On the day marking our sixth week on the trail, my thoughts were on other matters. Our wagon train was circled up beside the river for which the nearby military post was named, and I was feeling lighthearted. Fort Laramie was one of several outposts we would be stopping at on our way to California, and to most of us who had never traveled so far from home before, it was like a sanctuary to our homesick souls. And tonight many of us were going there to attend a dance. As I was getting ready for the dance, it occurred to me that I could not imagine myself married to the schoolteacher or to any man I did not love. I might be an old maid, but I still wasn’t willing to settle for anything less than the romantic love my parents had shared. And since that was the case, what would happen when Mr. Parker and I finally met? If I disliked the man, would I be able to refuse him, knowing how disappointed my father would be? The idea that I might love Mr. Parker didn’t even occur to me.
Listening to the other young women talk and laugh about the men they were likely to meet at the fort that night, I kissed my father on the cheek before heading off with my friends. Rising from the prairie like some great ship on a frothy, green sea, the man-made edifice stood two stories tall and looked very out of place. Wild poppies, sweet broom, and marigolds bloomed unhindered as we traversed on foot the few hundred yards from our vagabond homes to the safety of the wooden enclosure. Constructed of rough-cut timber, the fort had only one opening, a set of huge wooden gates manned by two stalwart, blue-uniformed men with rifles held up to their chests. The two soldiers greeted us ladies, their faces breaking into grins as they bid us welcome to the fort, while up above us another soldier called down from his position in the lookout tower, assuring us that he’d be at the dance just as soon as he was relieved of guard duty.
Some of the younger girls giggled at his audacity, but the rest of us were suddenly silent, as music wafted out to us on the soft, late-afternoon breeze. “Listen, there’s a band!” Sarah Cranmer, the person I thought of as my best friend on the wagon train, remarked excitedly. And then we were walking through the big gates and into the fort.
Many locals were already there, whole families having come on foot or by wagon from neighboring farms and from the nearby town, which was also named after the river. The attendees were gathered here and there, chatting about life in this mostly unsettled land or drinking the free punch, standing in groups on the wooden-planked walkways that connected the various official buildings, mess hall, and barracks or on the parade ground, which took up over half of the fenced-in interior. At the far end of the space, a four-piece band struck up a lively tune, and people began to dance to the country reel, whirling about on a wooden platform that had been constructed especially for that purpose.
My mouth fell open. I hadn’t seen this many people in one place since Papa had taken me to St. Louis the year after Momma died. For a child of four, the noise and numbers of people had been frightening back then. Now I wasn’t frightened, just a bit overwhelmed. And nervously expectant. During our walk the women had been saying what a good opportunity this was to meet the man of their dreams. S
everal of the women remarked that they didn’t care if they ever reached California; they would be perfectly happy if they could settle down with one of the soldiers, right here at the fort.
Suddenly I had a worrying thought. What if I found my intended here, the man I was meant to marry? What would I say to Papa? I almost turned tail and ran as I contemplated having to disappoint Papa and the Hudsons. Thus I was standing practically frozen with anticipatory fright, aware that my companions had already deserted me, when a smooth male voice with an elegant Eastern accent managed to break through my troubled state. “Allow me to introduce myself,” the voice said, and I turned to look at its owner. A pale face with black, arched eyebrows and dark blue eyes under a blue officer’s hat, smiled at me. His teeth were even and white. “Captain Royce Vincent, at your service,” he announced, bowing from the waist, one hand on the hilt of his dress sword.
“Samantha Collins,” I responded, noting how well his uniform fit him and how important he looked in it. He seemed nice, and since the other girls were busy dancing, I decided to spend some time getting to know him, instead of looking like a wallflower. When he asked me to dance, I accepted. He seemed truly interested in getting to know me, and as we circled the room, I found myself telling him about my childhood. He clucked commiseratively when I mentioned that I’d been only three when my mother died. Not wanting to put a damper on the evening by dwelling on an unfortunate happening in my past, I asked him to tell me about himself, which he did, regaling me with humorous stories from his college days in Boston. After the waltz he said he was thirsty and went to the refreshment table to fetch us some punch.
Standing with a group of his fellow officers and their wives or girlfriends, I enjoyed listening to the men swap tales of the battles in which they’d fought. Captain Vincent stood close to me and occasionally let his elbow brush my arm, or he would put his hand on my waist as he lowered his head to whisper some little anecdote about this soldier or that in my ear. I was enjoying his attention and found myself basking in the feeling of belonging to someone. But as I stood there listening to the others talk, I had an unsettling feeling, as though someone was watching me.
“Are you all right?” Captain Vincent asked. And though I said I was, I was still feeling uneasy. However, when he asked me to take a stroll with him outside the gates where we could see the stars, I hesitated for only a moment. What would it hurt? The fort was humming with activity. My friends were inside dancing, and there were dozens of people milling about just outside the gates and easily a hundred more inside. I would be perfectly safe, especially on the arm of one of the US Army’s finest, so I agreed.
I was glad I’d brought my wool shawl along. Winter had not yet released its hold on the land, and there was a nip in the air. I hugged the blue, knitted wool to my breast as we walked, shivering slightly, and before long the inky black of the night had swallowed us, and we stood like too ships on a fathomless sea, with only the stars above to tell us which way was up. I shivered again, but not from the cold. Being alone with a man was not something I was used to, and I was feeling very nervous.
“Are you cold?” he asked when he finally noticed my discomfort. “We could go back,” he said slowly, as though he hoped I wouldn’t ask to do so. And since I didn’t want to admit that I was feeling a bit anxious in his company, I told him I was fine.
“Good,” he said, taking my hand in his. Then he turned and faced me, his other hand gripping my arm just above the elbow. “Because I really want to speak to you privately. I know you’ll be leaving in a couple of days.”
We were, in fact, leaving on the morrow, but I was so nervous that I couldn’t get the words out. Obviously unaware of my trepidation, he continued, “Samantha, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and it shatters my heart to think that I shall not have a chance to get to know you better…much better,” he said in a smooth voice. I felt his arm slide around my waist. Then he bent his head toward mine, and I felt trapped. Good heavens, he was going to kiss me!
I was in a quandary; should I let him kiss me or not? Was a kiss the only way to know whether or not he was the right man for me? I was still feeling uncertain as his mouth covered mine. His lips were firm and demanding as he tried to poke his tongue into my mouth. It seemed like a revolting thing to do, and I tried to keep my mouth shut. I was feeling more and more uneasy, and the brush of his thumb along the side of my breast spurred me into action. Putting my hands flat against his chest, I tried to push him away, to no avail. He wasn’t much taller than me, but he was quite strong. With his right hand clamped around the back of my neck, I felt like my head was in a blacksmith’s vise and I was the malleable metal, ready to be pounded into whatever Captain Vincent wanted to make of me. It was a horrifying feeling, and I wanted none of it.
“No!” I managed to shout as I freed my lips from his steely mouth. But he was persistent, his arm around my waist pulling me closer and closer to him until I could feel his taut muscles pressing familiarly into my chest, belly, and thighs. He pivoted his hips while smoothing his free hand down over the crest of my breast, and that’s when I felt it…the firm evidence of his body’s arousal prodding my loins. Though I had taken care of plenty of sick and injured men, I had never seen or felt a man’s private parts in such a state before, and I was horrified. As he moved his hips up and down, rubbing his swollen manhood against my feminine mound, he expelled his breath with a satisfied hum in my ear. He was clearly enjoying himself at my expense while all I felt was revulsion.
His mouth attempted to retake mine, but this time I managed to turn my head to the side just long enough to squeak out another “No!”
The next thing I knew, I was being yanked aside by someone very strong. I landed on my back on the ground. Scrambling quickly to my feet, I peered into the darkness, trying to determine just who my savior was. Two shadowy figures danced around one another, their arms outstretched as they fought over me. Over me, I told myself again, truly surprised that anyone, other than my father, would fight to defend my honor.
Just then my rescuer struck Captain Vincent twice, once in the face and once in the belly. The uniformed man bent in half, clutching his middle with one hand while wiping his face with the other. Even in the dim light, I could see that Captain Vincent’s nose was bleeding. “How dare you! I’ll have you arrested for assaulting an officer,” the captain threatened.
“You do that. But you will not touch her again, or I will kill you,” a deep voice declared, the sound of it astonishing me. I knew that voice; it was Mr. O’Hara, our scout.
Since the fight had gone out of the captain for the moment, and since I wanted to get Mr. O’Hara out of there before attention was drawn to the two combatants, I hastened forward, hoping to separate the two men. “Mister O’Hara, I’d appreciate it if you would escort me to my wagon,” I said calmly, even though I was feeling anything but calm. I had a feeling that, even though he was in the right, Mr. O’Hara would end up in trouble, and for the sake of our wagon train, and for his sake too, I didn’t want that to happen. So, looping my arm around his, I tugged him toward the wagons. I was relieved when he went without an argument.
All the way back to the wagon train, I clung to Mr. O’Hara’s arm, expecting a group of soldiers to come and arrest Mr. O’Hara at any minute. However, I was feeling curiously at ease in his company. True, he had saved me from what could have been my ruin had Captain Vincent been allowed to continue his assault on my virtue, but there was more to my feelings than the gratitude I felt. While many would condemn me for even speaking to John O’Hara, I felt completely safe with him. It was a feeling that confused me. I knew very little about him, so why did I trust him so implicitly?
It had become evident to me that he was merely tolerated by the others because of his ability to see us safely to our destination. My fellow travelers had made it perfectly clear that he was not fit to speak to our women and children. They referred to him as that half-breed or worse, and he wasn’t even invited to sh
are a meal at our campfire, although on occasion I had seen him having a smoke with one or two of the men. Of course, due to his job as our trail guide, he usually spent his time scouting ahead and therefore camped alone anyway, but still, the unfairness of his treatment rankled. He was a human being, as good as any man. But I knew my opinion was not shared by the others. I had seen the distrust in their eyes that first day, heard their fear of him in their voices, and yet for some reason for which I could not account, I felt truly safe with him.
Just then something dawned on me.
“You were watching me the whole time I was at the dance, weren’t you?” I asked, stopping to look up into his rugged face. Even in the darkness I could see his dark eyes shining. They gazed down at me, and for a minute, I didn’t think he was going to answer my question.
“Everyone in the wagons is my responsibility,” he said simply, and then he began walking again. Disappointed by his impersonal reply, I hurried to keep up.
“Thank you for saving me,” I said as I trotted along beside him. He was a whole head taller than me and had long legs, and I had a hard time keeping abreast of him. “I don’t believe Captain Vincent had my best interests at heart,” I added for want of something better to say. It was hard to carry on a conversation with someone who was so reticent.
“He is not an honorable man. A man should never force a woman,” he stated as though it was the law.
I nodded, even though I had heard that some men ruled their wives and daughters with iron fists. I read the newspapers my father sent for from the big cities back East, and often there were articles about women who were seeking divorces from their husbands, women who had injured or killed their husbands or themselves in their attempt to escape an unhappy marriage. I knew that women were not always treated equally, and that, in most instances, the law looked the other way when it came to the rights of women. I was, therefore, surprised and pleased to learn that this man seemed more civilized than those who would criticize him for having Indian blood. He might be part savage, as some called him, but he was obviously a good and decent man.
