Angel Train (16 page)

“Yes, I do.”

She would have said more, perhaps, but at that moment Wingate stepped out of the wagon. Tremayne took one look at his face and knew everything. He saw York’s hopelessness, grief, and absolute futility.

“She’s gone,” Wingate said.

“The baby?” Marzina asked quickly.

“It’s a boy. I think he’ll be all right, but how in God’s name will I take care of him?”

Marzina stepped forward and put her hand on York Wingate’s arm. “I will care for him, Dr. Wingate. I’ll nurse him along with Benjamin. God will take care of him.”

Wingate’s eyes went to the woman, and the tears suddenly ran down his cheeks. “That’s—that’s kind of you.”

Wanting to help, Casey Tremayne said, “I’ll take care of your wife, Dr. Wingate. I know a place beside the river where she can rest. We’ll put a stone there and carve her name in it.”

“Thank you, Tremayne.” He returned to the wagon and came back, bearing the child. Holding him out, he said nothing as Marzina Cole took him.

“What will your husband say?”

“It doesn’t matter. I promise you your son will be cared for. I don’t suppose he has a name?”

“His name will be David. That was her choice. Almost her last words.”

“Come, David. I’ll care for you.”

The two men watched Marzina turn away, “Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Wingate?” Tremayne asked.

Wingate stared at Tremayne with tears running unheeded down his cheeks. “There’s very little any one of us can do for another, but you’re kind. And that woman, Mrs. Cole, is kind.” He tried to say something else, shook his head, and turned away.

Eager to have something to do, Tremayne found Charterhouse and Billy Watson.

“Get some shovels, Billy. We’ve got to dig a grave for Mrs. Wingate.”

GWILYM MORGAN STOOD WITH his Bible in his hand. A silence fell over the crowd that had gathered for the funeral of Helen Wingate. A rough coffin had been built with spare lumber, and it stood beside the stark hole the men had dug.

Tremayne had helped to dig the grave, and he stood at the back of the crowd. He kept his eyes on York Wingate, but, for the most part, he was listening intently to Morgan.

Morgan said quietly, “You’ve read the story of how Jairus, the ruler of a synagogue, came to beg Jesus to come and heal his daughter. Jesus agreed, and when they reached the house of Jairus, he was met by servants who told him that his daughter had already died. I wonder how many of us would have given up at that moment? Death is so final to some but not to Jesus. Jesus said, ‘Be not afraid, only believe.’”

Gwilym looked out over the crowd with sorrow in his eyes. “That, my dear friends, is always the Word of God to any whose heart is broken. ‘Be not afraid, only believe.’ And then the story goes on as I will read for you:”

Morgan lifted his eyes from the Bible, and his voice was strong, “In this case the damsel came back from the dead at once. That, of course, is what we always would like to see. That’s what we’d like to see for this dear sister. We want that for those who cross over, but God’s timing is not ours. Sometimes, in His infinite wisdom, He takes from us that which we love best. We will know why someday, I believe. But in this life we cannot know. But I believe that Jesus gave us the truth about all death when He said, ‘Be not afraid, only believe.’

“Helen Wingate will rise again. All who have taken Jesus Christ into their hearts will rise again.”

Tremayne felt a stirring in his spirit—the same sort of stirring he had felt when Morgan preached the sermon that had so moved him. He kept his eyes fixed on the faces of the
believers. He saw a victory there that most men would miss, and he knew, somehow, that the word from the Scripture had entered into his own heart. He felt the presence of God, and at that moment he knew that somewhere soon, perhaps, he would meet God.

The funeral ceremonies were short. Scriptures were read, and then the body was lowered into the earth. The grave was filled in, and York Wingate turned and walked away. He was joined by Gwilym Morgan who put his arm around the man and was murmuring as they left.

For some reason Casey Tremayne felt chained to the spot. Everyone was gone, or so he thought, and he began to walk around the clearing. Hearing a sound, he turned and found Charity approaching him. She stopped in front of him, and he saw tears in her eyes.

“I feel so sorry for Dr. Wingate.”

“So do I, but your father said, if he’s right, this woman is in a better place than she had here.”

“Do you believe that, Casey?”

“Yes, I do. I don’t understand it,” he said in a low tone, “but I believe it.”

The two walked on silently. Finally Tremayne said, “Look, there’s another grave.” The two moved forward, and they saw a board sticking up out of the ground. It had been carved, but the weather had nearly destroyed it. Tremayne saw the outline of what had been the grave, but it was almost gone. He began to trace the outline digging a crease in the earth with the toe of his boot. Charity watched and was somehow moved at the sight.

“We do that, don’t we? Try to keep death from being final.” Her voice was gentle, he looked up, and she added, “I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have God to look to.”

Tremayne gave her a straight look, nodded, and said, “I envy you, Charity.” He turned away. “Well, life has to go on. Come on, let’s get back to the train.”

* * *

TWO NIGHTS LATER AFTER setting up camp, Tremayne ate supper with the Morgans. Later he asked, “How many of you would like to have some ice-cold lemonade?”

Meredith, sitting next to him, gave him a direct look. “We don’t have any ice here. We’ve got some lemons, but that won’t make them cold.”

“Meredith, do you believe I can get ice for you out here in this desert?” His eyes were filled with fun, for he was always amused by the youngest Morgan girl.

“I don’t know, but if you say so, I’ll believe you, Casey.”

“Mr. Tremayne,” Gwilym Morgan smiled. “Learn some manners, girl.”

“That’s all right. I was called that a long time before I even knew my last name,” Tremayne said. “Come along.” He rose, walked to the wagon, and found a pick. Walking a few feet away, he began to dig at the ground. They all gathered around him.

Bronwen asked, “What are you digging a hole for?”

“That’s the way I make lemonade.”

“That’s foolish!” Bronwen said. “You can’t do that.”

As she spoke, the tip of the pick hit something, and Evan said, “I believe you’ve hit ground or rock there.”

They all watched as Tremayne swung the pickax and then he reached down and brought something up. “Look at this.” They all gathered around.

Charity reached out and touched it. “Why,” she exclaimed, “it’s cold!”

They all had to touch, and Casey said, “This is called the Ice Trough. We’re up high here. Don’t know why, but there’s always ice only a few feet down. Why don’t we wash this off and make some lemonade?”

The next few minutes were filled with excitement as Casey and Evan dug up plenty of ice. It had to be washed off carefully, but when water, lemons, and sugar were added, they all sat by their campfire, sipping lemonade.

Casey winked at Meredith, “There. You see? No one ever went broke betting on Casey Tremayne and his famous lemonade trick.”

“What comes next?” Evan asked.

“A big decision, Evan. We’ve got to decide whether to take the shortcut that lies up ahead of us. It’s called the Sublette Cutoff. We’ll have to have everybody vote on this.” He got up and disappeared into the night.

When he was gone, Meredith said, “I bet you didn’t think he could do it, did you, Charity?”

“No, I doubted him, but he did.”

“I may marry him when I grow up,” Meredith said.

“Don’t be foolish!” Bronwen snapped. “He’s too old for you.”

“I don’t care. By the time I’m old enough to get married, he won’t be much older than me.”

* * *

THE VOTE WAS TAKEN the next day, and Casey answered quite a few questions. “It’s shorter,” he said finally, “and we’ll save a
few days, but it’s rough going. Not much water. We may lose a few of the weaker stock.” He hesitated, then added, “Let me show you what lies ahead of us.” He located a sheet of paper and quickly drew a crude map.

“Here we are, and we’ll be in Fort Hall soon, then Fort Boise, which will be the last settlement before we get to the Dalles—except for Fort Walla Walla. We’ll take a vote, but I’d say we take the shortcut. I think we can make it.” The consensus was to take the shortcut, for people were tired of the trail.

After the meeting was over, Nolan Cole made his way back to his wagon. As soon as he got there, he saw Dr. York Wingate talking to Marzina. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

“He just stopped by to see how David is.”

Nolan Cole had always been jealous. He hadn’t much true affection for his wife, but he was a man who liked to own things completely. He also had a considerable temper, and he snapped, “Stay away from my wife, Wingate!”

“Don’t be foolish,” Marzina said. “We’re taking care of his baby, and someone has to help.”

“You shut up, Marzina! You chase after every man you see.” He saw that his words cut her, and it pleased him. He turned to face Wingate. “I’m telling you now to stop seeing my wife!” He grabbed Wingate by the front of his shirt and said, “If I see you around here again, I’ll break your neck.”

“Let him go, Nolan. He’s not—” Cole suddenly turned and backhanded Marzina. She was holding the infant in her arms, and she fell backward, shielding him.

“Don’t take it out on her. It’s not her fault.”

“Get out of here!”

Wingate hesitated but knew Nolan couldn’t be reasoned with. He turned and walked away.

“Get up!” Nolan snapped. “If you’re going to take care of that brat, do it, but stay away from that man!”

Marzina knew her husband well. He had a dog-in-themanger attitude toward her and always had. She did not argue with him. Her face stung from the blow, and she simply turned
and got into the wagon where she put the baby down. Then the tears began to run down her face.

* * *

IT DIDN’T TAKE THE members of the train long to feel the strain of Sublette Cutoff. The sun overhead grew as hot as a woodstove, throwing pale dry beams down on the oxen and cattle. The dogs even seemed to feel the strain, for they no longer dashed along, barking and chasing each other.

At times they’d travel far into the night, bumping over sagebrush and following the beds of old lakes that were now as dry as the dust itself that composed them. Each day they stopped and doled out water for the animals and turned them loose to graze on the sparsely covered floor of the desert. They breakfasted on dry meat and drank water so alkaline that when one had drunk his fill, his stomach seemed to swell. It was a hard time for all.

Charity and nearly everyone else knew the hard time Nolan Cole was giving his wife. She made it a point to go by at least once a day and help with the new baby. She also found time, whenever possible, to encourage York Wingate. “I know it’s hard,” she said once when they had stopped beside a thin trickle of a stream, “but it will be over someday.”

“I don’t know what to do, Charity,” York said. “He’s cruel to Marzina, but the baby needs her. I guess I need her too.”

Charity laid her hand on his arm. “She’s a fine woman married to a bad man.”

He gave her an intense look and said, “That’s kind of final, isn’t it?”

“It’s bad, but the Lord will take care of your son. He’s a healthy baby, and Marzina’s doing a fine job.”

Wingate shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

Charity knew there was no way she could help him except to offer encouragement, and she was determined to do that.

“Well, there it is. Fort Hall. What’s the date?” Tremayne asked.

Charterhouse seemed to add up in his head, “I think it’s September the nineteenth.”

The two led the train in, and Tremayne stepped off his horse and watered him in a trough. He saw Wingate walking wearily along and said, “Doc, if you need anything, this is one place you can buy it.”

“Not much, is it, Casey?”

“No. Built by a man named Nathaniel Wyeth—owned by the Hudson’s Bay Company. Not far up there, the trail turns off and winds its way down to California. A lot of people give up here and just go on there.”

“You think any of our group will?”

“Some of them are pretty tired. Yes, and the animals are tired too. I’d like to rest them, but we’re late. We’re liable to get caught in snow or ice if we don’t get out of here.”

Tremayne went to the store, bought a few supplies, and when he came out, he saw Charity. “Hello, Charity. Here to buy a few things?”

“Yes. Where are you going?”

“The Indian camp over there. I want to see what they know about how the trail is, on down the way.”

“Could I go with you? I’ve never seen any Indians up close.”

“Come along.”

The two made their way out of the trading post, and he spoke of the Indian problem. “We’ve been lucky,” he said. “All we had to do was meet a Cheyenne war party. There wouldn’t be as many of us now.”

Charity listened until they got to the Indian camp, and she stared at it with disgust. The camp stank to high heaven, and she had never seen such dirty people in all of her life. They were friendly and talkative but apparently also rather slow minded, dirty, and almost naked.

Finally they left, and she said, “Well, there goes all the romantic notions I had about Indians.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I’ve been reading books about how noble the savages are. I had an idea they were tall, brawny, strong people with piercing eyes. These don’t look like that at all.”

“You’re talking about the plains Indians, Charity, like the Blackfeet or the Sioux. These fish eaters are something different.” He grinned. “You ought to see what they eat besides fish—lizards, grasshoppers, stuff you would think would choke a man.”

They moved back, and Charity was amazed at how at ease she felt with Tremayne. It hadn’t been that way earlier. She nearly commented about it, but they were interrupted by York Wingate. He came hurrying with a worried frown on his face.

“We’ve got a problem, Casey. We got three people down sick.”