Leaving Independence (25 page)

Hoke swung wide, drawing some fire away from the train. When a brown shoulder poked up from behind a rock, he lifted his Winchester and squeezed off a shot, then pulled on his horse, zigzagged wildly, and galloped to the back of the train as he worked the lever to fill the chamber, his eyes scanning for the snowy-white hair of Lina Baldwyn.

And then he found her, running with Josephine Jenkins, her eyes wide and frightened.

Company A was just pulling into formation. Everything was chaos—the attack was coming from the other end of the train, and the folks down here were still trying to process what was happening. The men were still tying the teams and grabbing their guns. Nichodemus Jasper was seeing to the Kensington sisters’ wagon now. Tam Woodford had come back to help, too. She was herding the sisters to a wagon on the inside of the circle.

Nelda Peters, who was on Doc’s orders for bed rest, poked her head out of the canvas while Orin jumped from the wagon seat to restrain his team. Josephine had Lina by the hand and appeared to be looking for Abigail.

“Hand her to me,” yelled Hoke.

Josephine lifted Lina up.

“Jump on, angel,” he instructed, scooping her up with his arm that held the rifle, reins in his other hand. Lina linked her arms and legs around him and buried her face in his chest, frightened by the noise and the shooting. He couldn’t have lost her in an avalanche.

“Tam!” called Hoke. “Take Gerald’s job so he can get to the middle!”

When Hoke rode up with Lina, Abigail’s whole body sagged with relief. Stretching out her arms, she pried her daughter off and looked up at him with large, grateful eyes.

“Get in your wagon,” he said gruffly.

Abigail ran to the wagon and lifted Lina up to Corrine. Katrina Schroeder ran by with one of the twins. “Your other one’s in here!” shouted Abigail, waving her over.

Hoke cursed when he saw Abigail run away from her wagon again. He wheeled to the back to check on Jasper, then rode back up to Dotson. “We’re closing the gap now!”

“Good man,” returned Dotson as he charged by. “You! Austelle! Run these over to your pa yonder, and keep your head down.”

Baird and Alec Douglas were fast, so when they ran up, Dotson kept them working the line with fresh guns. “Gerald, go plug that hole in the middle there, by Austelle. You’re the next best shooter I got. Good to see you. Rudy. You be Gerald’s loader. He’s got a .44 rimfire.”

“Where’s he going?” said Rudy, watching Hoke ride off.

“Everywhere, that’s where,” said Dotson smiling. “God’s providence he’s mounted today, but damn the luck of it being the white horse.”

“Get in here, Abigail Baldwyn!” yelled Bridgette Schroeder as Abigail ran past.

Ignoring her, Abigail ran for the northwest line, then stopped suddenly. A few of the Indians were starting to circle around. It was hard to tell how many, they were so quick to dart from tree to rock to bush.

Abigail had never seen men so naked before. Feathers stuck out of their hair and paint covered their faces and chests. These were nothing like the docile Indians they had encountered during their first month on the journey. These men were fierce and terrifying.

Once during the war, she and the children had traveled to see her sick mother in Franklin. The fighting had come within a few miles of her father’s land. Early that morning they heard scattered shots. At midday Abigail had climbed a hill on the edge of the land with Mimi and Arlon. She would never forget the scene she’d spied two miles in the distance: neat lines of blue soldiers stood on one side, and neat lines of gray stood on the other. Later, after Abigail and the others had left, the real fighting had begun, but at that moment, from the hill’s vantage point, it had reminded her of a patchwork quilt.

This was nothing like a patchwork quilt. This was brutal and steady. The Indians came in waves, patient as the sea slapping at a man-made vessel.

Abigail raised her pistol and aimed at one of the Indians as he stepped from behind a cedar and came into full view.

She couldn’t shoot. It felt wrong.

But when the Indian raised his bow and pointed an arrow at Jocelyn Schroeder, who was turning around in a daze, Abigail didn’t even think about it. She pulled the trigger.

In horror she watched his body jerk backward.

“Get to the inside, Jocelyn!” Abigail’s voice came out like a stranger’s—hoarse and raw.

Jocelyn looked at her in horror and did as she was told.

Abigail’s hand shook so badly she could hardly hold the gun. She had only wanted to see Charlie—to know that he was safe. But now she was caught in a dilemma: the men didn’t seem to notice that some of the Indians were circling around. Should she run to tell Dotson, she wondered?

Abigail heard someone yell in pain to her left. She didn’t turn to look; she kept her eyes on those three—no four!—Indians she saw circling and moving closer.

Hoke was suddenly beside her, off his horse now that all the wagons were set. “Dammit, Abigail, get to the inside!”

Just then an Indian slipped past the outer ring of wagons. Hoke shot him, then swatted at Abigail with the butt end of his rifle, trying to move her back toward the inner ring. Bullets were flying everywhere—Abigail saw one rip through the canvas of a wagon close by, one that she hoped was unoccupied. Nearby a dog yelped, having been stepped on by a nervous mule.

“Abby!” Hoke was shouting at her. She turned to look at him, then craned her neck as she looked past him at an Indian raising his rifle.

Taking the pistol in both hands to steady it, Abigail stepped to the right and shot.

Hoke wheeled around as the Indian fell, part of his head blown off, the bullet having caught it at an upward angle.

After that there was a sudden whoop followed by the sound of horses stampeding on the other side of the ring. Then abruptly the shots and shouting stopped, and there was only the lingering pound of the horses’ hooves as they topped the rise and flew over the hill.

Abigail shook all over, her eyes fixated on the part of the Indian’s head that lay glistening on the ground. She still held the pistol in both hands, though they were shaking violently. Her legs were shaking, too, and her arms . . . her heart was even shaking, as if her whole body were freezing.

Hoke took the Colt from her hands, shoved it in the back of his waistband, set his rifle on the ground beside Rascal, who was still barking, and lowered her arms to her sides.

“Hush now,” he scolded the dog, touching him briefly on the head. Rascal quieted but paced around nervously.

“I—can’t—stop—shaking,” she whispered, the words ragged and jerky. It surprised her she could speak at all. Her whole body felt jumpy and her gaze was frozen to the Indian’s head—a pool of pink-and-white liquid mixing with red blood on the grass. It was much more awful than the sight of bloody slabs of meat. She was responsible for it. She had caused it.

Hoke took her by the shoulders and turned her around so her back was to the Indian and to him. Then he slid his hands down her arms and held her tight. “It’s all right,” he crooned, the same way he talked to his horses. “It’s over. They’re gone. You did good. Everybody’s all right. You’re all right.”

Abigail breathed deep, in and out, her body pulsating, her ear on fire from the closeness of his mouth. She relaxed and laid her head back, loving how good it felt to be held by this strong, capable man she had grown to trust. He had brought Lina to her. He was always watching out for her and her children. She was so grateful for his strength. She didn’t want to have to be strong. She didn’t want to have to be both father and mother to her children.

Her eyes rolled back.

Abigail went limp. Hoke nearly dropped her. He scooped an arm under her legs to lift her up.

That was when he saw the blood on her blouse and skirt.

CHAPTER 23

Purple flowers and the smell of lavender

Hoke set her down and tore the clothes at her side to get a better look. Rascal was barking again. A bullet had passed through the fleshy part of Abigail’s right side, below the rib cage and above the hip bone.

It was a lucky spot and he didn’t think anything vital had been hit, but blood was pouring out. Had that caused her to faint? Or was it just nerves catching up with her?

He pulled off a long, wide section of her skirt, ripped two pieces from it, plugged a wad of fabric in each hole in her side, then wrapped another piece around her body to tie them in place. He lifted her up and carried her to her wagon.

“Go get the doc!” he told Emma Austelle, who was the first to poke her head out as he approached. “He’s at the Sutler wagon.”

Women who had been hiding inside the Baldwyns’ wagon spilled out to make room. Corrine’s eyes were wide. Jacob put his arm around Lina, who looked like she was going to cry.

“Is Mama dead?” Lina asked Hoke in a high-pitched voice, fear on her golden face.

It broke his heart.

“No, baby doll, your mama’s going to be just fine. She lost some blood and had a fright is all. Bullet came clean out the back, so it can’t hurt her anymore. Doc’ll tell us if anything vital was hit, but I don’t think it was. She had a scare . . . we’ve all had a scare . . . but your mother’s tough. You know that, right?” He smiled to reassure her—and to reassure himself—petting Lina’s golden ringlets with his blood-free hand.

Lina nodded as tears pooled in her eyes.

“You know if Mr. Hoke says it, it’s true, Lina.” Jacob squeezed his sister’s shoulders. “He’s not the kind to go soft on you just ’cause you’re young.”

Hoke put his hand on Jacob’s head. God, he loved these kids.

Charlie appeared at the back of the wagon. “I heard Mama was hurt!”

Hoke took Corrine’s hand and put it on Abigail’s side. “Put pressure on it until Doc Isaacs gets here. Mrs. Schroeder, will you get some water? Jacob, start a fire out here in case Doc needs the water boiled. There’ll be others wounded. It might take him a while to get here. Charlie, help me out here.”

When he climbed down from the wagon, he took Charlie aside. “Your mother’s goin’ to be all right.” He nodded toward one of the fallen Indians. “We need to get these bodies cleared out of the way.” The dogs were already starting to sniff and lick at the blood. “The women and children are going to be upset enough without seeing all this.”

Charlie swallowed hard. He was pleased Mr. Hoke treated him like a man and not one of the children, and he didn’t want to show how rattled and upset he felt. But if anything should happen to his mama, he would never forgive himself for suggesting they come west.

He had shot at several Indians—just like Mr. Hoke had told him to, putting the sight in the notch and squeezing off at six o’clock on the target—but hadn’t hit any. He also watched John Sutler kill one of the attackers. Mr. Sutler was very cool about it.

It all happened so fast—arrows whizzing, bullets flying. Charlie started to shoot at one Indian even before getting into position, overeager to impress because the colonel had showed faith in him. But Mr. Sutler put a hand on his rifle barrel. “Careful,” was all he said. Charlie looked past the end of his rifle then and saw Jocelyn Schroeder run by. He might have hit her! What a fool he would have been. He was grateful Mr. Sutler had been there and hoped the man didn’t think him an idiot.

To Charlie, everything had seemed like chaos. On his right, Harry Sims fought hand-to-hand with an Indian. Charlie watched him stab the Indian in the neck and twist the handle.

Mr. Sims carried a bowie knife—thicker than Mr. Hoke’s and ten inches long. He kept it sharp, too. Charlie had seen him sharpen it lots of times when they sat around the campfire. It was great for tanning a hide. An animal’s flesh peeled off like butter under the influence of that knife, just like the buffalo’s flesh had when they used Mr. Hoke’s to tan the hide on the one they killed. But Charlie had never thought about what that blade could do to a man’s neck before he saw it firsthand.

He felt sick now remembering it.

Clyde Austelle, who had been standing behind him after bringing Mr. Sutler a gun, had doubled over and retched at the sight. And Mr. Sims was a preacher! Toughest preacher Charlie had ever known.

Charlie’s respect for men like Hoke and Harry Sims and John Sutler had shot way up. And for Michael Chessor—only twenty, not much older than him—who had raced past him toward the front, snarling like a bobcat.

Hoke had been everywhere Charlie looked—racing down the line with the command to circle up the wagons . . . firing his rifle from his hip into the cedars at the north end of the train . . . racing up and down the line of men behind the wheels yelling, “Hold ’em off! Watch that one on the bank!”

He’d steered women and children to the inside and encouraged the men. He seemed to know where everyone was and exactly what was happening. Mr. Hoke was normally reserved and collected, but he sure could command attention when conditions called for it.

Charlie appreciated Dotson’s foresight and tactical planning, too. The way he’d told them to circle those wagons, and the way he stationed himself in the center so he could see what was happening, was smart. And each man only had to do one thing. That was smart thinking, too.

Dotson’s cool planning and solid decision making, coupled with Hoke’s quick action and ability to get up and down the line, was what had saved them, according to Charlie’s way of thinking.

When Hoke reached his wagon he pulled out two shovels and handed one to Charlie.

Colonel Dotson hurried over. “Hoke! Charlie! Looks like they’ve moved on, but James and Gerald are riding out to scout around and make sure they don’t double back. How’s Mrs. Baldwyn?”

“I think she’ll be fine. Doc’s with her now,” Hoke said.

Charlie looked toward the wagon. He hadn’t seen Doc Isaacs arrive.

“He got there when I was handing you the shovel,” Hoke told him. “Mrs. Austelle’s with her, too.”

The colonel gave Charlie’s shoulder a squeeze and pointed to the blood on Hoke’s shirt. “You weren’t hit, were you?”

Hoke shook his head and glanced at Charlie. “Must be hers.”

Pointing to the dead Indian on the ground, Hoke said, “He’d have killed me if your mother hadn’t shot him. Looked like you were holding your own, too.”

Charlie felt pride rush to his face.

Hoke started shoveling over the blood on the ground. Charlie got to work, too, doing exactly what Hoke was doing.

“How many of ours are hurt?” Hoke asked.

“Five that I know of,” said Dotson. “I’ve nearly finished making the rounds. Duncan Schroeder is the worst. He was shot twice—I don’t know how, he wasn’t even on the front line. Doc says one didn’t miss his heart an inch. Shot in the leg, too. Harry Sims had a tussle and got stabbed a couple of times, but the cuts aren’t too deep. Tam and the Jaspers are tending him. Baird Douglas was speared in the shoulder. Lijah Sutler took an arrow at the start. McConnelly turned his ankle pretty bad gettin’ out of his wagon. Guess that makes six with Mrs. Baldwyn. And six Indians on the ground. They carted off some of their wounded, too. That’s pretty good odds. I don’t think those Indians had a lot of guns. You notice what they did have?”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Hoke stepped over, picked up the rifle the Indian had dropped, and handed it to Charlie. “Army commissioned. Same kind they had at Laramie. Either they’ve picked ’em off dead soldiers or someone out here’s supplying to ’em. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I’m surprised they attacked us like they did,” said the colonel. Charlie handed him the rifle and got back to work. “They must have wanted those horses pretty bad, and for some reason weren’t as patient as normal. Lucky break for us.”

“You think they were put up to it?” asked Hoke.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to jump to conclusions and upset anybody without cause. Let’s get these bodies cleaned up and move on to a better spot. We’ve got some livestock to round up, too. You think we need to go after the horses they took?”

“How bad do you want ’em back?”

“I can live just fine without all of ’em, but you know Rudy Schroeder’ll throw a fit if I don’t offer. Two of ’em were his. At any rate, we don’t have to decide this minute.”

As Dotson left, Jenkins joined Hoke and Charlie. Together they dug a deep grave in a low spot a hundred yards from the wagon train. Then they went back to get the bodies. The most horrific site was the one where Abigail had saved Hoke’s life. As Hoke picked up a piece of the Indian’s head he bent down for a closer look at the body. A small leather bag was looped over one shoulder. Hoke cut it off.

“Jenkins,” he said in a low voice, not looking at Charlie. “Come here.”

The men opened the bag and looked at something they found inside it. Jenkins muttered, “Good God.” They looked closer at the dead man on the ground.

Jenkins turned the body with his foot. “That’s not an Indian. That’s a white man with a shaved head, dressed like an Indian.”

Charlie stepped over for a closer look. “What was in the pouch?”

Jenkins and Hoke exchanged a look.

“Picture of a white woman,” said Hoke. “See if you recognize her.” He held out the worn picture. Charlie’s heart dropped. It was of his mother.

“Who is he?” demanded Charlie. “How did he have that?” His veins had turned to ice. It didn’t make any sense why a white man would be dressed like an Indian and have his mother’s picture in his pouch.

“Let’s not say anything about this to anyone yet.” Jenkins put the picture in his pocket. “I’ll talk to the colonel. But Charlie, let’s not say anything to your mother or your brother and sisters about this. It may just be a strange coincidence.”

It wasn’t a strange coincidence. Charlie could feel it in his gut. “No, sir. I won’t say anything about it. But I want to know what y’all are thinking, and I want to be included in any efforts to find an explanation.”

Hoke nodded at Charlie. “Fair enough.”

Colonel Dotson moved the train to a camp four miles from the attack spot.

Once he’d gotten the rest of Company C settled, Hoke stopped by to check on Abigail. As he peered into the back of the wagon he caught a glimpse of her with her dress off, lying in her underclothes, Doc Isaacs dressing her wound. She had regained consciousness and looked out at Hoke over the back of the wagon with those big blue eyes. Her expression . . . was it pain? Longing? Gratitude? Or embarrassment?

Corrine blocked his view and said, “Mother’s not decent. You can come back later.” She closed the flap before he could protest. But Doc Isaacs was still in there. Doc got to see her not decent.

Hoke had intended to stop back by but ended up talking with Colonel Dotson and the other men until long after dark, going over the events of the day. What had worked well? What hadn’t? Who among them had proved his merit? Who hadn’t? Did anyone think they should go after the horses? “If so, say it now,” said Dotson, looking hard at Rudy Schroeder. But Rudy didn’t ask him to. The Schroeders were all worried about Duncan, and with good reason. Duncan Schroeder was the only one Doc Isaacs couldn’t promise would make it.

On his way back to the wagon to bed down for the night, Hoke stood beside Abigail’s box garden for several minutes, twisting his hat in his hands. It was easy to spot her wagons with those box gardens on the side. He needed to tie up that cherry tree again, before it started to lean. And this purple flower had really grown. What had she called it? A dahlia.

He lightly touched one of the blooms, thinking of how purple flowers would always remind him of her now—purple flowers and the smell of lavender.

She’d scared him. She’d really scared him.

He’d quit asking himself weeks ago why this woman made him crazy and had just resigned himself to the fact that she did.

Why the hell had she not stayed in the wagon with her children like he’d told her to? When he’d seen the group of Indians break off from the others and swing around during the attack, few of the other men had noticed. Even Dotson hadn’t noticed yet. But she had. She had looked like she was trying to decide whether to shout to the men nearest her or to just run and tackle those Indians on her own.