June 18, 1852
The Great Platte River Road
A somber group of women left Fort Kearny the next morning. By then, those who had been at the musicale knew that something bad had happened in the camp, although they did not know what, because the women who had been present at Asa’s death had kept the killing to themselves.
Although Asa was no longer a threat, Penn was more frightened than ever at the thought of his brothers catching up with her. Asa would have beaten her, but his brothers would kill her.
“Asa said he came on ahead of them. Surely they must be miles behind,” Maggie told Penn.
Penn was not reassured. “I wish I knowed if they was by theirself or joined up with a company. They’ll catch up, and when they find Asa ain’t there, they’ll come looking for me. What if dogs dig up the body? It ain’t that deep. His brothers’ll do me in for sure. And even though we turned his mule loose and throwed out his leavings like we done, they might find them.” She looked up at her friend. “If it wasn’t for you and Mary, I’d be dead already.”
“Mary. It was Mary who saved you.”
“You’d have struck him if Mary hadn’t taken that hatchet from you.”
Would she? Maggie wondered again. Would she have had the determination and the strength to kill Asa? A few months before, she would not have dared to strike a man with her hand, but things were different now. She and the other women were fiercely protective of each other. She had seen that when the dragoon attacked her. Instead of condemning her, the women had been solicitous, showing kindness by bringing her wildflowers and offering to watch Clara. Their kindness had helped her put the outrage behind her. Maggie would have sacrificed almost anything for them, and she knew that Mary felt as strongly as she did. The trip had given Mary a mission. Maggie realized that Mary considered the whole band her family. And they thought of Mary as their protector.
After Joseph’s fight with Asa, Maggie viewed Reverend Swain in a different light. She had thought him dour with only touches of compassion, but now she knew that, like Mary, he would protect them—not just spiritually but physically. He was no longer the stern, distant preacher but their friend. That night, when the company was packing the wagons for the next day’s journey, he said it was time to discard his pulpit.
“No! That ain’t right,” Penn said. “I’d throw out my new shawl before I’d let you do that.”
“I would lighten our wagon to make room for it,” Mary added.
“My rocking chair could go,” Bessie told him.
The women agreed the pulpit should travel to California with them. When the minister heard them, he turned away and put his hand to his eyes.
Caroline’s eyes were damp, too. “I always suspected there was greatness in him,” she told Maggie. “But until this journey, I could not be sure.”
“Have you told him?”
Caroline only smiled.
WHEN THE CALL came in the predawn to rise, Maggie was already awake. She roused Clara, and the two folded their quilts and emerged from the tent and began preparations for breakfast. Maggie had become as proficient as the men in dealing with the oxen and herding the cows. She sometimes rode a horse—astride now, after she and Caroline had ridden the horse left for them when Lavinia was dying—and once she even went hunting with Mary, although her aim was poor, and she shot nothing but sagebrush. The women who were not up to what was required of them had left the train at Fort Kearny. Three of them had joined the back-outs and were returning to St. Joseph.
While Bessie had said at the outset that she’d brought Evaline along to be her servant, Maggie noted that Bessie now did more for Evaline than the girl did for her. Evaline was a pretty thing, light skinned, her hair long and straight, and she had drawn stares from men in Fort Kearny. A few had made crude remarks. Bessie rarely let Evaline out of her sight now, watching over her just as Maggie watched over Clara.
From the start, Maggie had shared Clara’s care with Mary and Bessie and Winny and other members of the company. After all, they were going west to find husbands and form families. That meant children. They loved children, and they adored Clara, who was a bright, happy girl with outgoing ways that were infectious. Despite her boy’s rough clothing and her cropped pale hair, she was a pretty child. Whenever Caroline or Bessie made cookies or dried apple cake, they saved a portion for Clara. They told her stories, and Evaline drew pictures for Clara in her sketchbook. The two of them became companions, Evaline telling Clara that when they reached California, they would find a dog for her. Even Clara’s fussiness and occasional tantrums appealed to the women. After all, the girl was only four, and it was acceptable for her to be cranky at times. Evaline or Sadie soothed her and insisted she lay her head in their laps when she was tired.
“You are very lucky to have her,” Winny told Maggie one day, and Maggie knew it to be true. After the deaths of Lavinia and Asa, Maggie realized how fragile life was on the Overland Trail, and she became even more protective of Clara.
Maggie thought of little Dick and how he would have enjoyed the trip. Her son would have been old enough to help with the animals and take care of his sister. She missed him. So did Clara, who sometimes told her, “I want Dick.” Thoughts of her son made Clara just that much more precious to Maggie. She had not been able to protect him, but she vowed she would keep her daughter from harm.
MARY HAD SPOTTED a paper with information about Maggie and a description of her at the sutler’s store at Fort Kearny. “I ripped it up. It must have come with an express driver, and that is why it was there ahead of us. I tore it into shreds and threw them into the river,” she told Maggie.
“I knew of it already. Reverend Swain was given a copy, but he burned it,” Maggie said.
“The description of you was good, but it could fit a thousand other women on the Overland Trail. I would not worry.”
Maggie did worry, however. How many notices had been sent to the trading posts? What would happen to Clara if Maggie was apprehended?
“If I am found,” she told Mary one day as they walked beside the wagon, Clara skipping ahead of them, “I want you to take Clara. I believe the others will back you if you claim she is yours.”
“No one will arrest you,” Mary said.
“Perhaps not, but I want you to promise.”
“There are others better prepared to be a mother,” Mary said.
“None better than you.”
Mary smiled at that. “I will be her family,” she said.
“Family means a great deal to you.” Maggie stopped a moment to remove a sticker from her foot. She had decided to go barefoot to save her shoes, but the sand and rocks hurt her feet. She envied the women who had stopped wearing shoes weeks before and whose feet were now as tough as leather.
“It is why I came. I have always wanted one.”
“What about your family in Illinois?”
“A family is more than being born in the same house. My mother was a good woman and loving, but my father was hard. He believed I was intended to work for his benefit, just as Micah and Louise did. I expect to have a family whose members love each other as you and Clara do.”
“I thought Jesse was such a person. You cannot tell how a man will turn out.”
“I will tell. Else I will not marry.” Mary looked away. Her sunbonnet hid her face, so Maggie could not know what she was thinking. Then Mary turned back to Maggie and smiled. “We both agreed when we signed up for California that we were going to find husbands. But we had other reasons. You had a husband you did not want, and I was not sure I cared for one at all.”
“Perhaps they will expect us to pay back the cost of the trip then,” Maggie said.
“No, there was no time limit. We can tell them we are still looking.”
“Twenty years from now?” Maggie asked.
“Fifty if necessary.” Then Mary had a thought and turned to face Maggie. “What if you find someone suitable? Would you marry then, without telling him?”
“Telling him I had broken one of the commandments?”
Mary thought that over. “We have both done so. I think we should not concern ourselves much with the commandments.”
CAMPING IN SIGHT of other wagon trains made many of the women feel safer than if they had been out on the prairie by themselves. The trains made both Maggie and Penn apprehensive, however, because they could not be sure Asa’s brothers or Maggie’s stalkers were not among them.
“At least Penn knows who to look for,” Maggie told Mary. “I do not know who may be searching for me.”
Mary scoffed. “Half the women in our train fit the description I read. I think you can forget about someone recognizing you.”
That might be true, but Maggie was more comfortable when they were a distance away from other travelers. There seemed to be fewer of them now; whether that was because many had turned back or had taken different routes, she did not know. It seemed that before Fort Kearny, they were rarely out of sight of other emigrant trains. Now, they might go the better part of a day without encountering one.
Maggie knew that while she and Penn might feel safer with fewer other travelers about, the ministers did not. Two of their teamsters had deserted the train, joining faster trains at Fort Kearny, and William said he should have engaged more in St. Joseph. He did not care for the looks of the men along the trail who inquired about traveling with the women and so had hired no replacements. “I am concerned we will be attacked by Indians,” he said.
“You need not worry so much,” Maggie told him. “We were told it is unlikely we will encounter war parties. Besides, many of the women have learned how to shoot, just as we now are able to handle the oxen. I believe we could put up a good fight.” The words were partly bravado, because Maggie herself was a poor shot.
Indians approached them once or twice to beg for flour and coffee or to barter. Winny traded a tin ring for moccasins, which many of the women now wore. Maggie gave up two of her precious safety pins to acquire moccasins for Clara and herself. The Indian women brought food to trade—jerky, antelope and deer meat, wild onions, berries, and a concoction called pemmican, a mixture of berries, meat, and fat pounded together that could be chewed along the trail to stave off hunger. The Indians sold braided lariats as well as buffalo robes, which the women considered useless for summer nights. Besides, the robes were heavy and might have to be thrown out later on. But Mary thought the buffalo skins would warm them if they encountered snow, and she traded her hair combs for one.
Maggie did not like the Indians staring at her, and she was wary lest they snatch Clara. The Indian women pointed at dresses and bonnets, necklaces and brooches. The Indian men studied the white women, too, always asking why there were so many of them and so few men.
“Mormons?” one asked, for even among the Indians it was known that the members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints practiced polygamy. Like the first savages the women had encountered on the St. Joe road, the Indian men tried to barter for white brides.
“Too many. I take,” they said.
Mary seemed to be the woman who most intrigued the Indian men, probably because of her size and strength, but the men were interested in the others, too, and in Clara, who still dressed as a boy. One ran his hand through Clara’s hair, which was so blond that it was almost white, then pulled it to see if it was real. Clara was terrified, and Maggie, outraged, slapped the man’s hand away. He would have backhanded her if Edwin had not interfered.
William pondered the incident, then said, “He will lose face. An Indian woman would never dare strike her master, especially in front of others. We must placate him.” He offered the Indian a handful of coffee beans and a crock of sour pickles. The Indian muttered something, and William handed over the blue bandana that he wore around his neck. The warrior was still angry, casting furious glances back at Maggie, but he rode off, his women following him.
“Will he cause trouble?” Maggie asked, still comforting Clara.
“He might,” Edwin told her. “He has suffered an indignity. I wish we could have given him a horse. That would have satisfied him.”
“If we gave him a horse, he would tell the others, and before long, we would be traveling on shanks’ mare,” Joseph put in. “I hope he does not come back.”
“The fault is mine. I should not have struck him,” Maggie said.
“The only amend would be to hand over your daughter. I suppose if I were a mother, I would have done exactly as you did if an Indian touched a child of mine,” Edwin said. “A good mother would want to protect her child, and from what I have observed, you are indeed a good mother.”
He smiled so openly at Maggie that she blushed. She realized that Edwin had been more attentive to her since they left Fort Kearny, and she wondered if the others had noticed. He had shown her how to make a fire of buffalo chips, the circles of dung that the women used for fuel, now that there were fewer trees on the prairie. He brought her wildflowers that he spotted in the tall grasses, and he asked her to repair a rip in his shirt. She had thought nothing of it, for she often mended the clothing of the others in the train and was pleased to do so. Edwin was a favorite among the women because of his youth and good looks and thoughtfulness. Some vied for his attention, but he seemed to treat them all the same—except for her. She was flattered, of course. It had been a long time since any man had complimented her. But it also made her uneasy.
No matter how carefully the women watched the Indians, they found items missing when they were gone. After Maggie complained that her thimble was no longer on a rock where she had left it, Edwin told her, “They have eyes in the backs of their heads. Never underestimate them. And never rile them. They have a long memory.”
“Are they all so bad?” Maggie asked. She had given one of her safety pins to an Indian woman holding a small child. The mother was so loving that she reminded Maggie of a picture of the Madonna she had once seen.
“No,” Edwin answered. “Many have been helpful to white travelers who are sick or lost, but we reward them by cheating them. If I was an Indian, I would take what I could.”
THE MINISTERS FOLLOWED Edwin’s advice to give the Indians coffee or sugar or biscuits. “I hope when they leave us, they will tell the other red men that we are their friends,” Joseph said.
Edwin shook his head. “More likely, they will tell them of our strength—or lack of it.”
Ever since St. Joseph, tales of Indian depredations had spread among the emigrant trains. The emigrants did not speak from their own experiences but instead passed along stories told to them by others, embroidering them with each telling. Maggie heard tales of merciless killings, of men hacked to death, women raped and slaughtered, and children carried off. The travelers never told stories of white men who raped Indian women or shot Indian men for sport.
“Do they eat the children?” Dora asked Edwin after a woman told her about the kidnapping of a child.
“No, of course not,” he replied. “They raise them as their own. In fact, Indians love children. They rarely hurt them but instead adopt them into their tribe. That may be why the Indian was so taken with Clara.” His words did not reassure Maggie, who had heard of Indians who threw white babies into fires or bashed in the heads of those who cried too much.
They passed graves every day and stopped to read the names painted on rocks or wooden markers, wondering if the dead person might be someone they once knew. On occasion the cause of death was listed—cholera, for instance, which made Maggie think of Lavinia and hurry on for fear of catching the disease. There were inscriptions telling of the dead who had been killed in accidents. Mary pointed out one that read “Felled by a godless savage.”
“How many Indians were killed by godless white men, do you suppose?” Edwin asked.
Maggie could not help stopping to read the markers, although not all were about death. A few days after leaving Fort Kearny, Maggie came across a buffalo skull with the words “Forever Yours. E.M.” painted on it. She pointed it out to Winny, who merely shrugged until she spotted a second skull several days later. “Love Always. E.M.” was written on it. The next said “Meet me in Ft. Lar. E.M.”
“They must be love letters,” Maggie told the others.
“But what is their story?” Bessie asked.
“Perhaps we will find out in Fort Laramie,” Caroline told her.
The women made a game then of looking for the skulls, but after a half dozen, there were no more.
“Perhaps she changed her mind,” Winny said. The women were convinced the messages were written by a woman.
“Or she met somebody else,” Sadie suggested.
“Maybe she was run over by a wagon,” said Mary, who had thought the messages were silly.
“I think she ran out of buffalo skulls,” Maggie told them.
LATE ONE AFTERNOON, not long after Maggie had slapped the Indian, Mary spotted a group of warriors on the horizon. The wagon train should have been corralled by then, but William had kept the women going in hopes of finding a camping place with water. “Look!” Mary shouted.
“I do not like it,” the minister told her. He yelled, “Corral the wagons! Hurry! Indians!”
It was not the first time William had given such an order. The other instances had proven unnecessary, but still, the women were wary, and along with the teamsters they formed a circle with the wagons. Mary, Maggie, and others unyoked the oxen and herded them as well as the cows into the center of the enclosure, while the men took out their guns and positioned themselves beneath the wagons.
“They are not here to beg,” Edwin told Maggie, as he handed her a rifle. Then he slid under a wagon with William.
The women were barely in place when the Indians swooped down on the train. Maggie knew that they were facing a war party. There were no women or children among the men. The warriors, who had stripped to breechcloths, their bodies and faces painted with hideous designs, yelled savagely as they neared the train and rode around the circle, looking for openings.
Maggie spotted an Indian wearing William’s blue bandana. His face was painted in streaks of black and red, but she knew he was the man who had touched Clara. He had come for revenge with his band of warriors, and she was responsible. Had the man returned to snatch up Clara? She glanced back toward the center of the circle, where Clara was huddled under a blanket. Fear gripped her, and she knew she would kill the man before she would let him touch Clara—or he would kill her.
Edwin pointed out the Indian to William. “He is the one we have to get.”
Some of the women were badly frightened and clustered around Clara, yelling in terror or crying and praying. “If only I had not come,” one screamed. Perhaps none of them should have come, Maggie thought. She herself was almost paralyzed with fright.
“They say we must shoot ourselves rather than be taken by them,” cried a woman near Maggie. Could I kill my own daughter? Maggie wondered. The idea sickened her almost as much as the idea that an Indian might steal the girl and raise her as his own. She glanced at the child she loved more than anything in the world and fought back hysteria.
Only a few gave way to their fear. After the soldiers on the St. Joe road had shown the women how to shoot, William had drilled them in firearms. They learned not only how to handle guns and circle the wagons but to build bulwarks, piling trunks and bags around the wagons to protect the shooters. Those who could handle guns found positions under the wagons, while others took out medical supplies to treat any who were wounded. Despite their fears, each hurried to carry out William’s instructions.
It had all seemed simple when they practiced it. Now that the Indians were racing around the train, looking for ways into the circle, however, Maggie was terrified. She would do what was expected of her, but as she crawled under a wagon next to Mary, a gun in her hands, she worried she could not hold the weapon steady enough to shoot. Winny, who was an even poorer shot than Maggie, dropped down on the other side of Mary. “I cannot shoot,” Winny said, “but I can load your guns.”
Maggie’s hands shook as she aimed at a warrior who had ridden up next to her wagon, but instead of hitting him, she shot the horse of a second Indian.
“Good shot,” Mary told her.
Maggie wished she had Mary’s calmness, as Mary leveled her gun at a warrior and pulled the trigger, clipping his arm. He screamed and, holding his wounded arm against his side, made for Mary. He managed to shoot an arrow, but his aim was off, and the arrow struck the wagon cover. The man let go of his bow and came toward Mary, a hatchet in his hand. Maggie, her hands shaking, shot at him and missed. Penn dropped him.
The war party was small, made up of little more than twenty men. Still, they were not only ferocious but fearless. Maggie was stunned by their bravery. One Indian headed his horse toward the opening between two wagons and made it into the enclosure, using a war club to strike one of the women. He would have killed her if Edwin had not shot him.
Two of the Indians were dead then, but that did not stop the others. One came toward the wagons at a full gallop. Screaming, he raised a war club and knocked a teamster senseless. William shot at the Indian, wounding him, and the warrior fell from his horse.
At first, the Indians fought by themselves, each man attacking where he saw a weakness. But now, the warriors gathered a short distance from the wagons, then came toward the train as a group, yelling their war cries as if making a final assault.
“Get that God-damned bastard who is wearing my bandana,” William called.
Ignoring the profanity that would have shocked him at another time, Joseph aimed for the big Indian. So did the others.
“Now!” William shouted, and there was a volley of shots. The Indian in the bandana dropped his bow and slumped over on his horse. He tried to straighten up, and Maggie watched him, mesmerized. The fear of Clara being murdered or kidnapped made her raise her gun and sight it on the man. She would not regret this killing. Joseph, too, raised his rifle and fired, just as another shot rang out. The warrior slid off his horse and was trampled. A second Indian came to the man’s aid. He reached down and attempted to scoop up the body, but he, too, was hit and rode off, his shattered leg bleeding red against his white horse. The remaining Indians hurried after him.
There were no shouts of victory from the women, no cries of relief as the Indians disappeared. Several of those with guns stayed under the wagons, fearing the warriors would return, while the women in the center of the enclosure attended to the wounded. One built a fire and set a kettle of water on it to boil. Bessie took off her petticoat and tore it into strips to be used as bandages. William crawled out from under his wagon to assess the damage. A teamster was dead and two more injured, although their wounds would heal. One woman was mortally wounded, and a second was badly bruised where she had been hit with a war club, while Dora’s broken arm hung loose. A warrior had struck her with a hatchet.
Two of the three cows had been killed. An ox lay dead. Another had been struck by an arrow and was kneeling and bellowing in pain from a broken leg. It would have to be shot. The train had already lost two oxen, and two others had been poisoned by toxic weeds after leaving Fort Kearny. William had filled a bottle with melted lard and poured it down their throats, then forced them to swallow fatty bacon, but he was not sure they would recover. If they did not, the train would have to abandon a wagon.
Edwin turned over the warrior who had been shot dead when he breached the enclosure. “He looks like a white man,” Maggie said.
“He is. I believe there are white men who have joined this band of renegades. Such whites are more savage than the red men. They are responsible for many depredations blamed on Indian tribes. It is rare for a small group of Indian warriors to attack a well-fortified train such as ours. Perhaps these outlaws did so because we have a preponderance of women. They did not expect them to be fighters.”
“We will not worry about that now,” William told Joseph as the two went to the severely wounded woman, who had an arrow in her breast. She lay on a quilt, Caroline and Bessie attending her. Maggie had rushed to Clara as soon as the fighting was done, but Evaline had kept the child from being frightened, and now the two were drawing pictures in the dirt with a broken arrow. Evaline offered to look after Clara.
“She will not make it,” Edwin said, when Maggie joined those gathered around the wounded woman.
“Should we remove the arrow?” Joseph asked.
Edwin shook his head. “Sometimes the points are barbed. We do not know about this one because the arrow did not go all the way through her. If it had, we could cut off the arrowhead, then pull out the shaft. If the point is barbed, however, it would cause her more pain to remove it. She does not have long.”
William said a prayer over the woman, then went to Dora. Joseph stayed behind.
“Am I dying?” the woman asked. Her name was Adela, and she was a widow. She had made a meager living in Chicago teaching singing and had a beautiful voice that stirred Maggie on the Sabbath when they sang hymns. She was older, older even than Mary, but she had been among the first to sign up for the trip, telling the ministers she thought God didn’t intend for her to be alone the rest of her life. “You can tell me,” she said.
Joseph took the woman’s hand, as if not knowing how to reply. Maggie hoped he would not lie. It seemed dishonest to give her false hope. As she sponged the woman’s brow with a strip of cloth, Maggie grieved for her. Adela had come west with such hopes for a new life. Would she have stayed behind if she had known what would happen to her?
“I believe our Lord will welcome you before the day is out,” Joseph said. “You will be with Christ in heaven.”
The woman gave a small gasp. Her breath was labored. “I had hoped to meet Him one day, but not so soon.” She gave a little smile. “I shall tell Him of our adventure and ask Him to keep you safe. I believe He will be proud of us.”
“I hope so,” Joseph told her. “I am sorry it will end for you here.”
“Do not be sorry. I am glad I came. How glorious to have had a little adventure at the end. I always feared freezing to death alone in my room in Chicago. Now I can see heaven above me.” The words came slowly. “I shall be watching over you.” She raised her hand and tried to take Joseph’s. A moment later, she was dead.
Joseph grasped Caroline’s hand then, and together they said a prayer. When he was finished, he asked, “What have I brought her to? She believed she would come west for a better life, and now it has been taken from her.”
“She did not blame you. You gave her hope,” Caroline said.
Joseph shook his head. “How many more will we lose before we reach California? How many will I kill?”
“Her death is not your fault.”
“Perhaps not, but I feel responsible all the same.” He turned away and wiped his eyes. “I killed a man, Caroline. I took the life of another human. The Bible says thou shalt not kill, and I did so.”
“As you once told Mary, the killing was done only to protect the women. The Lord will forgive you.”
“I am not so sure. It is different. My responsibility is greater. I am a minister of the gospel, charged with defending it. I know I cannot forgive myself. I broke the commandment.” He covered his face with his hands to hide the tears.
“You did not kill that Indian. I did.”
The minister looked up into the face of Mary, who towered over him. He shook his head. “I delivered the final blow.”
“No, I did. I fired just a little before you. Your shot went wild. It was mine that took the Indian’s life.”
Joseph thought a moment. “How can you be so sure which bullet hit him?” he asked.
“I heard your shot a second after I fired. Perhaps yours was true, but if that is so, your bullet struck a dead man. Besides, Reverend, I am the better shootist.”
“Then I did not kill him?”
Mary shook her head.
“You saved us, then,” Caroline said. “We owe our lives to you, Mary.”
The praise seemed to make Mary uncomfortable, and she said she would go to see about the other wounded.
“You have nursed?” Caroline asked.
“No, I treated the animals on the farm. Wounds and broken bones in a human cannot be so much different.” She motioned for Maggie to join her.
When the two of them were out of earshot, Maggie asked, “Is it so, Mary? Did you truly kill the man?”
Mary smiled a little. “I am already responsible for one death. What matter that I should claim credit for a second? The Bible does not say you may kill once but not twice. Besides, the killing will not bring me the despair it would to Reverend Swain. We both know the guilt that comes from taking a life. I would save the minister from that.”
“I am the one responsible for Adela’s death,” Maggie said, looking down and twisting her hands. “If I had not slapped that Indian, he would not have come after us.” Two deaths now hung over her.
“Do not believe that!” Mary said fiercely. “You did what was necessary to protect Clara. She is worth breaking every commandment in the Bible.”
OTHERS HAD ALREADY seen to the wounds, which were serious but not life threatening. The two injured teamsters would have to ride in the wagons until they were healed. The woman who had been hit by the war club was weak and in pain, but William said no bones were broken, and she would recover.
Dora was the most severely injured. Her forearm was broken, and bones protruded through the flesh. She was conscious, her face racked with pain. William knelt beside her, examining the wound while women brought camphor, brandy, and ammonia from their wagons, not sure what would be needed.
“Perhaps the arm should come off,” Edwin suggested. “I have never seen a break so bad, and she would not want gangrene to set in.”
“No!” Dora screamed through her pain.
“I have set bones before,” Mary said. “It will hurt, and maybe her arm will be crooked, but I believe we can save it.” She held up the brandy bottle that someone had placed on the ground. “This will help, but laudanum would be better. Who has got laudanum?”
“I threw it out before Fort Kearny,” one woman told her.
When none of the others answered, Mary said, “Then we shall proceed without it. The brandy will have to do.” She held the bottle to Dora’s lips and forced her to drink, waiting a few minutes for the liquor to take effect. She ordered Maggie and Sadie to hold Dora still while she and Reverend Parnell pushed the bones together.
The bone-setting was a painful procedure. Dora screamed. Perspiration ran down the faces of the two “surgeons,” and they gritted their teeth as they set the arm. When Mary was satisfied the bones were in place, she laid a spoke from the back of Bessie’s rocking chair against the broken forearm to keep it straight, then bound it with strips of cloth. “I think she will be all right,” she said, as she sat back in the dirt. Dora had passed out, and Mary studied her for a moment. Dora’s breathing was ragged, but she no longer moaned. Mary touched Dora’s belly gently, then nodded. “I think she will be all right,” she repeated, then said, “and she will not lose the baby.”
It was then that Maggie realized that her own arm had been gashed during the fighting. The wound was long and jagged and soaked with blood, and it would have to be attended to. She might have asked Mary to care for it, but her friend was exhausted. And Reverend Parnell had disappeared. Maggie went to her wagon and took out needle and thread. Bracing herself against the wagon wheel, she stitched up the wound herself.
A teamster who was resting nearby watched the procedure and fainted.