Unconquerable Callie

by DeAnn Smallwood

Becky and Tom worked hard, cutting and lashing the willows under Hattie’s scrutinizing surveillance. Tom tried to spare Becky the heaviest loads and would often take a bunch of willows that he thought too heavy out of her arms. He’d smile and whisper something to her, and Becky would blush and surrender the load. Callie was sure Becky was expecting their first baby and Tom and her had guarded the secret.

  They would cover the raft with rushes, roll their wagon on it, and Tom would ferry it across. Becky would ride over with Callie on the scow. Tom wanted her nowhere near the unwieldy raft. Phyllis had offered Hattie to ride beside her when the scow took the Monroe’s wagon across. Hattie refused. She insisted on staying behind with her son. Tom begged her to reconsider, reiterating the risk of the crossing.

  Hattie vehemently shook her head. “No.”

  Then, Tom got firm and told her she was to accept Millie’s kind offer. Hattie broke into tears.

  “Tom doesn’t love his poor, old mother. You’re unfair and uncaring. You care only for yourself and that woman you married. I’m unwanted, in the way, a burden,” she wailed loudly.

  Finally, Tom gave in. Dangerous or not, Hattie would have her way. She could perch on the wagon’s bench, her head held high with righteous indignation. She wasn’t budging an inch and would wait all day, if necessary, for their turn. Unfortunately, their place for crossing was near the end of the line.

  Seth guided Tom on building the raft, but he, too, shared Tom’s concerns. He felt sorry for the young man and was only too glad to get away from the complaining woman, once he was needed elsewhere.

  Callie watched the various exchanges, at once sympathetic toward Tom and Becky and furious with Hattie for being such a stubborn, bitter woman.

  Then, with Caleb’s help, she brought her wagon to the river’s edge, where there was a scow waiting and ready to ferry anyone with fifty cents. The oxen were released and Seth and a couple other men on horseback herded them safely across. The wagon rolled on boards and blocks of wood secured the front and back of the wheels. Callie, the palms of her hands damp with fear, climbed into the wagon, followed by Becky.

  Seth caught a glimpse of the expression on Callie’s face and saw her eyes wide with apprehension. Still, when all was ready, she gave a firm nod, and the scow was pushed away from the bank. Callie kept her eyes focused on the receding shore, not allowing herself to look down at the swirling water. Look or not, she felt the unforgiving river pulling and pushing at the bottom of the scow. She swallowed hard, thankful she had nothing in her stomach but her morning coffee.

  Two men, bearded and appearing as if they’d been carved from knotty wood, ferried them across. They shouted orders and what Callie was sure was curses to each other in a language she found out later was French. One man, obviously in charge, held a black cheroot in his mouth and a red bandana on his head. He clamped on the cheroot, his teeth white against his mahogany skin as he talked and cursed around it.

  Becky’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the wagon seat, trying not to look back at the riverbank where a worried Tom stood, arms at his side, watching her drift away.

  A movement near the front of the scow caught Callie’s attention. It was Seth, the water up to his horse’s belly. A sense of well being filled her, and she felt as if the wagon was embraced in his strong arms and, like an ebbing tide, fear began to recede. The water was up to Seth’s stirrups now and his horse was swimming.

  Callie felt concerned about the man and horse, but it was unfounded worry. They had crossed the Missouri!

  Once safely on the opposite bank, Callie and Becky saw the wagon off and the oxen secured. Becky would stay with them while she would ride back to help others. She wasn’t looking forward to crossing without the meager protection of the wagon. She would be alone on the scow with two men who spoke so little English.

  Just as Callie reached the rocking scow, she heard a voice call out behind her.

  “Move out!”

  Callie turned to the voice, objections ready to fly from her tongue. Why would he tell them to leave her?

  He rode up alongside of her. “Give me your hand, Callie.” He leaned over the side of his horse, arm extended, muscles bunched, fingers ready to clasp. “You’re riding across with me.”

  Callie looked at him and his smile offered along with the hand-up.

  “I am?” she asked.

  “Yep. You’re safer with me and Tramp than on that scow with those two. Come on.” He slightly raised his arm and flexed his fingers.

  “But, Mr. McCallister. Your horse,” Callie stammered.

  “Tramp’s a trooper. He can carry two easily. We’ll cross back up a ways where it’s not as deep. We needed the depth here for the scow, but Tramp sure doesn’t.” His words were light, reassuring. Confidence oozed from the man.

  Callie stepped to the horse’s side and trustingly put her arm up. Seth grabbed her, his hand closing around her arm, encasing it in his firm grip. And with a gentle strength, he pulled her up and swung her around in back of him.

  “Put your arms around my waist, and hang on.” He clicked his tongue and Tramp willingly stepped into the water. Callie closed her eyes and hung on with all her might. She rested her forehead against Seth’s broad back. Once, she felt Tramp’s feet fumble on the river rocks and involuntarily cried out .

  “Easy,” Seth said softly. “He’s just getting his footing.”

  The hem of Callie’s long skirt dragged in the water, and in the middle of the river, she felt Tramp’s legs moving with surging power as he swam across to the other side. The momentum of Tramp’s lunge as he topped the bank threw Callie back and she tightened her grip around Seth’s waist, not caring that she was squeezing the air out of the man. It was with great relief and a sigh of thankfulness when she, with Seth’s help, slid down from Tramp’s back. Seth didn’t release her but held her arm tight in his grasp giving her time for the trembling to stop and her legs to support her. She took a deep breath, then stepped back.

  Seth’s eyes were as blue as the summer sky and held a twinkle to rival the stars at night.

  “Thank you, Mr. McCallister. I think,” Callie added, her voice shaky.

  “Callie,” Seth said, “don’t you think we know each other well enough now that you could call me Seth? After all, you darned near squeezed the life outta me back there. I’ll be wearing your handprints around my middle for days to come. Seems like dropping the Mr. McCallister would be the neighborly thing to do under the circumstances,” he said, a mocking grin on his face. Then, tipping his hat, he swung his horse around and left her there on the bank of the Missouri, speechless.

  Chapter 18

  Phyllis Monroe and Callie worked side-by-side filling cracks, cutting rushes, and lending a shoulder when needed to push a wheelless wagon into the water, watching as it floated across like an ungainly boat.

  Wagons were sealed good and tight and not a one developed a leak. Men on horses rode beside each wagon, steering the makeshift boat across. Children grinned, unafraid from their seats in the wagon, waving to those watching. This was an unparalleled adventure, one Callie knew they would tell over and over in the years to come. After the jarring roughness of a wagon on wheels, the water offered a smooth and tranquil ride.

  As the day wore on, there was much more laughter and calling back and forth as, one-by-one, wagons made it safely across. There were almost finished and a sense of accomplishment filled everyone. People congratulated each other on crossing the Missouri without misfortune.

  There were only two wagons left to cross. Callie and Phyllis would be riding across on the scow carrying the last wagon.

  Like a queen riding high on her thrown, Henrietta Widden sat on the wagon bench, seemingly unaware of the rise and dips the raft made as Tom dug in his pole and the men waded yet again into the water to give the raft a push, freeing it from the bank
.

  Tom’s “thank you” carried back to the shore, but Henrietta never bothered to thank the tired men.

  Callie watched until the raft floated to the middle of the river. She rubbed her tired back and thought longingly of hot coffee and her bed. She had just turned away when she heard a shout.

  Turning around, she saw the raft listing to one side. Heart racing, Callie joined the others and ran to the edge of the river. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a moan as helplessly they stood, unable to reach the raft from this side of the Missouri. It was caught in the middle of the river, too far from either bank for help. Callie knew this was the deepest part of the river and, in spots, the current whirled and pulled. The Missouri took on a life of its own as it sucked in and spit out that which it found alien.

  Callie put her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes. Nausea coiled in her stomach as a wave of fear swept through her, raising goose bumps along her arms. The back of the raft was riding lower in the water. Tom valiantly stuck his long pole deeper into the swift water, vainly searching for the river’s bottom.

  The wagon shifted and they saw him throw his pole down and brace his back against the wagon, his feet lodged as he tried to keep the wagon from sliding further into the lapping water.

  From the far bank, Seth saw that the raft was in trouble. The weight of the wagon was proving to be too much for the raft. The Missouri had turned cranky, as if it had been pushed far enough.

  Seth turned Buck once again into the water, knowing that he was too far to get to the raft in time. Still, he urged the horse on while he watched the unfolding drama before him.

  The wagon slid more, moving Tom, feet braced, with it, closer and closer to the water’s embrace. Then when it seemed matters couldn’t get worse, they did. Hattie stood up on her seat, threw her arms to the sky, and started jumping, screaming. Up and down she jumped, her frantic motion acting as a rocker, giving the wagon momentum.

  Frantic, Callie cried out, “Hattie, sit down. You’re going to tip the wagon over. Sit down!” But it was of no use. Callie’s words fell on deaf ears.

  Seth yelled into the expanse for Hattie to be still, to sit back down and not move. His words dropped into the river, unheard.

  Then Tom abandoned the back end and, gripping the side of the wagon, fought his way to his mother. It was apparent he was trying to reason with her, his hands grabbing at her skirt. Ever typical, Hattie ignored what anyone else said or did and continued with her flaying up and down.

  Tom reached again for his mother just as she kicked out. Her foot caught Tom under his chin. His head snapped back and he fell backward, unconscious, into the swiftly moving water.

  Seth released his feet from the stirrups and threw himself from his horse. He didn’t hear Callie’s fearful shout. With bold strokes, he swam toward Tom, only to see him sink into the water. Seth swam harder and harder, reaching out with his arms, slicing through the water. Tom was nowhere to be seen. Then the river had a change of heart and like a capricious child, spit Tom back up to the surface only to pull him back down again. But this time, Seth was closer and with a surge of power grabbed for Tom’s shirt. He missed and grabbed again. This time his fingers closed around Tom’s collar and he pulled the lifeless body toward him.

  As Seth secured one arm around Tom’s neck, keeping his head afloat, a screeching groan rent the air. The raft could no longer carry the burden of the heavy wagon and the water of the Missouri. It was breaking apart. Seth called out again to Hattie, but before his words had died on the air, the wagon slipped off the raft into the whirling current carrying the woman with it.

  Seth hooked his arm tighter around Tom and kicked to the side away from the wagon and the poles that had broken free from the raft. He couldn’t leave Tom to help Hattie. Tom would surely drown. He kicked and pulled with his free arm, dragging Tom with him, taking care to keep the man’s face upright. His legs felt like weights and his arms were lead as tiredness overtook him. He was battling the river, knowing that to weaken was to fail. Not daring to look at the shore, fearing the distance would defeat him, he kicked and edged closer by inches. Then when he thought he couldn’t give another kick, he felt someone take hold of Tom and pushed as he pulled. He couldn’t see who was on the other side but knew that without this person’s help, he and Tom both might have been lost.

  Then Seth felt bottom under his feet. Wearily he stumbled toward the bank. Someone took Tom’s other arm and, draping it over their shoulder, together they made it to the bank where willing hands reached out and took over. Someone wrapped a blanket around Tom and propped him up against a log. Someone else wrapped a blanket around Seth and guided him to a seat. After catching his breath, he looked to see who it was who had come to his aid. And there, sitting beside him, wrapped in a blanket, was Callie, water dripping down her face.

  Before Seth could utter a word, Tom started coughing and retching water. Each cough, a symphony that brought a weary smile to Seth’s face. He met Callie’s eyes, saw the anguish lingering in their depths, then both of them looked out to the river. There was no sight of the wagon and only a few poles floating toward the bank gave evidence that there had been a raft. Nothing was said, but he knew that the river had claimed one person. With each cough from Tom, he knew just how close they had come to it being more than one.

  A woman hastened up to Callie and gently laid a rolled up petticoat at her feet. Seth watched as color rushed across Callie’s cheeks. She had obviously shucked her outerwear before diving into the river, knowing its weight would pull her down. She’d done what no others had, and had likely saved one life. He glanced back at the river, its current having nearly doubled in the time they’d gotten out. Maybe two.

  Seth looked at this woman that had done what others were hesitant to do. She’d thrown personal safety aside to come to another’s aide.

  “Well, Callie,” he said, “you up to crossing that Missouri again? But this time let’s you and I load Tramp on the scow and let it take us and the last wagon to the other side. I think I’ve drank enough of that blasted river. How about you?”

  Callie nodded, her throat working up and down and her eyes growing watery. “Seth, Hattie—”

  “Gone,” he said bluntly. “I know it ain’t right to speak ill of someone, but her stubbornness took her life and darn near took her son’s. Put me, and you, in danger, too. We’ll cross over and I’ll get some of the men and we’ll look for her. I doubt if we’ll find her body, the current is strong and hard telling where she’ll wash up. I feel bad about this, Callie, but along with the bad is thankfulness that I don’t have to face Becky Widden and tell her she lost Tom, too.”

  Callie saw sadness mixed with fatigue on Seth’s face. The Oregon Trail was tough and they had all just found out how quick fate could step in. Seth had told them how they all had to work together. Well, today they had all worked together. They’d lost one of their own and Tom and Becky had lost more than that. They’d lost their wagon and a lot of their possessions. But, they had each other and Callie knew that, tonight, Becky wouldn’t be thinking of what she’d lost, but of what had been spared.

  Callie raised her head and saw Seth watching her, a smile on his face, his eyes full of understanding.

  “Don’t know how to thank you, Callie,” he said, taking her hand in his. His finger wrapped around hers, lending his strength. “You’re quite a woman.” He held her cool, petite hand tight in his large, warm one, then reluctantly released her palm. Her eyes widened and color streaked across her cheeks. Had she felt it, too, that surge of heat when they touched?

  He faced the river again, not sure of what to do with the strange energy racing through him. He was coming to care more each day for this spirited woman. What would he do when they reached Oregon City and he had to let her go?

  Chapter 19

  A pall hung over the camp. Although Henrietta W
idden wasn’t particularly liked by many on the train, everyone felt the loss of a fellow traveler. Dusk brought with it the reminder that they were all a long ways from home, vulnerable candidates for the hand of fate.

  Earlier, Callie had sat with Becky while Tom, against urgings to rest and regain his strength, went out with the other men to search the riverbanks for his mother. They came home quiet and empty handed. Seth had been right. The Missouri had carried her to a destination known only to the currents.

  Becky held Callie’s hand while they watched Tom and Jacob Monroe fashion a wooden cross, then secure it in the ground near the bank of the river, high enough so the spring waters wouldn’t wash it away, a memory to Tom’s mother, but also a reminder to all at the unseen dangers of the Mighty Missouri.

  The evening meal over, Callie headed back to her wagon. Her feet were heavy, but her heart was more so. And Henrietta’s death wasn’t the only reason. But she wasn’t ready to acknowledge or give voice to what really troubled her.

  Maybe she should leave the train at Fort Kearny. Maybe she should return to Aunt Bertha and marry Wilmer Staton, that is, if he still wanted her. The thought made her stomach churn. She might as well give up living. It would be a kind of death living under the stifling rule of a man she didn’t love or respect.

  If they were able to travel as many miles a day as they had been, they would arrive at Fort Kearny sometime next week. The thought of leaving the train filled her with a weeping sadness. She would be abandoning her goal, her dreams, and . . . and . . . “Oh, go ahead and say it, Callie,” she admonished herself. “Seth.”

  His name rolled around on her tongue like sugar candy. How could she give up seeing him each day? How could she give up their morning cups of coffee? How could she? She shook her head. I have no right to think like this. I can’t have feelings for Seth McCallister. I lied to get on his train. I lied about my fiancé. What would he think of me if he ever found out the type of person I really am? He would never forgive her. Anger would be the least of his emotions.