Leaving Independence (19 page)

CHAPTER 17

Dying in these buckskins

The train arrived at Ash Hollow at midday.

Ash Hollow was the steepest elevation drop on the route. It was slow, backbreaking work to get down it. As he worked with James and several of the other men to ease another wagon down the incline, using ropes and pulleys, Hoke wondered if he’d made the right decision coming on this trip. He was anxious to get past the sameness of the plains and see the upper half of the Rockies. They should reach Fort Laramie in another month. South Pass—the entrance to the Rockies—was two weeks the other side of Laramie.

It was mid-June and growing hotter by the day. Sweat poured down his aching back as he dug his heels into the earth and eased on the rope that was threatening to cut through the leather piece wrapped around his hands. James had a sharp welt on his forearm where his rope had slipped and cut it.

As Hoke held his own rope, he let his mind wander. It wandered mostly toward Abigail Baldwyn. They were two months into this trip and his feelings for her had only increased. Worse, now he was attached to her kids. And the dog—that pup was growing paws the size of his horse’s hooves!

Charlie especially had captured Hoke’s heart. What a hardworking kid, so like his mother in his mannerisms, never complaining about anything, just quietly taking it all in. Charlie stood at the foot of the hill now with Colonel Dotson and Jenkins, helping ease the wagons down and unhitch the ropes. Rascal was trotting back and forth between Hoke at the top of the hill and Charlie at the bottom, supervising the process and nipping at the heels of the mules and oxen when they needed encouragement. Charlie was good to the younger children and respectful to the older women like Mrs. Inez Schroeder. He had jumped right in to help when Timmy Peters drowned.

And that Jacob . . . Jacob was fun to watch. He was all boy, darker haired than his siblings and mischievous by nature. Jacob tried hard to keep up with Charlie, obviously doting on his big brother, as any boy would—but even more so due to the absence of his father. But Jacob didn’t have Charlie’s calm spirit or levelheadedness. Hoke had gotten so tickled when Jacob took a bead on that buffalo, only to be knocked backward by the kick of a rifle too big for him to handle.

He and Jacob had almost finished tanning the large hide. When they’d ridden back to camp after skinning the buffalo, with Jacob all quiet and humble, Abigail had looked like she’d wanted to tan Hoke’s hide—like he’d let her down. He’d felt her disappointment keenly. Then there had been the ugly business at Kearney.

When the Dotsons and Jenkinses cleaned the Vandergelden wagon before giving it to the Jaspers, they found several items hidden near the boy’s clothes—Abigail’s missing gold coins, a silver bowl and spoon belonging to the Schroeders, Tam’s telescope, and several other things. Evidently the boy had slipped around taking whatever appealed to him. He was the last one on the wagon train anyone would have suspected.

Five days ago, Hoke had finally approached Abigail . . .

She was sewing in her rocker in her usual place near the fire, seated across and well back from the singing and the chatter happening on the other side.

“Can you see well enough for that?”

Abigail didn’t seem to realize he was talking to her until he sat down on the ground beside her chair. They hadn’t had a good conversation in days. He would build the fire in the mornings, and she’d get her crate of supplies. As she was cleaning up after breakfast, he’d have water waiting for her. If she turned her back, he’d scoop the crate up and put it back in her wagon. In the afternoons he’d have another bucket waiting for her—for her feet. He still watered her plants. They were growing. He’d even nailed another piece of wood to the bottom of each box, as they were starting to get soft in spots. But he and Abigail weren’t talking other than her occasional “thanks” and his “don’t mind at all.”

She looked at him briefly, then continued to sew. “Yes, I can see.”

He loved watching her hands by the light of the flickering fire as she deftly worked the needle in and out of the fabric. The needle moved so fast! He didn’t see how she kept from sending it through her own fingers.

“What’s that you’re working on?”

“One of Orin Peters’s shirts. It needed mending.”

“What are you, Orin’s mother?” It annoyed Hoke that Peters hovered around her. It was obvious the kid was sweet on her and that stuck in Hoke’s craw.

Abigail shot him an irritated look. “I’m happy to mend shirts for anyone who needs it and doesn’t have another woman to ask. I even mended some socks for Mr. Parker a couple of days ago. Do you need anything mended, Mr. Hoke, or does Ingrid Schroeder do your mending along with your haircuts?”

“My hair
is
getting a little long again.” He ran a hand through the dark tangled mop on his head, relishing the thought that she might be jealous.

“She’s right over there.” Abigail nodded toward the Schroeders’ wagons, tied a knot, cut the thread, laid Orin’s shirt to the side, and picked up her next project—what looked like the yoke of a dress for Lina.

He scowled. “Why are you always goadin’ me?”

“I’m not goading you.”

“Yes, you are. Look, I’m sorry about Jacob. If you’re still mad at me for that, just say so.”

“I’m not mad at you for that. You didn’t cause it. It scared me is all. My children mean everything to me. We’ve lost Timmy Peters and the whole Vandergelden family. The McConnelly girls were assaulted and poor Mr. McConnelly hurt. It’s very sobering. I sometimes feel heavy with the decisions I’m making, Mr. Hoke. I lost my home and brought my children out here, and for what? The first military post we encounter is . . .”

He watched her fold the material she was working on, back and forth like she was making a fan. She lost her place and started refolding. But then she lost her place again.

She turned to him. “I don’t have anyone to ask whether I’m making a mistake or not. I don’t have a shoulder to cry on. At least I had Mimi for the past several years. Now, I’ve left her back in Tennessee. A woman needs some reassurance and someone to halve the burden with. I don’t know if you can appreciate that, but why should you? It’s not your concern.” She folded the pleats again.

Maybe he wanted it to be his concern.

Hoke leaned back and looked up at the stars, tracing the shapes of familiar constellations with his eyes.

She hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. As pleasant as she was with most everyone and as little as she ever complained, he sensed her heart was often heavy and had been heavier of late. It made sense that the Vandergelden tragedy, particularly, would weigh on her, or that she might have fears for herself and her girls where rough, godless men were concerned. Those incidents had hit all the women hard. He just hated to think he had added to her load with Jacob and the bison because that would mean he’d been part of the cause of what weighed on her.

Hoke wasn’t the reason anxiety was gripping Abigail’s heart. Every mile that brought them closer to Robert was a mile that brought them closer to their future, but . . . what kind of future would it be? Would Robert be angry she had brought the children? Would he be as altered as his letters seemed to indicate?

It had taken her over a week to pick her pen back up to write to Mimi.

June 12, 1866

Forgive me for not writing for several days. We had quite a tragedy and lost an entire family. I am ashamed to say I had judged the woman harshly.

But . . . as awful as her actions were, I understood her not wanting to leave her son behind on a river bank.

Abigail had confided her growing anxieties about reuniting with Robert only to Melinda and Christine Dotson, but even with them she was guarded. And she had never mentioned her conversation with Cecil Ryman to anyone. She didn’t like placing her burdens on others’ shoulders. Every woman out here had her own set of fears and worries. Every woman out here had a hope-filled, but unclear, future.

Josephine Jenkins had taken the Vandergeldens’ death particularly hard. She felt she had contributed by drawing Ned out to come to the dance. Christine blamed herself for not realizing how distraught Sue really had been after his death. The colonel knew Sue had a drinking problem. Should he have kept a better watch on her or taken the liquor out of her wagon when Ned died? It was a question that would haunt the Dotsons for the remainder of the trip. The colonel’s tolerance for drinking had dipped to an all-time low, which had already led to words between him and Rudy Schroeder.

“Tell me about Mimi,” said Hoke, interrupting her thoughts.

Abigail shook her head. “I’m not sure I can talk about her without getting emotional.”

“Is that who you write letters to?”

Abigail nodded.

“She can read?”

“She can. I taught Mimi everything I learned—she can even play the piano. I got in a lot of trouble for it.” She smiled, remembering. “But it was worth it.”

“You can play the piano?”

Abigail smiled again. “A little. We had a box Chickering when I was growing up, and I tried to teach the children whenever we went home to Franklin, but we never had one in Marston, so I’ve grown rusty. While we’re on the subject of musical talents: I like to hear you sing on Sundays. You have a nice voice.”

There was something about his voice . . . something deep like the center of the earth, that felt as calming as solid ground, yet stirring as a quake.

“When me and James are out on the trail it gets lonesome. Singing is a way to pass the evenings.”

“No chance of being lonesome in this group.” She looked across the camp. This was her favorite time of day. She loved sitting here in her usual spot after supper, set back from the fire, watching everyone . . . keeping all four children in her sights.

Right now, Lina was sitting in Christine’s lap listening to Josephine practice songs with the younger children. They all adored her. Katrina Schroeder and Faramond’s wife, Molly, held Katrina’s twins. Little Hannah and Deena Sutler were there, too.

The Kensington sisters and Mrs. Inez sat in their own group tatting and talking about quilt patterns.

Marnie Sutler had a sleeping Reuben in her arms and was walking him back to the wagon. Baird Douglas lay with his head on a sheep while Alec tuned his fiddle. Paddy was nearby trying to show the McConnelly sisters Carson’s latest trick. They looked bored with him.

Ingrid Schroeder was talking to her sister, Jocelyn, but looking over at Hoke from time to time. Ingrid often watched him in the evenings as he moved around the campfire. Abigail was keenly aware of Hoke’s movements, too, but hoped she was less obvious about it than young Ingrid Schroeder.

Harry, Tam, and James laughed over some clever thing that one of them had said.

Nichodemus and Nora Jasper were walking around the wagon circle, arms linked.

Charlie, the older Sutler boys, Clyde, Emma, and Corrine had their heads together, talking, and Jacob played near them with Cooper and Lijah.

Abigail felt like she knew each family better from quietly watching them as she sewed each evening. Hoke was the hardest one to keep track of. He was always busy—always moving—twisting a rope, nailing a board, pounding a piece of iron, cleaning a gun, rubbing down a horse, or shooting a bottle of grease down somebody’s ox’s throat to get its bowels moving again.

It was nice to see him stop and sit down for once. It was nice to have him sitting next to her. It felt lonely to sit here by herself and watch Harry and Tam talking and Nora and Nichodemus walking, and to listen to Mr. Austelle and Melinda visiting with the Becketts.