Chapter 7

 

Later in the afternoon, Miranda relaxed and breathed easier. It looked like they would make it without an Indian attack. They stopped for the night and readied the camp.

While Miranda built the fire, she heard an owl, perched in the grove of trees on the far side of the train. Another owl hooted near her wagon. As she added sticks to her cook fire, she wondered why the owls didn't wait until dark to call.

From bushes came the call of a meadow lark. Miranda enjoyed the bird's flute song, but something was strange about the tooo weet tooo tee deloo. When the meadow lark was answered by a similar tune, she tensed and looked across the circle. None of the other women noticed the birds. They were too busy preparing supper.

Worse yet came the song of mourning doves that had the cadence of hoot owls. That was a red flag to Miranda. She untied the chicken crate and walked to the wagon tongue to sit the crate in grass. The chickens needed to eat. After being crated so long, the hens had stopped laying. She placed the crate in the grass and shaded her eyes with her hand to searched the surrounding scenery.

She didn't like how quiet the timber was except for those strange birds calls. Miranda panicked at the thought there might be Indians lurking behind the nearby trees and bushes. She wheeled around and ran to find Anselm just as an arrow plunked into the Bjornson wagon seat three wagons away.

Birgit Bjornson screamed, “Indians!”

Men scrambled for their rifles while the women gathered up the children and huddle in the middle of camp. Arrows whizzed into the circle, plunking into wagons and the ground.

Savages, wearing nothing but face paint and breech cloths, rushed from the trees, screaming their attack. The men fired. Miranda saw a few Indians fall, but the rest kept coming.

Florian Bjornson squalled in agony and clutched his chest as an arrow sank into his body and came through his shoulder blade, driving him backward. He landed hard on the ground, pushing the arrow tip into the earth. By the time, Birgit, crying hysterically, knelt beside him, her husband had passed out which was a blessing.

Miranda ran to help Florian and comfort Birgit. She had to pull the woman off his body. “Let me help him, Birgit.”

The woman straightened up so Miranda could see Florian's wound. She stuffed a piece of cloth around the arrow shaft to stanch the bleeding from the front side.

Miranda patted Birgit's hand. “Just comfort him until this is over. The men will know what to do to get the arrow out of Florian.”

“Dank you,” Birgit said through trembling lips.

Miranda waited with Brigit for the fighting to stop, patting the woman's shoulder to keep her calm.

It didn't take long for the Indians to realize they were out numbered and out gunned. They retreated into the underbrush, mounted their paint ponies and raced away.

A few of the men were nicked by arrows. The worse injury was Florian Bjornson. He was bleeding badly from the look of the dark red pool seeping out from under him.

Some of the men gathered around. Coopersmith saw blood stained the front of Birgit's dress. “Ma'am, you get hit too?”

“Na, but please help my husband,” she pleaded.

Wilbur Mast went to his wagon for a bottle of whiskey to disinfect a knife. Another lifted the man's shoulder off the ground to bring the arrow out of the soil. They held the limp man up while Coopersmith cut off the arrow tip and jerked out the shaft.

One steady pull on the shaft freed the arrow from Florian's shoulder. Miranda couldn't bear to watch. She was so thankful Florian remain-ed out cold until that part was over.

When men picked up the limp man, a trail of blood splatters followed them. By then, Birgit had a pallet made for him in the wagon bed. She packed the wound with bandages. Now all they could do was wait to see if the man lived through the night.

Wagon master Coopersmith put on extra guards that night to protect the train and the cattle. He was afraid the Indians might sneak back in the dark and scatter the herd. To everyone's relief that didn't happen.

The next morning, Anselm hitched the Bjornson oxen to their wagon and drove so Florian's wife could tend to her husband. Sarie Lee rode with them to help with Florian. Miranda had to drive her wagon, but she offered to stay through the night with Florian so Birgit could get some rest.

As Miranda drove away from camp, she noted the dead savages' bronze bodies, dressed only in loin cloths and war paint, sprawled on the ground. She closed her eyes and prayed a prayer of thanks to God for letting the men triumph over the Indians.

What was it her mother used to say. Expect to live forever but prepare to die tomorrow. She expected those Indians lived that way. She'd feared during the attack while she sat out in the the open with Brigit and Florian, with all the arrows flying, she might not see morning. If she'd died from an Indian arrow, she'd preferred that over being taken captive.

After a week of around the clock care, Brigit told Miranda and Sarie Lee Florian was mended enough they wouldn't have to help anymore. She gave each woman a hug and thanked them for all they did. Two weeks later, he was driving his wagon again.

One morning just before the wagons forded the South Platte River, Miranda was so worn out she didn't wake up when everyone else did.

A shower went through about bedtime the night before so the ground was damp. They had spent the night in the wagon. Anselm was able to slip out of the wagon, make a fire and cook coffee. He ate two cold biscuits from the larder, before he hitched up the team.

The jostling of the moving wagon woke Miranda. She hurried to dress and climbed on the seat with Anselm. She scolded, “Why didn't you wake me?”

“I hated to do dat ven you vere sleeping so good. I saved you a cold biscuit.” He reached behind him and took the lid off a small pan, fished out the biscuit and handed it to her. “De coffee pot is by the pan. It might be cooled off by now, but you can get you a cup if you vant.”

“Oh, I want.” Miranda kissed her thoughtful husband on the cheek, before she nibbled at her biscuit and drank her tepid coffee.

They traveled through the Nebraska prairie filled with buffalo, antelope and jack rabbits. What an abundance of game for the men to shoot. They had fresh meat when they stopped to eat.

Miranda never tired of looking at the vast varieties of wild flowers, nodding their heads in the waving prairie grass.

One morning, she heard unusual sounds coming from the tall grass. A low haunting sound that imitated the wind. Wooo, woo-ooo, woo-ooh was followed by a stomping noise.

“Anselm, what was that?”

“Dey are prairie chickens I dink,” he said. “Keep vatching. Maybe you vill see dem.”

A shorter patch of grass was ahead of them. Perhaps grazed short by buffalo. Miranda watched as they grew near. Sure enough she saw some brown speckled birds that reminded of her of black and white Dominick hens.

The real show was the reddish gold males, doing a ritual dance. After the birds sang their woo-ooo song, they stomped their left foot. The birds pounding the dry ground made a resounding noise which was what Miranda heard before.

The birds repeated stomps with their right feet. The pace of the stomps sped up until the sounds came fast like drum roll beats. Suddenly, males leaped into the air, twisted and turned. When they landed, they kept stomping with their tail and neck feathers fluffed up.

They bowed to the females while they pumped air into the leathery orange sacks on each side of their neck. Their breasts swelled double in size.

The show continued as the wagons rolled past. The prairie chickens were oblivious about the train as the males tried to get the hens to pay attention. Miranda leaned over to look back. From what she'd heard about Indian rituals, she wondered if the braves had copied their war dances from the birds.

What she wasn't so crazy about was the dirt mounds the wagon bounced over, and the stupid, noisy prairie dogs that dug them.

Several of the animals kept watch when the wagons came close. They made loud barks to warned the others to scamper into their dens and hide until the wagons rolled by.

Piping plovers were thick in the tall grass. The birds didn't like their quiet space disturbed. While the slow moving wagons traveled close to them, they continually complained with their bell like whistles.

One day, the scout reported a large herd of buffalo was in front of them. Jim Coopersmith rode along the wagons to announce there wouldn't be any walking until the buffalo moved over. He ordered to keep the younguns in the wagons and be quiet. He didn't want shouting or loud noises to stampede the herd.

Now that was quite a sight to see. Buffalo surrounded the wagons, meandering along as if the herd was used to wagon trains. Miranda was pretty sure they just didn't understand what was happening around them.

After a hour of traveling with the train, something spooked the buffalo. With snorts and deep bawls, the herd took off and managed to avoid running into the wagons.

When the buffalo herd was a safe distance away, the wagon master sent men out to kill a few for meat.

The plant growth was sparse they rolled along. Miranda surmised, Anselm was right. Not any decent wood to make a coffin out of here. Houses would be built out of sod blocks if people tried to live in this desolate land.

Few trees struggled to live in the thick, tall grass. Most were grease wood. The largest amount of plants were prickly pear cactus with large yellow blooms and a great number of tumbleweeds.

In the middle of one night, Miranda woke up to a clucking sound. It reminded her of a turkey call. She raised up on an elbow to look, fearing a creepy crawler had finally found their bed. When she couldn't see what was making the noise, she woke up Anselm.

“Vat iss de matter?” He mumbled sluggishly.

“I hear something. What is that noise?” Miranda whispered.

Anselm listened intently. “It iss just a flicker tail. De are thick on de prairie. He won't hurt you.”

“What is a flicker tail?” Miranda hissed, watching for any movement in the dark.

“You watch for dem tomorrow. Dey are a small light brown animal vit a dark strip down their back and bushy tail. Dere right name is chipmunks.”

“Is that all?” Miranda declared, feeling safer.

“Dat iss all. He iss just looking for a girl-friend. If you lay real still and let me go back to sleep, he might not try to get friendly vit you,” Anselm said, chuckling.

“Very funny,” Miranda hissed as she flatted and covered up. She tucked the bedding under her just in case.

When the train arrived at Platte River, the bank on the far side looked far away. Some guessed the distance was about a mile. As the wagons crossed the water, they found it little more than an inch deep. The current wasn't strong enough to carry away the red clay mud riled up by the many wagon wheels.

After the train was safely across the river, the ground went dry fast. The dust, kicked up by the wheels, was so thick everyone wore kerchiefs over their faces. A white coating adhered to their skin and clothes. Even the animals were dust covered.

When the train camped for the night, it was hard to cook and eat food without getting it layered in flying dust.

The wind was so strong the lantern attached to Anselm's wagon cast circles of light on their camp. The dizzying effect of the wobbling light was enough to make Miranda queasy. At least, she thought that was what made her sick at her stomach. Was it motion sickness or her pregnancy?