A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy (26 page)

“They sure do be jawin’.”

“They can do their jawing while we drive on, can’t they?” Jesselynn knotted one end of the three thongs together and hooked that over a nail driven in the boot brace. Braiding rawhide was almost as good as knitting for keeping one’s mouth from running off.

The new man limped back past their wagon and climbed up onto his own. When Wolf signaled the start, the new wagon fell in behind them.

“Well, I’ll be.”

Crossing the bridge over Vermilion Creek sure beat the fording they’d done on others. The hollow sound of hooves on plank, the creak of the gear and wheels was music to Jesselynn. While the rest had felt good, the need to get going again had returned. Besides, the farmer there had been making eyes at Ahab. And who was the man with the wagon? Would he be friend or trouble? Trouble or troubadour? She shook her head. Where had
that
come from?

“Highwood, you’re on second watch tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” Jesselynn fought to keep the snap from her voice. Why couldn’t she just nod like most of the others?

The dissecting look she got from Wolf made her feel as if he was studying her, not quite sure how to take her.

“Jones, you too.”

Jesselynn coughed to hide the groan she’d almost let slip. Rufus was about the last man she wanted to stand watch with. While the bullet hole in his arm was healing well, it hadn’t helped his disposition any. He and his brother were weasel-mean clear through.

“Just you keep that fancy pants away from me,” Jones muttered with a sneer in Jesselynn’s direction.

Jesselynn could feel her right eyebrow arch.
What in the world is the matter with him? He got it in for me just ‘cause I let someone else bandage his arm? We saved his brother after all. Wasn’t my fault the two of them were fighting
.

Meshach shifted closer to where she sat on the wagon tongue. They’d had the bad luck to be camped right behind the Joneses in the circle of wagons. Not that anyone wanted to be on either side of them. In spite of Wolf having cautioned them, the language was enough to make a washerwoman blush.

Patch came and sat at her knee.

“That’s enough.” Like a rifle crack, Wolf’s command split the air.

Jesselynn felt more than heard Patch’s growl. Meshach cleared his throat. The two sounded much alike.

“Git ‘im away from that nigger and then see—”

“I said
enough
.” The whisper was far more intimidating than the bark.

Rufus shut up but rose from his seat and ambled off behind the wagon.

Jesselynn still wasn’t sure what all the shouting was about, but she knew it had something to do with her.

“I switch wid Marse Jesse.” Meshach didn’t ask—he stated.

Wolf shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Jesselynn waited until the others had gone before hissing at Meshach. “What was that all about?”

Meshach shook his head. “Better dis way.”

Across the circle Henry Bronson was tuning up his fiddle. Jesselynn breathed a sigh of relief. Since she had first watch, she wouldn’t have to worry about young lady Elizabeth making doe eyes at her.

Wolf knew the urge to kick Rufus Jones out of camp was not to be acted upon. But the thought of knocking the meanness out of him had plenty of appeal. Why hadn’t he seen what a passel of trouble those two brothers were? Young Highwood had done nothing but help the two, saved the life of one actually, but they still had it in for him.

Instead of joining the dancers around the fire, he saddled his horse and rode out to where the cattle and horses were grazing. The stars looked low enough that if he stood tall in his stirrups, he might pluck one out of the sky. A thin band of light still outlined the western horizon. Animals were better company than people anyway.

The thought of taking this wagon train clear to Oregon galled worse than a burr under a saddle. Especially after that crack tonight. There’d be more blood let on this train before the end of the trail, of that he was sure. Granted young Mr. Highwood was a trifle on the effeminate side, but he was still a boy, and some took longer to fill out than others. From what he heard and saw, the boy knew his medicine. Knew an awful lot for his age. Whatever his age was.

If he was with my people, he would have gone on his vision quest by now and most likely been on a raid to another tribe’s camp. Stealing horses was a step in growing to manhood.

He sat listening to the crunch of animals grazing, the occasional snort of a horse, the stamp of a foot. The fiddle sang of love and loss from behind him, the notes holding on the slight breeze like smoke. He sorted the odors on the wind that carried the pleas of the fiddle. Fresh cow manure, spring grass, dried horse sweat, fire smoke, fried venison, again thanks to that young black of Highwood’s. He’d said Benjamin could find deer and rabbit when others failed, and he’d proven himself repeatedly. But now that they were beyond the dense civilization of eastern Kansas, the game would be more plentiful.

He’d rather throw down his bedroll out here than in camp any day.

“That old goat,” Agatha grumbled as she stirred the morning mush.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Jesselynn stretched her arms above her head and yawned fit to crack her jaw.

“Brushface asked her to dance, and she din’t take to it.”

“Why not? Mr. Lyons seems like a very nice man.” Jesselynn dropped forward to touch her hands to the ground, anything to stretch out her back. “And besides, you shouldn’t call him that.” She must have slept on a dirt clump or something. By the time she roused Meshach for his watch, she could have slept on solid rock—with thorns in it.

“Speak of the angels—”

“Devil, most likely.”

“Aunt Agatha, he’ll hear you,” Jesselynn hissed under her breath.

“Morn’in.” Nathan Lyons tipped his hat in greeting.

“Morning, Mr. Lyons. Fine day.” Jesselynn watched her aunt out of the corner of her eye.

Agatha’s
harrumph
could be heard several wagons away.

Jesselynn glanced at Ophelia, who rolled her eyes and shrugged. When Agatha turned to fetch something out of the wagon, Jesselynn sidled over to Ophelia. “What is goin’ on here?”

“Mr. Lyons, he go out of him way to be nice to her, but she . . . oh, she get all riled up.”

“I see.” But she didn’t see a thing. Life would be so much easier if she could just ride and not have to sort out all the people. Like that pile of worthless bones, Rufus Jones. Whatever had gone on last night was sure to come around and cause trouble again. If only she understood what it was all about.

Halfway to the noon rest stop, Mrs. Brundsford caught up to Jesselynn walking beside her lead ox. “Mr. Jesse, I hate to bother you, but could you come look at Mrs. Smith’s littlest boy? He ain’t been well for the last couple of days.”

“The little guy with red curly hair?”

“That’s the one—Roddy.”

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“A’fore he was just listless, you know, wanting to be held all the time, whiney. But today he’s burning up with fever.”

Jesselynn called to Jane Ellen walking some ahead. “Come take my place for a while.”

Jane Ellen dropped back and took the goad Meshach had fashioned. “Where you goin’?”

“Going to the Smith wagon.”

The little boy lay on a pallet on a box in the rear of the wagon, where the rolled-up canvas side gave him a bit of breeze. His mother put another wet cloth on his forehead as Jesselynn and Mrs. Brundsford came around the end.

“I brung Mr. Jesse.”

“Thank you for coming, but I don’t see what you can do. He’s just doing poorly.”

Jesselynn laid a hand on the pale forehead. “He’s burning up with fever. Get that blanket off him and soak it in water. Wet, it might do him some good.”

“But he’s got the shakes one minute—”

“I know, but we need to get that fever down.” They’d just removed the blanket when the boy jerked so hard he almost fell off the box. He twitched all over and banged his head on the wood.

“Oh, he’s goin’ to die.”

“Hold him in your arms.” While she talked, Jesselynn dipped part of the blanket in the water and laid it on the child’s body. Roddy jerked again.

“Has he had anything to eat? To drink?” His mother shook her head at both questions. “Here.” Jesselynn handed a cup of water to Mrs. Smith. “See if you can spoon some into him when the fit is over.” While she worked with the child, Jesselynn racked her brain trying to think what her mother did in cases like this.

Willow tea
. But where could they get willow bark out here? And there was no fire to boil water with anyway.
Would laudanum help? But he’s not in pain
. She tried to sort out the conflicting thoughts.
Dear God, help us. Please, you love the little children, and we do too. Help us in the name of Jesus
.

The boy lay limp, his chest rising only slightly with each slow breath. But he was cooler to the touch. And he wasn’t shaking.

“Oh, dear God, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Jesse.” Mrs. Smith kissed her child’s little hand, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I already lost two babes, one born dead and another about this age. I sure do pray the Lord spares little Roddy here.”

“We’ll do what we can. Get as much water in him as possible. If Benjamin can bag some prairie chickens, we can make a broth tonight and get some nourishment in him.” Jesselynn laid her hand on the child’s chest, feeling the heartbeat only faintly. “Got any molasses or honey you could stir into the water? That might make him want more.”

“That I do.” Mabel Smith pointed to a box up behind her. “Get the jug out of there,” she told her older daughter.

Jesselynn left them spooning honey water into the little boy. He had that look of death about him, like a blown-out candle.

A woman’s keening woke the dawn. Jesselynn knew Roddy had died in his sleep. While he’d seemed some better the night before, she wasn’t surprised.

The men dug a hole while the women dressed the child in a pair of pants and shirt, both sewn by his mother for his upcoming birthday.

“He looks so nice. At least we had something proper to bury him in.” Mabel Smith stroked her child’s corn-silk hair. “Now, Roddy, you just play with all those children round Jesus’ feet.” Eyes streaming, she looked to Jesselynn. “Thank you for tryin’ to help us. Guess God just wanted another child back in His kingdom.”

“ ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,’ ” murmured one of the other women. “ ‘Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ ”

Jesselynn nodded and turned away.
Little children shouldn’t have to die like that. Why, God, do you spare mean hunks of offal like the Jones brothers and take a child away from his loving mother’s arms like this? I just don’t understand, and it makes me angry—real angry. Roddy brought joy and delight to everyone. Those others bring nothing but misery
.

She heard the others gathering for the reading and forced herself to join them, standing back on the fringes. Two of the men laid the small body, now wrapped in a quilt, in the hole. Mr. Bronson opened his Bible and read the Twenty-third Psalm. “ ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. . . . ’ ” Other voices joined in, and the ancient words drifted across the prairie. Jesselynn sighed, wiped the moisture from her eyes, and felt someone staring at her. She turned enough to see Rufus Jones snickering behind her and pantomiming wiping his eyes, then pointing at her.