Gone West (14 page)

Sam calmed down with the round of chuckles. But he inched closer to Gwen, tentatively reaching out his hand to touch hers. Maggie watched with bated breath. Would the gesture be accepted? She could almost read the sudden confusion in Gwen’s face. Hesitantly, her hand stretched to meet Sam’s. Maggie almost sighed audibly, while Johnny filled in the silence.

“I always wondered how women coped with all those skirts and things. I’ve heard that some on far out spreads take to wearing their husbands’ pants.” His eyes gleamed at Maggie wickedly, and he reached his own hand out for hers. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t be curious to see the effect.”

“On one, Johnny. I trust you really mean on
one
.” They both laughed as she accepted his hand.

Max rose. “Better get back to help tuck the girls in.”

Irish joined him. “Better tuck myself in. Midnight will come sooner than I’d like, and that’s for sure.” He paused a moment, looking up at the night sky. “Still, there might be a moment to mosey over to pay my respects to the Chandlers. Just to see how they’re holding up under the latest news.”

Maggie chuckled as she watched Irish make a beeline for the charms of young Susan Chandler, then leaned closer to Johnny as Sam pulled Gwen up for a walk. Adversity did create some positive results. Irish was showing signs of becoming a serious suitor to Chandler’s daughter, and there was a warm friendship starting between Gwen and Sam. If Sam had his way, and weren’t too forward . . .

“There’s matchmaking in your eyes, my girl. I’ve seen it before.”

“And why not?”

Johnny put his arm around his wife.

“Why not, indeed. Were all couples as well matched as ourselves there’d be considerable less strife in the world.”

He bent his head to whisper something into her ear. She blushed, but drew closer. It was dark now, and their forms were outlined only by the dimming light of their fire. Johnny glanced around once, then swung Meg low, and gave her a dramatic kiss.

“Your son is still wandering around out there,” Maggie protested feebly.

“Ah, now it’s
my
son!”

“You wouldn’t want him to~” Johnny was nibbling at her ear.

“Want him to what? See us kissing? It will do him good to know that his parents have a yen for each other. Or do you think he’ll run off to tattle to the Reverend?”

Maggie laughed and sat up. “Unlikely. But get him, please. I’ll feel better when he’s where I know he’s safe. You never can tell who’s prowling around outside the wagons.” She trembled at the thought. Johnny immediately understood, as he understood all things about her.

“I’ll get him. But don’t you be doing any wandering! I’m coming back to finish what I started.”

“I’ll be waiting, Johnny!”

Irish was woken by Jed Smith. He’d been having a strange dream. He’d made the Territory and found a pit of the highest quality clay right out beyond his cabin. Anxious to start work he’d hauled out his wheel, but instead of throwing pots he found himself creating vast, lifesize sculptures of animals. Elk, bear, buffalo. Huge clay forms surrounded him, but he could not quite complete any of them. He sat scratching his head, deep in a conundrum. He wanted his animals perfect, and they were but for one thing. He looked at the bear. Did it have a navel? What about the buffalo, the horse? Did animals have belly buttons? He was shaken again, more roughly.

“It’s midnight, Hardisty, your shift!” The voice was a harsh whisper.

Irish rolled over and up and in a minute was outside his small tent, blinking. He grabbed at Jed Smith as he turned wearily to leave.

“Those elk we bagged, did they have belly buttons?”

Smith’s face was dark in the night. “You been at the jug, too, Hardisty?”

Irish shook his head. “Never mind. Just a dream. I’m up now.”

“Where’s your rifle?”

“Oh.” Irish grinned charmingly but it was lost to the night and Smith’s receding figure. He bent for the rifle and slipped between the wagons, out of the circle of security, into the vastness of the plains and its mysteries.

Johnny and Maggie were entwined in sleep when the shot rang out. Johnny sprang up, instantly alert.

Maggie reached for him, to draw him close again. “What is it, Johnny?” Her voice was soft and sleep fogged.

“Trouble.” He pulled on his pants and boots, grabbed his shirt and sprang out of the tent, toward the sound that was still echoing in his mind. A second later he was back, reaching for the rifle that now went everywhere with him.

“Should I~?” her voice trailed off.

“Stay. Sleep. I’ll be back.”

There were no further shots, but slowly the camp came to life. The pre-dawn stillness was lit with lanterns, small will-o’-the-whisps flitting between wagons, hushed tones following them in an effort to keep the young ones asleep. Johnny had come back from the prairie with Irish in tow, tears streaming down the potter’s youthful face. Next had come several half-dressed men hauling a body between them.

After tossing restlessly in Johnny’s absence for several minutes, Maggie sensed something was very wrong. She made herself as decent as possible and went out to learn what had happened.

Hal Richman was spread out on the ground near a low fire. There was a bloody cavity where his chest used to be. Maggie took in the shocked expressions in the circle surrounding the man, then quickly stooped down to touch him.

“He’s still alive! What happened?” She searched for an answer from the stricken faces. “Never mind what happened. Where’s Grandma? And how about some cloth? We’ve got to stop the blood!”

Not waiting to see what was being done, Maggie slipped off the petticoat she’d only just gotten into and began stripping it into pieces.

“Somebody give me a knife,
please
!”

The crowd came alive and she grabbed at an offered knife, using it to rip off Richman’s shirt and tear away his longjohns. His chest looked bad. She wadded up some of the cloth and shoved it into the wound, putting pressure on the area. Finally, Grandma appeared, took one look, and took over.

Maggie rose. Irish was sitting on an upturned box in the darkness beyond the fire, stricken. Johnny was crouched next to him, with a supporting hand on his shoulder. She walked over.

“Is someone ready to explain?”

Johnny sighed. “Richman rose out of the grass, shrouded in a blanket like an Indian. Irish called out, but he didn’t answer. So he shot him.”

“God help us all.” Maggie’s knees suddenly buckled and she sank down upon the damp ground. “It was the footprints. The Indian talk.”

Irish put his face in his hands. Maggie reached out to touch him. “It could have been an Indian, Irish. We know they’re out there, following us.” She shoved her mass of loosened hair away from her face. “I didn’t realize you were such a good shot.”

Irish groaned. “He wasn’t more than twenty feet away. I could hardly have missed. It was so dark, the moon already set, but the blanket . . . and he seemed to have a feather in his hair.”

“It was grass sticking up,” Maggie sighed. “I pulled it out just now. He was sleeping on duty again, and had probably just woken. He was drinking, too. His breath was strong. I’d guess he didn’t even see you.”

She paused. The deed could not be undone. The finality of it was frightening.

“At least I don’t think he’s feeling any pain. Pray God he’s not.”

There was a low murmur from where Richman lay and Sam and Max slowly walked to them.

Irish raised his head from his hands. “Is he dead?”

Max nodded and Irish slumped into Johnny. “God forgive me. He had
eight
children!”

“And not an ounce of sense in his head.” It was Sam speaking. “He was given a trust, and he let all of us down. You’re not to be blamed, Hardisty. I would have taken the shot myself.”

The other men nodded as Gwen came bustling up, slightly late and out of breath, slightly out of touch as usual.

She took in the tableau before her, her hands slowly falling from the golden plaits she was working. Sam came to put a bearlike arm around her, to draw her protectively to himself, and the story was retold again.

They buried Hal Richman with his jug. The grave was started at first light, before the day’s heat could do further damage to his body. Grandma Richman supervised, brushing an occasional tear from her eye, an occasional youngster out of the way of progress.

“Set him out straight, now. That’s right. Asa! Fetch your Daddy’s best shirt, and his spare jug. Musta lost the other one in the grass last night.”

Asa dutifully returned and Grandma jumped into the shallow grave and dressed her son for the last time. She set the almost full jug lovingly next to his body and draped his raising arm around it. Her eyes made one final survey, seeing that all was as well as it could be before hauling herself up again.

Grandma peered through her spectacles at the full compliment of the train surrounding her. “Know you don’t approve of me burying him with his jug. It was his folly and his downfall. But it looks right with him there, and by God, I’m gettin’ my grandchildren to the Territory without it!”

Grandma was in charge, and no one, not even Josiah Winslow, was about to cross her. Raising a deep breath from her ample bosoms she continued her directions with authority.

“Josh Chandler. You’re the captain. Duty sets on you to say a few words.” Her eyes travelled farther around the circle of people. “Reverend Winslow. Know you had no truck with my boy, but being you’re the only clergyman present, I’ll thank you to follow up Chandler with a Christian prayer.”

Josh Chandler stepped forward from the hushed group. He pulled a huge handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it, then tucked it away. He motioned to smooth out his great, black, chest-length beard, but thought better of it, cleared his throat, and began.

“Friends, we gather here this morning to lay to rest one of our brothers. He weren’t a brother by kin, and he weren’t even a brother to most of us in friendship.” Chandler coughed and spat through thickly mustachioed lips off to the side. “He were, however, a brother in folly and tribulation, which all of us gets mixed up in from time to time. Through his faults, I figure he taught us all a few good lessons, lessons we can all learn by.

“Hal Richman signed a pact with all of us way back outside of Independence. He leaves us his mother, surely stronger in wisdom, and his eight little ones. We all signed that pact together, and I want you all to know that we’ll stand by it, and see that his family makes it to where he was plannin’ on takin’ them!”

Chandler looked around to make sure his words were understood. Pulling out his handkerchief again he wiped his sweaty hands and stepped back from the grave, giving a nod to Winslow.

There was a little flurry of anticipation amongst the emigrants as Winslow stepped forward. He’d been begging to be given the chance to preach, and now he finally had his opportunity. Some of the smaller children scurried to hide behind their mother’s skirts at the sight of the dour, black-coated man, frightened by earlier crossings of his path.

Maggie, with Johnny beside her, glanced quickly around the group. Winslow’s wife Ruth was standing straighter than usual, proud that her husband was finally to be where he shone, where he belonged.

Winslow himself had apparently anticipated the occasion. He was clean-shaven and had donned, besides his black frock coat, a fresh, soft shirt and black cravat. He stood gazing down at Hal Richman for a long moment, gathering the attention of the crowd, playing on his audience. Finally he spoke, and the words came out like thunder under the growing heat of the morning sun.

“‘Thy shoes shall be as iron and brass!”’ He paused to allow the words to sink in. “Yes, `Thy shoes shall be as iron and brass!’ This text from Deuteronomy must guide us. They shall be as iron to kick the enemies from under our feet: the heathen Brother Richman was mistaken for, the same heathen that I go to guide into the path of Peace, Understanding and Faith. We must make level the paths West with our boots! We must keep these feet from slipping, from being weighed down with dissipation, in
drink
, as this man’s feet were led; in debauchery, lust, drunkenness and orgies of the flesh!” He spun around, his eyes directed dangerously near where the Stuarts stood.

“Yes, beneath, and even outside of our tents at night I hear and see orgies of the flesh! Orgies which are not worthy of what we call ourselves. Are we Christians or Mormons? Mormons call themselves to the flesh; Christians to God. It is time to stand up and be counted, lest the Lord forsake us completely in this Wilderness! He has given us a sign, through our brother Richman. We must take heed before it is too late!”

Johnny’s hand slipped down Maggie’s back to give her a discreet squeeze. She was distracted enough to look at her husband and caught the amusement in his eyes. She felt little amusement herself. Had Winslow actually been spying on them all? Were his the footprints outside of Sam Thayer’s wagon? If so, why? Now he was shaking the Mormon bear at them again. Would this preoccupation chase them clear across the continent? The preacher’s voice drew her back again.