Audrey, I’ve been told that you sat with me shortly after the fire. I’m sorry, I have no recollection of your presence but I thank you dearly. You have been so in my heart of late. I know you worry about my ankle, but please don’t. Just pray for me and my recovery. Now that your eyes have been opened to love, my prayers are answered regarding Eli and his feelings for you. I feared that perhaps God might have to send a burning bush to awaken him, but apparently he’d noticed you all along. Actually, I’m a bit envious of you. Even I could love that gentle man, but I believe he was meant for you, dear one. You, and you alone. But sometimes it takes more than good eyesight to make proper choices. What’s the Scripture? Ecclesiastes—there is a time and a place for everything.
I know you’re both awaiting my news, and I have very little to tell. The ankle is gravely injured (as I’m sure you were told), and there is a possibility that if infection were to set in I could lose the foot. The thought is indeed tragic, but I suppose that’s why the good Lord gave me a spare. One foot is better than none, and I console my anxiety by remembering the brave young men who came through the war and lost both feet. But now to the best news. Redlin has given me permission to hold a small class during noon meals. Of course we only stop long enough to eat and refresh our needs, but I plan to prepare five-minute lessons that will stick with the children. I am very excited about the prospects since it will fill many long hours and I hope enlighten the children.
I have medication at night, but it clouds my thinking and causes night sweats and nightmares.
Speaking of which, I will now address my guess to what’s uppermost in your minds: “Has she shot Josh Redlin yet?” or “Has Josh shot her?” Neither of the above, I’m happy to report. We’ve made a pact; I stay out of his way and he will get me safely to the doctor at the fort.
There have been a few minor skirmishes, but so far we’ve remained adult about our situation. Adele tells me I owe Josh a debt of gratitude for holding the wagon train. Of course Howard Matthews factors greatly in the whole process, for without his financial generosity I would be lying abed without the slimmest hope of full recovery.
I must close now. It’s nearing four o’clock, the hour the wagon train stops every night. We camp close to water, so tonight I will ask Adele if I might take a full bath.
I’ll write as often as prudent, but I haven’t asked when or how the mail goes out. I suppose if it doesn’t you won’t be reading this anyway.
She drew a funny face at the bottom of the page, then laid the pencil aside, folded the missive, stuck it into an envelope, and addressed it.
At the moment, she’d give all she had (which admittedly included the sum of four dresses, pantaloons, and two pairs of wool stockings) to spend five minutes with her two best friends. Just a few precious minutes to feel their arms around her, encouraging her, lending her hope that had began to fade even as she prayed for strength and acceptance.
Friends might fail. They might stumble and cause hurt, but when it came right down to it, a friend, a true friend, was better than a peppermint stick on Christmas morning, and right now Copper craved some emotional sweetness.
A hot bath might be as comforting as a best friend, Copper decided that evening as she sank into a tub of steaming water. Adele had a couple of men haul a wooden tub into the wagon, and then she and Sadie filled it full of hot and cold water. The weather had turned mild, almost warm. “Indian summer,” she’d heard one of the alternate drivers say at noon. There were two such young men on the train. They had drifted into Thunder Ridge a week or so before she left. They seemed harmless enough, but still the people of the town were suspicious of them. Seemed they had approached Redlin just moments before the train pulled out and told him they wanted to see Colorado. He had told them if they were willing to do their share of the work for the grub alone, they could come along. They had nothing to lose so they grabbed the chance, earning their keep by standing guard at night and helping drive wagons when needed.
“Don’t get that right foot wet,” Sadie cautioned as she was about to leave. “And don’t sit there so long you’ll take a chill.”
Copper dutifully promised, but her body had now descended to heaven. A warm, soapy heaven.
An hour later, she eased from the wagon, feeling (and smelling) as fresh as a blooming lilac bush in spring. Even her step was livelier. She knew the mild night air would dry the thick damp hair that hung loose to her waist. She had the letter to Willow and Audrey tucked under her left arm, hoping to find Redlin close to the fire. Of course he wasn’t. He was off three hundred feet down the small stream with the other men doing their nightly shooting, an exercise that made sure the weapons were freshly loaded and the caps would be sure to fire. The ritual was nerve-wracking and the loud reports never failed to startle her, but she knew the practices were necessary; all guns were kept loaded and ready. After supper, the men would usually hang around and do some additional target practice. Out of sheer boredom, she often watched the ritual. The males would go off downstream and pick a snag or some target and fire away. The revolvers and rifles were all muzzle-loading, cap-and-ball affairs. Redlin, of course, had to be different. He carried one of the new Henry rifles that could hold sixteen rounds. There were only three such rifles on the wagon train; most of the men were forced to pour powder down the muzzle and then ram a ball home. To fire the gun, a cap was put on the tube to ignite the charge. With a Henry, you had to pull out a long rod, put in the cartridges, and then replace the rod. After that, however, sixteen shots could be fired in rapid succession and the weapon could be loaded hours or days prior to use. Even to Copper, who knew little about firearms, the advantages of the repeating Henry were obvious.
As she approached, the sounds of men’s laughter and bragging skipped across the water.
“Hey Franklin! I’ll bet you a fried chicken supper I can reload faster than you can.”
“I don’t know where you’re going to get any fried chicken around here, but you’re on, Harrison!”
Copper winced as two guns blasted away simultaneously. Then, just a few seconds later, the two roared again, one just a little before the other. “I guess I just saved some poor old hen’s life,” came the triumphant shout.
Josh spotted her and broke away from the good-natured ribbing. He walked up the embankment, Henry in hand.
“They say,” she began, “that muzzle loaders are more accurate at a short distance.”
He paused, removing his hat, absently dusting the brim on his thigh. “I’m not sure what ‘they’ you’re referring to, but folks ‘say’ anything.”
“You prefer the Henry?”
“I do.”
“If a buffalo was heading straight for you intent on trampling you to death, would you have time to shoot twice?”
“I’d sure be quick as I could.”
She shrugged. Why would she care if a buffalo trampled him?
“What aren’t you in camp with the other women?”
“I have a question.”
His eyes lightly but politely skimmed her. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but you smell good.”
Heat tinged her cheeks with the uncommon observation. She would have thought she could run through camp with her hair on fire and he wouldn’t notice—or care. “Thank you. I took a bath.”
She met his laughing eyes and felt the blush deepen. He was certainly exhibiting more manly tendencies than ogre characteristics tonight.
“Like lilacs in spring.”
“Yes, Sadie had some scented soap.” She cleared her throat, aware that he didn’t look so bad himself. The warm weather had brought out the men’s grooming tendencies. Earlier she had heard them splashing and cavorting in the river. “Anyway, I was wondering about mail.”
“What about it?”
“I wish to send a letter to Willow and Audrey.” She leaned on her crutch and drew the envelope from under her left arm. “Where can I mail it?”
“At the first local stage station you see.”
She frowned. She hadn’t seen anything but bushes, rocks, and mesquite. “And where might that be?”
“Mike has the responsibility of mailing letters for the entire train at the first opportunity.”
Mike. One of the younger men who’d joined up in Thunder Ridge. “Thank you. Do I need to leave the letter with you?”
“Nope. He’ll give a mail call the night before.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She turned and hobbled toward camp when she heard him say under his breath. “Yes sir, you sure do smell mighty good.”
Chapter 7
The following noon, Copper gathered the children. Since time was short, she permitted them to eat while she taught. She’d hope to find subjects that interested both girls and boys, and the first lesson was one they’d be sure to repeat during the long afternoon ride.
She introduced herself, told a little about her previous teaching background, and explained her intent to give short but meaningful lessons that she hoped would remain with them. Her goal had never altered from the time she’d taught her first class. She wanted the child to absorb not just information, but come away with a real thirst for knowledge.
She’d heard chatter among the children about the Indians. With the cessation of hostilities between North and South, this aspect of life on the plains was particularly worrisome. Any number of men had left the service of both militaries with their need for violence unabated. Some had fallen in with the Indians, stirring them up and fanning resentments. The children’s most graphic worry was of scalping, not a pleasant thought for anyone, but especially frightening to the young ones. And one that every man was determined to protect against.
When every eye focused on her, she said, “Today I want to talk about fear. Rational fear versus irrational fear.”
“What’s the difference?” a bigger boy asked. “If you’re afeared you’re afeared.”
“There is a difference,” she said. “And we’re going to discuss some examples.”
Cold biscuits forgotten, the children waited for her to explain. Copper knew scalping was openly discussed among families, but she wondered if parents spent more time on dire warning than simple reasoning. They had passed several crude crosses that marked Christian burials. It took little imagination to blame the natives, even though it was more likely that the deaths were due to disease or accident. So it was easy for the children to believe that all Indians were death threats. After all, weren’t all snakes poisonous?
“Not all Indians are bad,” she began. And she had their undivided attention.
She continued, “Once when I was a little girl, I wandered away from our homestead. Of course I’d been warned to stay close to the house, but it was a beautiful day and I could hear the gurgling creek inviting me to take off my shoes and stockings and enjoy the cool water. I had a most lovely time, but then I looked up to see seven warriors, all decked out in feathers and paint. Well, my mother’s and father’s warning came back straightaway and I was terrified. I knew if I didn’t run as fast as I could my scalp would be hanging from one of those brave’s belts. So I ran as fast and as hard as I could, screaming at the top of my lungs. My folks near died of fright when I lunged through the open doorway shouting, ‘Indians!’ My father just reached for his gun and met the braves on the front porch. To my surprise, they were laughing. Just sitting on their ponies holding their sides in laughter. Of course they knew I was convinced that they’d come to scalp me.” She sighed. “I got the scare of my life that morning, but all they wanted was sugar and coffee. A pound of sugar can go a long way in trading with the Indians.”
Smiling, she looked around the group. “The knowledge that I want to leave you with today is this: Fear is good, but knowledge is better. The white man is beginning to move into the land the Indians have owned and lived on for hundreds of years. They are afraid we will kill all the buffalo that they need. Some of them are being sent to reservations where they must remain for the rest of the lives. So they fear us, just as we fear them. Some of them are indeed our enemies, but some of them are probably friendly.”
One round-eyed child blinked. “How can we tell the difference?”
Copper bit her lower lip. How did one tell the difference? She realized that in an attempt to allay needless fears she might have planted a seed of trust that would someday ill serve one of the children. She was thankful to hear the call, “Roll ’em out!”
Tomorrow she’d stick with geography.
After supper two days later, Mike made the mail call.
Several had letters to give him. Sadie took Copper’s letter to save her some painful steps. For some reason the swelling in the ankle had been worse for a couple of days, and she suspected she might be overdoing. The nightly hot packs and laudanum barely kept the pain in check. Yesterday she’d braved a peek when Adele changed the bandage and felt faint. The terrible swelling seemed more troubling than the pain, but Adele’s practiced eye predicted infection hadn’t set in. Redlin hadn’t asked, but Copper figured Sadie or Adele kept him well advised of her condition.
Mike stopped to sit beside her for a while as the others gathered their correspondence. He was a friendly sort, hailing from Ireland. His cheery accent lifted Copper’s sprits. She loved to hear him say, “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” as his way of saying “Good day!” or “Hello!” She noticed he used the greeting in the afternoon as well.
“And a fine evening it is, Miss Wilson.”
“That it is, Mike. A most enjoyable respite.” The waxing moon had been shedding increasingly bright light for several nights and tonight it fairly bathed the campsite; the stars on the other side of the sky were as bright as glistening icicles suspended overhead.
He turned pensive. “Hard to conceive, it is, that this same moon shines on my folks.”
Copper lifted her eyes to study the magnificent sight. Right now Audrey and Willow went about their regular routine beneath that same moon. Yet the distance between her and her friends seemed even more remote than the distance between her and the twinkling stars. “I understand you’re from Dublin?”
“That I am, but I try to speak only good English—and I’m doing a wee bit of fine job, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh…to be certain.” She grinned.
Mail began to arrive and Mike put the letters in a leather satchel. One by one a family member would hand him an envelope, and their expressions told that homesickness occupied minds tonight. Many had left mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters, some whom they might never see again. Even Redlin dropped a letter beside the young Irish lad. It was all Copper could do to contain her sudden interest. Now whom would he be writing a letter to?
Frank Richardson whistled, and Mike sprang to his feet and trotted to the Richardson wagon.
Easing closer to the leather bag, Copper bent, trying to read the upside-down address on Redlin’s correspondence. Drats. His penmanship was disgraceful.
She smiled hello to a couple of latecomers and nudged the satchel wider open with the toe of her boot to accept their post. When the couple moved on she bent and quickly flipped the wagon master’s letter right-side up, the address now easily readable.
Mrs. Susan Farris
31 Front Street
Dallas, Texas
Susan Farris. Love interest? Couldn’t be his wife, or he would address her as Susan Redlin. Sister? Niece? Could be his mother, but the last names weren’t the same.
Mike trotted back and dropped a handful of envelopes into the sack. By now it was getting late and folks were heading to their wagons.
The great mystery would have to wait until another time. Copper reached for her crutches and eased to her feet. She dreaded the effects of the laudanum, yet craved the relief it brought. She hadn’t thought to ask about the remaining distance to Fort Riceson. She dearly hoped it wasn’t too great because Dr. Smith said time was of the essence. She recalled that phrase recurring over and over in her confused stat
e.
How long could a person live in this pain and not go mad?
She wasn’t sure, and she surely did not want to find out.
Chapter 8
Mid-morning, a Risher and Hall Stage Line galloped by the wagon train. Four cavalrymen rode in front and four more rode in back. The stage line’s brilliant red, green, and yellow colors were striking. The coach had striped spokes and doors, with a canvas-covered trunk and baggage rack.
Copper had decided to ride up front and avoid much of the boredom of travel. This afternoon Sadie was at the reins. Blissful snores floated from the back. Adele was asleep in her rocker, taking advantage of the break.
Sadie shook her head. “Wonder where those folks are going in such a hurry.”
“Doesn’t seem that an animal could keep up that pace for very long.” Copper’s eyes fixed on the six fine matched horses with silver mounting fixtures with white rings and a brilliantly colored tassel hanging from the cheek piece of the bridle. The driver wore gauntlet gloves with a long braided lash whip in his right hand, and when he swung it over his head it sounded like a pistol shot.
“An animal can’t,” Sadie said. “I read all I could get my hands on afore we left home, and one paper said stage stations are somewhere between twelve and fifteen miles apart so the drivers change teams. Risher and Hall has one of the largest mail and stage lines in Texas.”
“Why the cavalry escort?”
Sadie shook her head. “They’re protection. If the stage runs into Indians and the like, the escorts fall back and fight while the stage driver does his best to get to the nearest military post.”
“That’s frightening. Couldn’t that be miles and miles away?”
Sadie shrugged. “There’s a post built every hundred miles or so, but I’d think you could be in a heap of trouble if you were on one of those stages and ran into a band of Comanches or Kiowas.”
One True Love Page 5
