Tame the Wild Wind

by Rosanne Bittner

  “Oh, God, Johnny, I’m sorry! I don’t know what else to do,” she said, wanting to scream. She could still hear Clete groaning. She hurriedly tied the other end of the rope to the side of the wagon, straining every muscle to pull Johnny’s body close enough that as it dragged, it couldn’t get caught under the back wheel. There was no other way to take him with her. As soon as she could see well enough, she would bury him. It seemed a shameful thing to do with the dead body of a man she had loved, but it would be worse just to leave him there. “Oh, Johnny, why didn’t you listen to me?” A torrent of tears threatened, but she kept telling herself to be practical. She couldn’t think too much about this yet. Not yet. Maybe it was all a nightmare, and she would wake up any minute.

  She finished tying Johnny’s body to the wagon, then peeked around the back again because she no longer heard Clete groaning. He lay very still now. Was he dead?

  Just in case he was not, she walked carefully toward him, close enough to reach down for his gun. Quickly and gingerly she yanked it from its holster, realizing she might need it anyway. Her own little pistol would be no use against wolves or to shoot a man from a distance. She threw it into the back of the wagon. She retrieved Johnny’s rifle and shoved it under the wagon seat. Then she tied Clete’s horse to the back of the wagon. Now Clete would have no guns and no horse. His gear was still packed on the animal, so she would have ammunition for his six-gun, and his rifle was still with his gear. As soon as she could, she would practice shooting both six-guns and both rifles. She might have to defend herself. She might need to shoot straight in order to eat.

  She walked back around to the front of the wagon and took the switch from under the seat. She snapped it over the heads of the oxen. “Come on, Brutus, Cleo. Get on there!”

  The big animals reluctantly gave a tug and got under way.

  How was she going to unhitch the poor animals? Could she handle the heavy yokes? She knew how it was done, had helped a few times, but Clete and Johnny had always taken care of the yokes. “Take one thing at a time, Faith Sommers,” she told herself. “One thing at a time. Don’t panic.”

  Tears began streaming down her face as she walked beside the oxen, determined to get at least a mile away from Clete before stopping for the rest of the night. She would build another fire to keep the wolves away from Johnny’s body, and come morning she would bury him if she had to dig all day to make a hole big and deep enough. She fought against terror and hopelessness, and for the first time she truly missed Pennsylvania, even missed her father. Most of all she missed her mother, her precious mother.

  More tears came until she shook with sobs, hardly able to see where she was walking. She refused to look back, afraid she’d see Clete coming after her, afraid to look at poor Johnny’s body dragging along on the ground. She drove the oxen in the direction they had been traveling, not knowing what other way to go, aware only that they had been heading west, toward high purple mountains. How was she going to get over those mountains? And what about the baby she was carrying? How long could she go on alone like this?

  She had no idea how far she had managed to go before darkness finally fell. By then she had cried so many tears, there were none left. She climbed inside the wagon. She turned up the wick of the still dimly lit lantern and hung it outside on the side of the wagon. With wood from the wood box and some dry sage, she lit a fire close enough to the wagon to keep wolves away from it and from Johnny. She still couldn’t look at his face.

  She would have to sleep near the fire, if she could sleep at all, so that she could wake up now and then to tend the fire. She dared not let it die down. She realized she should unhitch the oxen and untie Clete’s horse, but she was afraid they would run away, stranding her. Come morning she would find a way to feed and water them. Right now she could not do another thing. She had to rest. She had to rest.

  She prepared a bed for herself near the fire and lay down. Finally she allowed her gaze to move to Johnny’s body, his face. It was only then she realized his eyes were still open, and she could see a small bloody hole at his right temple. “Oh, God, oh, God,” she moaned. She turned away, sobs racking her small frame. “God help me,” she wept. “Help me through tonight and tomorrow. Just that much. Help me through tonight and tomorrow.” It was the first time, after all the prayer meetings she’d attended growing up, that she truly felt something, the first time she’d sincerely prayed…the first time she’d actually felt God’s presence. She wept until she felt nothing again, and finally exhaustion took over, bringing on blessed sleep.

  Morning dawned still and warm. Faith groaned from the pain in her arms as she awakened. At first she wondered why she should be so sore. Then the ugly reality came back to her. She rose to a sitting position with a gasp, realizing that she had let the fire nearly go out. She remembered that her arms ached from dragging Johnny’s body to tie it next to the wagon. She glanced at his body then, stiff and grotesque now, beginning to bloat, his clothes torn from being dragged, his eyes still open.

  “Johnny,” she whispered, putting a hand to her stomach. “Poor Johnny.” She had begun to hate him, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. And once their new lives had begun, she might have loved him again.

  There were no tears left in her. She didn’t feel anything now except the pain in her arms. She would have to ignore that pain in order to dig a hole and bury Johnny. How she had managed to get through the night without wolves coming after her and Johnny and the animals, she wasn’t sure. Maybe God was watching after her. One thing she did hope was that the wolves had turned all their attention to Cletus Brown for what he’d done to Johnny and had planned to do to her. She hoped the four bullets she’d put into him had finally ended his life, but she would not soon get over the fear that he would come after her. She would have to be very watchful.

  There were only a few embers left of the fire, and she decided not to add any wood to them, since her supply was dwindling and she would need fires at night. On the other hand, maybe it was dangerous to light fires at night. Indians might see the flames and come investigating. She had no idea just what to do, where to go. This was the most rugged country she’d ever seen, both beautiful and menacing, dry and dusty in places, green and forested in others.

  It took every effort just to get to her feet, and she wasn’t sure how she was possibly going to dig a hole, considering how hard the ground was. She knew she was a mess with Johnny’s blood on her already-dirty dress but she dared not even wash. Water was too scarce out here. She’d better save what she had for drinking and wait to wash until she found a stream.

  She looked around, noticing that the land farther ahead rose into green hills. Maybe there was water there. And she saw pine trees, which meant dead wood for fires. She decided to head in that direction even before burying Johnny. It would be a good place for the animals to graze. She knew how to hobble them so they wouldn’t run away. She was a little bit afraid of the big oxen, but she would have to overcome her fear.

  She kicked out the fire, threw her blankets into the wagon. After relieving herself, she got the oxen under way again, surprised they would obey her at all. The poor things had been in yoke all day yesterday and last night with no relief. Maybe they sensed that there was good grass and possibly water ahead.

  “Come on, you,” she goaded, snapping the whip over their heads. “Let’s go. I love you, Brutus, Cleo, Tilda, Bo. Right now you’re my best friends.”

  The words brought a lump to her throat. She had no one now. No one. But she had chosen this path, and she would somehow survive.

  For over two hours they plodded on until the ground became softer and greener. The grass and forest she had thought were only a few minutes away had turned out to be much farther. She chided herself for not realizing that. Nothing out in this big country was as close as it seemed. She guided the oxen farther onto the grass, and she dearly wanted to lie down in it herself and sleep again. She knew she should be hungry, yet she had no appetite at all. Somehow s
he kept herself going, untied and hobbled Clete’s horse, removed its saddle and gear so it could graze comfortably. She would go through the gear later and keep what she would need.

  She was astonished by her own stamina, and by how hardened she suddenly felt by what had happened. She’d shot a man, maybe killed him, and she didn’t care. Why should she, after what he’d done? Ruthless. Yes, Clete Brown, one certainly had to be ruthless in a land like this, and she had a baby to think about.

  From a bin on the side of the wagon she took out the leather straps for hobbling the oxen. It took all her strength to unhook the heavy yokes and lift the top half up and over the lead oxen, then let the full yoke fall to the ground. She unhitched the lead team from the second team, then unyoked the second team. The animals seemed grateful, quickly wandering out into the grass, where they began grazing. Then suddenly they moved a little faster, following Clete’s horse, which, in spite of being hobbled, was walking clumsily toward a small dip farther ahead.

  “Wait!” she called to the animals, but there was no stopping them. She hurriedly followed behind, coming to the rise and seeing there a stream of water where they were already drinking. She couldn’t blame them, and she was glad she’d found a place where she could wash. But first she had to bury Johnny. She walked up to the oxen and quickly hobbled them while their attention was diverted by drinking, trusting that with grass and water right there, they would go no farther.

  Mustering all her courage, she cut Johnny’s body down, grimacing at how stiff it had become. Johnny, her sweet, spirited husband with the handsome smile. They had not even gotten the chance to say good-bye to each other. His intentions had been good and honorable. She had to believe that. At least he had married her, and he’d had plans to make them rich.

  Carrying a shovel from the wagon, she looked for a soft spot in the grass to dig. Yes, this was better than the hard, rocky ground farther back. This was as pretty a place as any to bury him. When she reached civilization, if she wasn’t killed first, she would write a letter to his parents and explain that their son was dead. She wasn’t sure if she should tell them the awful truth. It would be too hard on them, and her own parent would worry, too.

  She stuck the shovel into the ground and began the arduous task of digging a hole big enough for Johnny’s body. A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind as she dug. She would never tell her father she’d killed a man, if indeed Cletus Brown was even dead. She couldn’t think too seriously about it herself…not yet. It was just too much to bear. She dug and dug, sweat pouring down her face, soaking her dress. Finally she stopped to assess the size of the hole she had dug. She wanted to cry when she realized it was not nearly big enough.

  “God help me,” she whimpered. Her strength was running out. She needed to eat, to rest. She needed to think about the baby growing in her belly. She had never even told Johnny about it. Now the baby was all she would have of him, and she feared that the horror of what she’d been through, along with all this digging, might cause her to lose it.

  She took several deep breaths, wiping at sweat with the sleeve of her dress. She began shoveling again, for another hour, two hours, the sun rising to almost straight overhead. Soon she would have to stop, find a shady spot to rest, force herself to eat something.

  Finally she dropped the shovel. She drank from the water barrel, then took some bread from another bin, and a blanket from inside the wagon. She walked on weary legs to the stream, relieved to see the oxen and horse still grazed nearby. She spread out the blanket in the shade of a tall pine tree, where the fallen needles would make a soft bed. She splashed water from the stream over her face and hair, then let a light breeze cool her wet skin.

  Her feet ached, her shoulders and arms screamed with pain. She forced down some bread, then lay down in the shade, relishing the chance to rest. For the moment she didn’t care what time it was, didn’t care that she was lost. She would do and think about one thing at a time, and today’s task was to finish digging the hole so she could bury Johnny.

  Soon she drifted into blessed sleep. When she awoke, the sun had drifted farther to the west. She realized then that she had not wound her mantel clock this morning. She had bought the clock back in Chicago, planning to set it on a fireplace mantel when Johnny built the cabin he had promised her. Now there would be no cabin.

  She rubbed her eyes and sat up; then her blood ran cold. Just across the stream sat a man on a spotted horse with bear paws painted on its rump. He was Indian, and he was silently watching her.

  Chapter Ten

  Faith slowly got to her feet as the Indian guided his horse across the creek toward her. A gutted deer was tied over the horse’s rump, its head hanging limp. Perhaps this man was only out to hunt, not to make war. She had seen Indians around Fort Laramie, knew some could be peaceful, but she could not even remember what tribe those were. Shoshone? Crow? Cheyenne? She couldn’t think straight, her heart pounded so hard. She remembered other Cheyenne, with painted faces and a threatening countenance, who had frightened her to death when they had ridden in circles around their wagon when they’d come through Nebraska, yipping and whooping as though to make trouble. Clete had dickered with them, had managed to appease them with gifts of tobacco and a bottle of whiskey.

  Now here she was not so far from country where the Sioux, according to Clete, had been making war, determined to keep whites out of their hunting grounds. She remembered reading about the horrible things the Sioux had done back in Minnesota two years ago. Now here was a man obviously a warrior, most likely Sioux. He was more naked than any Indian she’d seen. Besides a necklace that looked as if it were made of some kind of claws, he wore only moccasins and an apronlike piece of animal skin over his privates. She felt as though she should be ashamed to look at him, but she dared not take her eyes off him. With a sinking heart she realized she had left her guns back at the wagon.

  Terror engulfed her. He had a powerful build, and he held a rifle in one hand. She noticed the curved handle of a big knife he wore at his waist, and white streaks were painted downward on his cheeks. His black hair hung nearly to his waist, across powerful shoulders. He had a proud look to him that seemed to say that this was a man who would do whatever he wanted with her. She’d heard Clete tell stories of what some Indians did to white women. He’d enjoyed terrifying her with his sickening tales.

  The Indian rode his horse right up to her. She stood frozen in place, knowing it would do no good to run. Clete had once said Indians respect bravery. Yes. She would act brave, defiant. Maybe that would work. Or maybe if she did everything he wanted, she would at least stay alive. Ruthless. Yes, ruthless. She had to remember that word. In the last two days she had learned a hard, quick lesson about being ruthless out in this wild country.

  The man looked around, curiosity in his eyes, eyes she only then noticed were green. Green! Maybe he wasn’t all Indian. Maybe he was what Clete called a half-breed. She grabbed her blanket and stepped back, clasping it to her breast. “What do you want! Go away!” she shouted. “Go away!” She waved her arm, trying to make him understand.

  He looked past her, his eyes again scanning the area. “Where is your man?” he asked.

  He spoke English! She was relieved. At least she could converse with him, make him understand, learn what it was he wanted. “He…he’s off hunting our supper,” she lied. “He’ll be back any minute, and he’s got one of those big rifles they use to hunt buffalo.” Clete had talked with buffalo hunters back at Fort Laramie. She’d seen those big guns, heard the damage they could do. “You—you’d better get out of here. If he sees you when he gets back, he’ll shoot you with that rifle. They make big holes. Big, big holes!”

  If not for what he’d seen that kind of gun do to his own wife and son, Tall Bear would find humor in this woman’s comment. He knew she was lying about her husband and his big gun, but he admired her courage. He’d hardly seen any white women since coming to Powder River country, and this was the prettiest one he’d ever s
een, here or in Minnesota, in spite of her haggard look and bloody dress.

  He was many miles south of the Powder, had come there with a hunting party following a herd of buffalo that was migrating south. There were women along for cleaning skins and curing meat, their village only a few miles to the north. After months of raiding with Red Cloud and his warriors, many white intruders had died, and the white man’s road to the mining camps was all but closed. Now was a time for hunting rather than making war. Game was becoming scarcer, and finding enough food meant straying farther and farther from old hunting grounds. This was as far south as he and his hunting party had ever come, and it was pretty country. He had been on his way back to the village when he’d spotted this white woman sleeping alone near the creek. He had seen the grave she’d been digging, quietly ridden over to her wagon, and had seen the stiffened, bloated body of a white man lying near it.

  “I know about the buffalo gun,” he sneered. “And I know there is no husband and no gun here. Who is it you try to bury? Is he your husband?”

  Dear God, he knows! she thought with failing courage. She stepped farther away. “What do you want? Please go away! I have nothing to trade. Just go away and leave me alone.”

  Tall Bear swung a leg over his horse’s neck and slid off the animal, still holding the rifle in his hand. “I want nothing you have,” he told her. “Do not be afraid of me.”

  Faith frowned in curiosity. This man not only spoke English, but there was a very slight accent to his words, one she could not quite pinpoint. “Why are you here if you don’t want anything?”

  He looked around warily again. “I saw the grave you dig. I saw the dead man. Do you need help?”