Journey of Hope: A Novel of Triumph and Heartbreak on the Oregon Trail in 1852 (15 page)

John translated to the chief, and the small party made their way to the wagons.

The Indians and the settlers sat around the campfire, and a pipe was passed around many times. Mr. Douglas had his wound tended to, and he sat quietly in the circle. Ben sat with Brenna, who seemed very happy that he had returned safely. She had insisted he tell her the whole story twice, and she marveled at his bravery. Occasionally they heard whoops and gunshots from the Indian camp, but John LePointe assured everyone there was nothing to worry about. The women brought food and drink to the Indians who seemed to enjoy the fare very much. Someone played the fiddle, which amazed the braves. They looked at it, inside of it, and at the strange bow, wondering how the sound was made. The musician allowed some of them to try it, and their efforts were greeted with loud laughter from everyone. Then gifts of food, clothing, and a few trinkets from various wagons were brought out for the chief’s inspection. Someone donated a mirror, and all of the braves took turns looking at their reflections. Mary brought a cornhusk doll. The chief smiled at her and nodded his approval.

Captain Wyatt spoke to John LePointe.

“Tell Chief Lone Bull that Mr. Douglas’s property must be returned. He is not a wealthy man, and that is all he has in the world.”

John translated to the chief, who agreed to the condition.

“Chief Lone Bull will make sure everything is returned in the morning,” said John.

Sometime later, the Indians left the camp and returned to the larger group a short distance away. They had enjoyed the evening immensely, and they were happy with the trades they had made and their gifts. Before they left, Captain Wyatt said goodbye.

“John, it was good to see you. I hope we meet up again someday. Please tell Chief Lone Bull that it was an honor to have his company.”

“Farewell, my friend. I’m glad our meeting ended happily.”

In the morning, when the contents of Mr. Douglas’s wagon were returned, Mr. Douglas vehemently expressed his unhappiness. Half of his supplies were missing, and all of the whiskey was gone. Judging by the subdued state of the Indian party, it had been consumed the night before.

“You can thank your stars you got half of your supplies back,” Captain Wyatt said tersely. “Next time pay attention to your wagon instead of to your whiskey.” Then he turned on his heel and left Mr. Douglas staring at his back.

At the Flannigan camp Conor was quiet. They had passed many graves, most unmarked, but one of them near their camp had caught Conor’s attention. The crude wooden marker read, “Alva Unthank.”

“Da, that’s A.H. Unthank from the inscription on Register Cliff!”

“It could be, Conor.”

“I guess we won’t be meeting him in Oregon City,” he said sadly.

“No, Conor, I don’t think so, but you can honor him by collecting a few of these wildflowers for his grave and saying a little prayer. Then when we meet his kin in Oregon City, you can tell them what you did.”

Conor spent the next minutes doing just that. After he said his prayer, he felt better.

“Alva, if you’re listening, I’ll make sure your family knows you’ve been taken care of,” he said aloud, and he placed the small bouquet of wildflowers in front of the marker.

Emily’s Sacrifice

Chapter Twelve

July 22, 1852

Emily Hinton looked down at her shoes as she walked beside the wagon. They were so covered in trail dust she couldn’t tell what their original color had been. After these shoes wore out, she had one pair left, and they were her dressier ones that she intended to save for Oregon City. She knew the shoes she was wearing wouldn’t last another hundred miles, and then what would she do? She most likely would have to buy moccasins at Fort Hall. She shuddered at the thought of wearing the common-looking footwear, but many of the other women had purchased moccasins at Fort Laramie from the French traders and their Sioux wives.

The brim from her pretty yellow bonnet shielded Emily’s face from the sun, and she wore dainty white gloves to protect her hands. Some of her gloves were useless now, after holding the ropes in an attempt at keeping the wagon from tumbling down Windlass Hill. Two days ago, it had been overcast; she had not worn her hat and gloves, and her face and hands had gotten pink.

“Miss Emily, what were you thinking? You should always wear a hat and gloves when you’re outside!” Nellie remonstrated, and then proceeded to blot Emily’s face and hands with cold nettle tea.

Buster trotted happily next to Emily. He was her constant companion. He even slept with her—something Ernest didn’t care for at all. She looked at Ernest leading the stock that pulled their wagon. A general feeling of unease crept into her body. She wasn’t sure why she felt like this. She knew Ernest was keeping things from her. When she tried to find out what he wasn’t telling her, he would become evasive. Last night they had quarreled again.

“I declare, Mr. Hinton, you spend more time with Mr. Brown than with me. What is it that you talk about?”

“Emily, it’s men’s business. None of your concern.” Ernest was sanding the splintery handle of one of the shovels.

“What kind of business, Mr. Hinton?”

“The kind of business that most women don’t worry about, Emily.”

Emily looked at Ernest testily. “You’re not playing cards are you, Mr. Hinton?”

Ernest sighed heavily. “We play occasionally, Emily. Nothing wrong with that. It’s a gentlemen’s game.”

“I hear tell that Mr. Brown is a gambling man. Are these card games played for money?”

Ernest had slammed the shovel against the wagon. “Emily! I am your husband, and what I do with my money is my business!” His voice was loud “Now stop with these questions!”

Emily’s face flushed and she stared at Ernest until he looked away and left the camp.

They hadn’t spoken today, and Nellie had noticed and asked Emily what was wrong.

“I wish I knew, Nellie,” Emily had replied.

Abel Brown came around often, and the more she got to know him, the more she distrusted him. He was too smooth. He always had the right words, but she felt like he was hiding behind a handsome façade. The few times she had tried to draw him out in conversation and talk about his past, he had shifted the topic to something impersonal. He was a mystery, and more than that, he was enamored with her. He made subtle advances when Ernest wasn’t looking, and he flirted with her shamelessly, especially when he had been drinking. Finally, she confronted him.

“Mr. Brown, you are taking liberties with me and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

He laughed delightedly. “Why, Miss Emily, I apologize if I have done anything to cause you distress. Rest assured it will never happen again.” But it did, many times, and she had even spoken to Ernest about him.

“Emily, that’s just his way. His background is different from yours.”

“Just what is his background, Mr. Hinton? I can’t get him to talk about his past or his family at all.”

“He’s a very private person, Emily. He’s not close with his family, and he doesn’t like to talk about them. Best to just let it be.” After that, Emily made it a point to avoid Abel Brown until one day when Ernest was busy trading with Indians and Abel had sauntered into camp.

“Good afternoon, Miss Emily. Beautiful day today, isn’t it?” Abel tipped his hat and walked closer to where she was making biscuit dough. After a brief glance in his direction, she continued with her chore.

“Mr. Brown, Ernest is away at the moment. Why don’t you try back in an hour? I’m sure he’ll be back by then.”

“It’s you I came to see, Emily. Why don’t you clean your hands and sit with me for a while.” He took her hands out of the bowl and wiped them with her apron. She jerked her hands away and backed up a few paces.

“You shouldn’t be here, Mr. Brown. I think you should leave now.”

“Don’t be rude, Emily. Where’s that southern charm I’ve seen you display so many times? Come on, you can be nice to me.”

He closed the distance between them until her back was against the wagon. Then he leaned towards her, his hands on either side of her. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. His eyes, a yellow brown, smoldered. She looked around frantically, but no one was in sight. Then he chuckled.

“It’s just you and me, Emily, and it’s time we got better acquainted.” He pulled her to him roughly and covered her mouth with his. She struggled against him, but he was strong and his arms held her tightly. After what seemed an eternity, she was able to push him away. Then she slapped him as hard as she could. She felt gratified at the sight of her handprint on his cheek. She grabbed the pitchfork propped against the wagon and brandished it towards him.

“Get away from me, Mr. Brown, or I swear I’ll kill you!”

Abel Brown stepped back quickly, holding his hand to his cheek. He had personal experience with angry women and he knew what they could do. “Settle down, Miss Emily. I’m just being friendly.”

“I don’t like your kind of friendly. Now get out!” She jabbed the pitchfork towards him.

Abel was slowly backing up, keeping a close eye on the pitchfork. “I think I should go, Miss Emily. It’s been a pleasure.” He tipped his hat, turned, and walked out of camp.

Emily watched him go, and suddenly she felt her knees begin to give out. She sat on the bench and realized she was shaking. Her first thought was to tell Ernest. She wanted him to beat Abel Brown to a pulp. Then she almost laughed aloud. Ernest wasn’t a fighter. He would never last against the likes of someone like Abel Brown. Ernest had been raised to be a gentleman farmer.

There was something sinister about Abel Brown. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that Abel would kill Ernest and call it self-defense. No, it was better to keep it to herself. She would just make sure that she was never alone again where Abel Brown could take advantage of her. She just had to be careful. Her fingers went to her swollen lips. Not for the first time she wished she was a big burly man. “I’d teach him a lesson he’d never forget,” she said vehemently. For the next half hour, while she finished the biscuits, she imagined all the ways she would get back at Abel Brown.

Emily’s hands clenched tightly as she recalled that afternoon. She had never mentioned it to Ernest, and Abel had kept his distance. The wagons were slowing down and pulling into a shady area by the river. It was time for the mid-day meal and watering of the stock. As Ernest guided the wagon into its place, she noticed Rebecca Benson walking around their wagon. She was barefoot and seemed to be limping. It wasn’t uncommon to see women barefoot, and Rebecca certainly was sturdy, but Emily was sure something was wrong.

While Nellie prepared the meal, Emily walked to the Benson camp.

“Hi, Rebecca.”

Rebecca started when she heard Emily behind her. She was sitting on a bench applying some ointment to a large blister on her right heel. “Oh, hello, Emily! You startled me!”

Emily chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was so quiet. That’s a nasty looking blister!”

“Yes, I was wearing Ma’s shoes and they’re too small for me. I should have just gone barefoot.”

“Are your shoes worn out?”

“The last pair lasted a long time. When the sole got big holes, I put cloth inside, but eventually even that didn’t work. Ma told me to wear hers since she’s riding most of the time now with the baby so close.” She dabbed at the large and swollen blister. “But Ma’s feet are smaller than mine. I didn’t realize I was getting such a large blister. James made up this ointment for me to apply. Sure hope it works!”

Emily looked closely at Rebecca’s foot. “I may have a solution for you, Rebecca. I’ll be right back!”

A few minutes later Rebecca was exclaiming over the beautiful shoes that Emily had presented to her.

“I can’t accept these, Emily! They’re beautiful, and they’ll be ruined on the trail.” She held one up, admiring its ivory kid leather and side laces.

“Nonsense! I expect they will be ruined, but better the shoes than your feet! Now try one on. I think we may wear the same size.”

Rebecca slipped one on the foot that was not blistered. She laced it up and it went well past her ankle. Then she stood up and smiled broadly. “It fits! Emily, how can I ever thank you?”