Coffin To Lie On (9 page)

On edge now that she didn't have
anything to occupy her mind, she got up and peeked out the canvas
opening again. With her ear cocked, she listened intently for horse
hooves or her husband’s good natured whistling. It had been a long
day since he took off across the prairie, following the horse
tracks. Now her idleness and loneliness made time crawl.

Tree frogs commenced to sing. Wings
fluttered on sleepy birds trying to balance on the tree limbs.
Whippoorwills called each other around the wagon. That made Miranda
recall the time on the trail when the Indian's signaled each other
before they attacked.

With a start, Miranda remembered
the chicken crate. She should put the chickens in the wagon with
her. She made it this far with four of the six hens and one
rooster. She didn't want to lose her start, before the hens laid
and hatch out her new flock.

She climbed out of the wagon and
picked up the crate. She eased the crate in to the wagon, causing
some of the sleepy hens to make a growling protest. Once Miranda
crawled in, she pulled the piece of clothes line and closed the
opening. She carried the crate to the front of the
wagon.

Night blackened the inside of her
wagon, making her thoughts even scarier as she filled with panic.
Were there Indians prowling close by? Would they accidentally come
upon the wagon hidden in this grove of trees?

A shrill screech close to the wagon
startled Miranda. The sound sent waves of smothering panic through
her down to her toes. She tightened her hand over her mouth to keep
from making a sound. Was that another cougar? No, that's probably
not what it was. The repeated, high pitched screeching sounded
different somehow.

She suddenly wished she'd learned
more about the critters in the wilderness before she started this
journey. She peeked out the crack. The eerie sounds came from high
in the tree nearest the wagon. Whatever it was didn't plan on
leaving anytime soon. Her nerves were on edge. Her breathing was
erratic. She couldn’t put up with that racket all night. She had to
do something to stop it.

Miranda rummaged through the small
crate she'd rested her elbow on and came up with a tin can. If her
aim was good, that should do the trick. She untied the line that
gathered the canvas and stuck her head out the opening.

With a tight hold, she drew back
and hurled the can up into the tree. The leaves rattled until the
can connected with a limb and noisily descended, hitting the ground
with a thud. A quick flutter of wings preceded a small, scared bird
gliding in front of the large, yellow moon that peeked above the
tree tops.

Taking a deep breath, Miranda felt
relieved and angry at herself as she closed the opening and tied
the line. That horrible noise came from a small, harmless screech
owl. She wasted a precious can of food to scare it away. She didn’t
hold out much hope for whatever was in that can to be edible by
morning. Even if she could find it in the tall grass.

A coyote barked a series of short
yips in the distance. Miranda tensed again. Another coyote with
longer yelps answered from the opposite direction. Was that the
signal of Indians or just nightlife on the prowl?

How was she supposed to protect
herself against Indians? Anselm took their only rifle with him. Not
that it really mattered since she didn’t know anything about firing
a gun. Anselm offered to teach her before they began this journey,
and she laughed at him. Why would she need to know how to shoot?
She could never harm one of God’s creatures. Of course, she was
thinking about wild animals and not savages.

She remembered the anxious look on
Anselm’s face. Miranda realized there was much he'd left unsaid,
possibly for fear she'd refuse to come west with him.

Anger at her husband welled up in
her. She didn’t know the worse she could expect to happen, because
Anselm hadn't seen fit to tell her. Her husband left her in this
helpless position totally unprepared. What if something happened to
him out there, and he never came back? What would happen to her in
this land of wild animals and savages?

Chapter 10

Miranda edged to the opening and
peeked out the small hole. She strained to see amid the twinkling
fireflies. She hoped the shifting shadows dancing about the
clearing were created only by the moonlit trees swaying in the
night breeze.

She tightened the gathering line in
the canvas opening to shut the rest of the hole and plopped back
down. She had to stop thinking dreadful thoughts and get her mind
on something pleasant if she stayed sane through this dark,
lonesome night. What had Anselm been telling her as they jarred
along trails rough enough to loosen her eye teeth?

They were going to homestead land
that would be theirs. They would have bountiful crops of fruit in a
few years from their orchard and a herd of cattle. Thoughts of a
new home with a roof over her head during bad weather and
protection from wild animals help calm Miranda's unsettled nerves.
Her eyes grew heavy. Her head nodded and rested on her
chest.

All at once, the whisper of grass
bending and straightening up along side the wagon brought Miranda
out of her stupor. Her eyes widened in fright. Her breathing became
next to nothing. She strained to listen attentively, and dreaded to
know what was out there.

Near the back wheel right under
her, she heard a succession of sniffs and the sound of water
trickling. An animal, checking out the wagon, had just marked his
territory. A whine followed a low growl. That meant there were two
animals. Miranda put her hand tightly over her mouth again to keep
from making a sound.

Easing forward, she put a finger in
the crack to widen the canvas opening. She gasped as she looked out
at moving, yellow glares of too many eyes to count. Wolves! Some of
them discovered the dead cougar. In a frenzy of ferocious growls,
they fought over tearing the carcass apart.

At the sight of the wolf pack, a
lump of fear rose in her throat, making it hard for her to breathe.
She shrank back in her spot. With all that sniffing around, those
keen smelling animals were bound to realize she was inside the
wagon when they didn't have the cougar to occupy them. What would
she do then?

Determined to protect herself,
Miranda frantically fingered the supplies in the dark, feeling for
a make shift weapon. She wished she could remember in what order
she packed everything at the last camp.

Something shifted and bumped loudly
against something else under her hand. Sounds outside the wagon
stopped. Miranda closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for her
safety. Now those wolves knew she was there. It wouldn’t take them
long to figure out how to get into the wagon.

Grabbing the rope ends, she drew
shut the canvas opening again. As it tightened, she heard a savage
snarl and made out the dark figure of a wolf lunging at the canvas.
Miranda held the opening in a tight grip and braced her body
against the canvas. The force of the wolf was almost more than she
could endure, but the canvas held. At least one of her ribs didn’t.
She heard the bone crack and felt excruciating pain course through
her chest.

The rustle of trampled grass mixed
with threatening growls when the wolves retreated at the sound of
her painful scream. Miranda peeked out.

The pack paced cautiously back and
forth at the edge of the clearing. They hadn’t left and had no
intention of leaving. She'd have to find something to use to fight
off their attacks until daylight. Maybe then they would leave, or
maybe Anselm would be back in time to help her.

Suddenly as hard as she'd had just
longed for Anselm to hurry back, she wished for him to stay gone
until morning. He'd be no match for all those wolves while trying
to hold on to his skittish horse. He might even lose the mount
again in the dark and have to go after him another time.

Again, she ran her hands over the
supplies. Her fingers touched cold wood, slender but long and
smooth. It was an axe handle, built sturdy enough to hold up under
pressure. No sooner had that thought passed through her mind when a
wolf reared up with his front paws on the wagon, sniffing the
canvas.

With both hands gripped tightly on
the cool wood, Miranda drew back the axe handle and swung down
through the slit in the opening with all her might. The wolf yelped
in pain as he took off for the safety of the trees.

Miranda was satisfied she drew
blood when the other wolves tackled the wounded animal. A weak or
injured member must be no good to the rest of the pack. A growling,
snarling battle began. As long as the scuffle lasted, she knew she
had a chance to rest.

Too soon, the carnage ended. With a
taste of blood, the wolves were eager for more meat. Miranda rose
up from her knees and braced herself with a tighter grip on the axe
handle. The wolves came in pairs and kept coming, lunging at the
canvas time after time.

The tough material ripped under
pressure from the wolves' teeth and toenails and blows from the axe
handle as Miranda beat them back. Her angry cries became as fierce
as the wolves' savage wails. She felt a dull satisfaction with each
blow when she heard painful yelps as the beasts
retreated.

Lost in the moment with no thought
of time, Miranda’s arms ached from exertion. Sweat dripped from her
frizzled curls, soaked her dress and tacked it to her. Cool night
air sifted through the tears in the canvas, making her wet,
overheated body shiver. Each twisting movement at the waist sent a
new wave of pain through her. A thick fuzziness in her head dulled
her eyesight. She willed herself not to pass out. She couldn’t let
those beasts win this battle.

Suddenly, there came a lull.
Miranda tensed for the next rush. The pause seemed forever long.
The world beyond the wagon was much too quiet. Now in the dim
light, she could make out the crates stacked around her.

She took a deep breath and winced
at the pain in her ribs. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she
eased herself upright and moved to the canvas opening. She peeked
through one of the rips. She could see shadowy trees and bushes.
She let out a whoosh of air when she realized that was all there
was. The wolves had slipped away to lick their wounds with the
exception of one dark furred skeletal carcass.

Miranda’s fingers slipped off the
canvas as she gently collapsed back on the quilts. She folded her
aching arms across her ribs and cried. How had she thought she'd
ever want to live in this terrible wilderness? Now it was too late
to go back. Anselm would never do it.

Whatever resolve she had to build a
new life with her husband and baby was gone. She wanted no part of
this land. Her last thought as she blacked out was she'd live here
because she had to, but she wouldn't like it.

Some time later though the fog in
her mind came sounds. Already in a panic, she fought to wake up and
searched around her with one hand for the axe handle. She
recognized the blows of a hard breathing horse. Indians had found
her. She looked at the axe handle and wished for a rifle.
Despairing fear mounted in her. It crossed her mind, she wouldn't
have to worry about enduring this terrible place for long. She’d
fought off wolves, but unarmed, she wasn't a match for
Indians.

The sound of walking horse hooves
ceased. Restless stomps followed. Miranda squeezed her eyes tightly
shut to keep from crying. The end of her life was near. All she
could do was wonder why she hadn’t been wise enough to start this
journey more prepared. If only she could do it over, she’d have ask
Anselm to teach her what she needed to know to survive in this
wilderness. Though now that she had a taste of what it was like in
Willamette Valley, she knew she probably would have talked Anselm
out of coming.

Drained of
energy, she looked up at the canvas top waving between the hoops in
the gentle breeze and prayed her life would end swiftly. Her prayer
was interrupted by the whistled tune
Old
Dan Tucker
.

For the first time since Anselm had
walked off and left her, Miranda lost the lonesome, whippoorwill
feeling. Tears of relief and joy streamed down her face as she
eased herself from a sitting position to greet her husband. She
opened the canvas and saw Anselm dismounting from his lathered up
horse. The man had run his poor horse hard to get back to her as
quickly as he could.

Miranda climbed out of the wagon
and collapsed in Anselm's arms. His face was solemn as he stared at
the wolf carcass.

Perhaps, he was surprised
Miranda made the trip in fine shape, considering her
health problems
. If so,
he has to be amazed at her stamina when she told him about fighting
off wolves all night.

Anselm seemed relieved she
hadn't been killed during the night. She must have looked pretty
frazzled, because he told her to go to bed in the tent and stay
there until she felt like getting up.

She protested she'd be all
right now that he was back, but he told her she had to think about
the baby.

Chapter 11

Work had always been a
priority with Anselm, but he lit into work now with a passion
Miranda had never seen in him before. He cleared his land and
planted all the young trees in his orchard. He turned the cattle
loose to graze, so he had to keep an eye on them for fear they
would stray too far away. He cut trees to build split rail fences
to keep the cattle in and split wood for cooking and winter
fires.