Colter's Journey Page 7
Indians? Tim stopped and leaned against the Scotts’ prairie schooner. No. Not Indians. He looked back toward the creek, where he had dragged the man with the black braids and black teeth, and the knife in his gut—the place where that piece of filth lay dead. A white man. A white man who had been dressed like an Indian.
Tim walked away from the wagon.
White men had killed his parents. White men had taken his sisters, Mrs. Scott, and sweet Patricia. But those white men looked like Indians. They had scalped his mother and father and Mr. Scott. They had filled their bodies with arrows, and left the long shafts with the bird feathers affixed to the ends in their bodies. Did they want to be Indians? Why would anyone want to be an Indian?
Well, Tim remembered when he was much, much younger.
The boys from Danville, and sometimes a few girls, would play. We would be Continental Army soldiers fighting Indians, and, of course, some of the boys always wanted to be Indians.
Those were kids games, though.
This is real.
He looked at one of the arrows sticking in his mother’s back. He bit his lip, and gripped the arrow with his left hand. Then . . . he jerked.
The arrow came out with an ugly sucking sound, and he saw the shaft all covered with his mother’s congealed blood. There was no arrowhead. It remained inside her.
The bile rose again, and he hurried away. He threw up, heaving until nothing remained in his stomach—not much remained anyway—yet still he retched. He gagged and threw up until he thought his ribs would break.
Finally, he made himself stand, and, tears flowing down his face, he returned to his mother and pulled out another arrow. It still had the arrowhead, a black stone stained with blood. He tossed it aside, wiped his mouth, and went back to work, until all the arrows were out of his mother’s body.
Next, he went to his father’s body. The white renegades had chopped off his father’s arms, carved gashes in his thigh, and slit his throat. Tim tried not to look at the corpse, tried to tell himself that what he saw on the blood-soaked ground was not his father.
“Pa is in a better place, walking the Streets of Gold, hand-in-hand with Ma,” he said aloud.
He knew what he had to do, so he pulled the arrows out of the mutilated thing that had once been his father, and dragged the bloated thing around the wagon until it lay next to his ma. He had to go back.
Somehow, he did not gag as he picked up the severed arms and brought them back to his pa, and tried his best to make the arms look natural—an impossibility.
The raiders had ransacked the two wagons, stealing what they thought they could sell or use, letting the wind carry off most of the clothes. Mirrors had been broken, and his mother’s favorite rocking chair smashed. Tattered ruins, now unrecognizable, littered the campground, and the tops of trunks had been ripped off their hinges. His father’s Lancaster rifle was gone, naturally, as were Mr. Scott’s fowling piece and long rifle. The raiders had even made off with Tim’s hatchet, which his father had bought for him before they had left Pennsylvania. The slingshot he had dropped? It was gone, as well.
Still, he found a spade, though the handle had been snapped off till it stretched less than two feet long, but that would do. It would have to do.
Near his parents, Tim began scraping away earth. The rough ash handle soon blistered his palms, but he worked through the pain until he could dig no deeper. It wasn’t deep at all, certainly not.
What did Pa always say about the dead? Six feet. Six feet under. So no. Not deep.
Maybe a foot and a half, but Tim made it wide enough. So gently, he moved his pa and his arms into the right edge of the shallow grave. Reverently, Tim placed his ma beside his father.
Back home in Danville, folks got separate graves, but Tim knew he didn’t have the strength for that. He couldn’t even give his parents a fitting grave. But at least they would be together. He put the dirt back around them, and then walked through the woods to the creek. He knew about wolves, and other animals—even Indians, some of the men had said—and how they would dig up bodies. That chilled him. Careful not to look at the body of the dead man, he found the heaviest stones he could lift and brought them back to the grave, laying them on the mounds of dirt he had piled up beside his parents. And back to the creek he walked.
Over and over he walked, back and forth, like a machine. Not thinking. Just doing. Scrapes covered his knuckles, and blisters formed on his fingertips, but still Tim worked. His muscles soon screamed in agony, for he was a city boy, not used to that kind of labor. Maybe he should have worked in the mills or headed up to the mines. That would have toughened him up.
It took him all day and into the night, but he kept on walking, finding stones, gently making a grave over the bodies of his parents. When the moon rose, he was still at it, though he had started to find the stones in the creek itself, and not just on the bank. The water soothed him, cleansed the cuts, popped blisters, and slaked his parched tongue, mouth, and throat. He worked until he could no longer walk.
Then he lay beside the unfinished grave, and cried himself to sleep.
Sometime in the night, he woke up with his muscles burning, and cried out for his mother, then he remembered everything. The pain in his arms did not lessen, but at some point, tired as he was, he fell back into a deep sleep.
* * *
When morning came, he went to the river, drank, and thought about trying to catch a fish. But he had no bait, and no clue how one fished out in the overpowering West. He stared at his hands.
Sighing, he picked up a smooth stone from the creek and carried it back to his parents’ grave.
At some point, he realized wolves and coyotes and bears, and, yes, even Indians, would have a hard time digging their way to the bodies. The grave, he determined, was finished.
He bowed his head, trying to recall the words he had heard preachers read at the funerals of the friends of his parents, or the siblings of his own friends who had been taken to heaven by disease or fever. He remembered Cindy Leonard, who had drowned in the river when she was twelve and he was seven. No words came. He couldn’t think anymore.
“Amen,” he said.
He picked up the spade and walked to the body of Mr. Scott. He had been a good friend of Tim’s father, and he had brought up a beautiful daughter. Tim could not, would not, leave him for wolves and ravens. Once again, he dug.
Probably not as deep as the shallow grave he had managed for his parents, and certainly not as many stones from the creek, but it would suffice. He had picked up the arrow-riddled body of the Scott’s old dog, too, bloating and heavy already, and starting to stink. The dog he had laid beside Mr. Scott, because Patricia’s father had sure loved that old dog. It had been a miracle the dog, lazy, old and feeble as it was, had even lived as long as it had on the Oregon Trail. Tim figured that Mr. Scott would enjoy spending eternity with his old friend.
Tim, on the other hand, had never cared much for that dog, especially now. The cur had not even managed to bark out a warning when those raiders had struck. Mr. Scott and the dog were together, buried.
He looked at Mr. Scott’s grave, then at his parents’, and realized something was missing.
A tombstone.
He had seen death on the trail before. The wagon train had buried five people since Independence. That’s how he knew about wolves and Indians. He entered the woods and found some fallen branches.
Using the broken branches and strips from clothing the killers had left littering the camp, he fashioned three crosses, and shoved the long ends in front of the graves, one for Mr. Scott, and two for his parents.
He wet his lips, his bones and muscles aching, and his stomach growled. When was the last time he had eaten? At some point, he remembered the smoke he had smelled back in the beaver dam. The man with the black braids had been fixing breakfast or something. He backed away from his parents’ grave and looked at the woods, trying to remember where he had seen the smoke wafting above the trees.
CHAPTER 11
Once Tim had pitched the last bone into the ash, he saw the gear at the base of a tree. On his knees, he moved to the tree and picked up the small sack, which he held up with his left hand and dumped into his right. Tobacco. And a pipe. Worthless.
He tossed the pipe away and wiped the flakes of tobacco off his hands. In the bigger pouch, he found an awl, a bullet mold, a smaller pouch that held musket balls, and a ring upon which he found a small brush, a black pick, and a hard rod. Tiny. He didn’t know what they were for, but he dropped them back inside the pouch. He also discovered a handmade screwdriver and another smaller pouch, inside of which he found flint and even some tinder. This he knew he would need, and dropped it back inside the larger leather bag with the rest of the stuff, pulling on the drawstring to close it.
Throwing the leather sack over his shoulder, he spotted the powder horn on the other side of the fire pit. This he grabbed and tossed it over his other shoulder before turning back to the tree and seeing another sack. It held salt, flour, dried meat, stale biscuits and another pouch, which held some kind of greasy substance. Pinching a little bit, he brought it out. He saw the bits of berries in some disgusting thing that smelled vaguely of meat. He didn’t like that smell or the grease, and dropped the leather pouch on the ground.
After wiping his fingers on his trousers, Tim ate a handful of salt, washing it down with water from the canteen. He wanted to devour the dried meat and biscuits, but figured that he had just eaten and that he had better save the rest of the food. He rose with his plunder, looked around for anything else, but found only a long bow and a quiver of arrows.
He could not keep his eyes on the quiver, remembering how his ma and pa had looked and how Mr. Scott had been. The meat he had just eaten began roiling in his belly. Swallowing, he kicked the quiver to the ground, and found an arrow. He wanted to throw it away, too, to block out those nightmares, but he needed a weapon for hunting.
Most men in this country, he had been told, carried long rifles. The man with the black braids had carried only pistols and knives, but possibly he had left a rifle in his camp. That would serve Tim better, perhaps, than a bow and arrow. Scanning each tree, he saw no Hawken, no Lancaster, no shotgun, nothing but bark and leaves.
The bow came to his shoulders. Well, a rifle would likely be that tall or even longer.
He picked up the bow and found the spot wrapped in leather where he figured he was supposed to grip it. He tried to pull back the string. Tried again. Pulled harder, but he could not get the string to hardly budge.
“I ain’t no Indian,” he said, and tossed the bow to the ground.
He started back toward the wagons and grave, then stopped as another thought occurred to him.
The killers and kidnappers were riding horses. He turned, looking through the forests, wondering if his foes had been left behind. Maybe he was a runner. Maybe the horse had run off. He saw no trace of animal—no saddle, no bridle, nothing.
All right, he said to himself silently. The man is a runner. Or those evil men left him here to die. No horse.
After traveling about twenty yards through the forest, he stopped again.
His stomach and bowels rebelled, but he made himself look back toward the river. He turned quickly away, and stared up the embankment toward the Conestogas, wondering if what waited for him there was any better than what lay by the creek.
With a heavy sigh, he moved through the woods.
The man still lay where he had fallen, but he had company.
Tim’s mouth moved, but emitted no sound. He swallowed, thought about running away, but knew what he had to do if he wanted to live. After clearing his throat, he yelled, “Hey!”
The big black birds ignored him. He dropped the sack containing the food and grabbed a branch. This he flung at the black birds, and then he ran toward them, waving his arms, and yelling at the top of his lungs.
His ma would have made him wash his mouth out with soap for using the words he shouted, but the birds took flight, squawking their hideous cries. They did not go far. A few lighted in trees, and some landed on the ground across the creek. Most stayed maybe thirty yards away, staring at him with their hideous eyes.
Trying to avoid looking at the dead man’s body, Tim grabbed the bone handle of the knife that had been buried in the man’s chest. He gagged, and pulled, and got the blade out, then wiped the blood on the man’s greasy leggings. Climbing over the dead body, he found the sheath that had held the knife stuck inside the sash. He pulled it free and slid the blade inside the leather sheath that was fringed and heavily beaded. He pulled the hatchet from the sash around the dead man’s waist. Without looking at the man’s face, he looked about the body for anything else he might need before deciding that the only thing he wanted from this man he already had. With knife and hatchet, he walked away, stopping to pick up the big pistol the man had carried. He stuck it in his waistband, and gathering again the knife and hatchet, Tim stumbled back to the abandoned wagons and the graves he had dug by himself.
Before reaching camp, he fell to his knees and vomited. Maybe it was the rabbit, or whatever the man with the black braids had cooked. Perhaps it was the dead man by the creek. There was more. Hurriedly he pulled down his trousers and underwear, and squatted, purging the sickness that ran through his body.
When that had passed, he fell onto his side and wished he were dead.
* * *
Tim made it back to the camp. Sick as he felt—the vomiting and diarrhea would continue well into the night—he made himself work. He found a blanket, which would serve him well during the cold, and fashioned a sash out of one of Mrs. Scott’s scarves. He slipped the knife’s sheath through it, and tied it around his waist, making sure it was tight.
Then he worked on the pistol.
He had never fired a weapon before, but he had seen many men in Danville and especially on the trail from Independence shoot and load.
Once he figured out how to get powder from the horn, he held the pistol up and poured down the barrel what he figured would do the job. Pulling the rod from beneath the barrel was easier, and he tamped down the powder. He fingered a round lead ball out of the dead man’s pouch and seated it atop the barrel. Once again, he used the ramrod to seat the ball.
He studied the flash pan. It had to be primed. He remembered that much, but decided to wait. Be safe. He didn’t want the gun to discharge accidentally and send the ball into his leg, groin, or gut. He shoved the pistol inside his waistband.
His hat was missing, but in a bush, he discovered the wide-brimmed, dirty, once-white hat that had been Mr. Scott’s. It was too big, but he used another scarf to tie on the hat. It pulled the brim down to his ears, and he expected that he resembled some sort of clown, but it would keep his ears from burning in the sun.
He laughed.
And got sick again.
* * *
The next morning, Tim tested his stomach by eating more salt and a biscuit. He thought about the dried meat, but decided against it.
Again, he looked about the wagons, found a gourd, which could be used for water. He did not have to go back to the river and risk seeing the black birds and the man with the black braids. He dipped the gourd inside the water barrel on the side of his parents’ prairie schooner and watched the bubbles until they stopped. Corking the barrel, he used strips of Mr. Scott’s blue calico shirt that a spoke of his wagon’s wheel had caught. H
e made a sling and wondered if he could carry all of it.
“I have to,” he said.
He wet his lips.
Stay. That was one thought. Stay. Another wagon train will be making its way here. Maybe even our party will come back wondering what kept us. He tried to remember what the plan had been. The train’s captain said they would wait for us at Bridger’s Trading Post. Tim could not remember how far away the post was.
Typically, the wagon train had made eight to ten miles a day, sometimes a little less, rarely any more. How long have I been here? Two days? Three? Four? Longer?
Three. He decided it had been three days. Three days since his ma and pa and Mr. Scott had been killed. That would put the train thirty miles down the trail. The ruts in the trail would be easy enough to follow. He had food, even weapons.
Carrying all his plunder, he walked back to Mr. Scott’s grave, took off his hat, which he had not yet secured with the scarf, and bowed his head. He could remember a little more than Amen.
“Ashes to ashes and dirt to dirt,” he said, which was all he could recall anyone ever saying at a burial. He knew his Bible. His ma had used it often enough to teach him how to read, but his mind remained fogged from the past few days. “You were a good man.” He looked at the cross. “You raised a good—” He couldn’t finish. He choked on the words and felt tears well in his eyes. Hat in hand, and carrying everything else, he went to the other grave.
“Ma,” he said, sniffing. “Pa. I love you. Know you loved me.”
He remembered hearing something else when the father of a friend in Danville had been killed when his horse threw him and broke his neck. You’re the man of the house.
“You were good parents. Both of you. And I reckon you’ll always be with me. I’ll try to make you proud. Rest in peace.”
Quickly he turned away and felt the wind drying the tears on his cheeks. He moved down from the camp, the graves, the horrible memories, and straddled the first rut. He faced west and stared at the trail so many wagons had left. How many have come this way? he wondered. How many men, women, and children have died?