Ransom's Mark Read online

  Those left seemed stunned and busied themselves with helping children and tidying up after the meal, including the men. Olive wondered what they would do if the party split as Brewster threatened. Likely, the Lanes, the Thompsons, the Metteers and the Wilders would stay the original course with the Oatmans, taking the southern Cooke-Kearney route at the Forks. If Mr. Lane was in charge, Olive knew they would do well. He was a kind, thoughtful man who listened well and spoke carefully, but he could also make a decision and follow through.

  Olive loved Pa. He was the best father and the kindest man, but how he hated to have to take a stand. This discord with Mr. Brewster affected him deeply. His back ached as badly as it had in Illinois, and he seemed nervous and jumpy. He had longed to make the trip west—to “see the elephant” as he now often described it—but Olive knew he detested trouble.

  The company reached the Arkansas River at last and circled the wagons on the far bank, near Great Bend. The next day was Sunday, so when morning dawned, instead of harnessing the wagons and moving out, everyone gathered for a church service. As the group began to sing their first hymn, an eerie, discordant melody broke through. One by one the singers dropped out until only the strange whooping wails remained.

  “Look,” Lorenzo said, pointing to a hickory grove nearby. A band of Comanche danced around a herd of beautiful American horses and mules, some still saddled. Mr. Metteer, who had been guarding the livestock, stood very near the grove. As he edged closer to the wagons, one Comanche stepped out from behind a tree and leveled a gun at him. Mr. Metteer took a running dive and made it to camp just as the man stepped into the open, lowered his gun and made gestures of friendship.

  Olive watched Pa exhale.

  “Just as I thought,” said Pa. “They are harmless. Seeing we mean them no harm, they offer friendship.”

  Pa, along with the other men, invited the Comanche into the camp. Lorenzo and some of the older boys hung back, plainly distrustful. Olive watched Lorenzo’s face. Since the beginning of the journey he had seemed more like one of the men than one of the boys. She respected his instinct.

  After some visiting and gesturing, with not a little bit of poking into wagons and checking out provisions, the small tribe of Comanche pulled apart and began whispering among themselves. As Lorenzo and his friends saw this, they took their weapons and crouched down alongside the wagons, just in case.

  The Comanche, as if on command, dropped to one knee and fitted arrows into their bows. Too late, the pioneers realized they’d been foolish. They had appeared weak when they invited the strangers into their circle of safety. But before a single arrow could be shot, the boys stepped into view with their loaded guns, surprising both the Comanche and their own fellow travelers.

  Lowering their bows, the Comanche stood and boldly asked to be given a cow for beef. The travelers refused and the Indians reluctantly left. From that point in the journey, the guard on the livestock was doubled and the company became more wary.

  The next day they crossed the river and met a government train returning from the fort. The officers reported that the livestock being driven by the Comanche had been stolen from another wagon train on their way to the fort. Those emigrants had been left stranded without their livestock.

  That night Lucy and Olive both climbed into the crowded wagon to sleep. “Do you think all Indians are thieves?” asked Lucy.

  “No.” Olive wasn’t sure why she knew that, but she did. “I wonder if the Indians think all white people are weak and foolish?”

  “It looks like we don’t trust them and they don’t trust us, doesn’t it?” Lucy sighed. “They probably don’t like us coming into their land.”

  “Sometimes I’m just like Pa,” Olive said. “I wish everyone could be friends.”

  “Do you ever wish we could go home, Olive?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Me too.”

  The sound of a lone wolf calling across the prairie ended the conversation. Olive tried to keep an adventurous spirit, but tonight she felt insignificant and misplaced. A small sad cough coming from the direction of Lucy reminded her that at least she was not alone.

  The next day the wagon train crossed the Arkansas River. It took all day. As the Oatman wagon made its way across the river it tipped slightly, dumping a few things into the river: a mixing bowl, Charity Ann’s boots, and two oilcloth sacks— one containing the Bible and the other the lilac cutting.

  “Lorenzo! Royce!” Ma called out. “Please catch those things before they are carried away.”

  Lorenzo and Pa had to get the wagon across the river before they could retrieve the belongings. The Bible, the bowl, and one of Charity Ann’s boots were caught in a tangle of branches downstream. They eventually found the other boot on the opposite bank, wedged between two stones. The lilac pouch could not be found.

  “I cannot believe I’ve lost the chance of continuing the Sperry lilac in California.” Mother searched the banks for the remaining oilcloth sack.

  All the wagons finally crossed, and Mr. Brewster gave the call to move out. Olive understood her mother’s sense of loss and hung back slightly. Now that the company traveled deep within Indian Territory they needed to stay close to the wagons, but she hated to give up, for her mother’s sake.

  As the last wagon rolled across the grass, Olive tried one more clump of rushes. There, wedged between the stalks, lay the oilcloth sack. Thank You, God.

  “Olive,” her mother called from the wagon. “Don’t linger, it’s too dangerous.”

  Olive didn’t need to linger. “I found it, Ma! I found the lilac cutting.” She ran toward the wagon, waving the bag in the air.

  “Oh, Olive!” Her mother burst into tears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It shouldn’t mean so much.” She took the pouch from Olive, kissing her daughter’s fingers. “Thank you. Sometimes it feels as if there’s just been too much loss.”

  The feeling of loss continued. When the company reached the Santa Fe Pass, at a place called The Forks, the discord erupted, and the troubled Brewster party finally decided to part ways. Mr. Brewster and about half the others decided to abandon the journey and settle near Santa Fe. Olive’s family along with Mr. and Mrs. Lane, the Thompsons, the Wilders, and others headed down into Mexican Territory toward the town of Socorro. In some ways the split was a relief, especially since it ended the constant bickering. The smaller party respected each other and looked forward to a peaceful crossing.

  As the journey continued, the grass grew drier, the dust thicker, the air hotter, and water more scarce. The sun burned down on them during midday, and the nighttime temperatures grew cold.

  As Olive and Lucy walked alongside the wagon, they watched Mr. Lane coaxing the lead wagon along. “I don’t know what we’d do without Mr. Lane,” Olive said. “Doesn’t he somehow seem to be the father of our whole group?”

  “I’ve thought the same thing,” Lucy said. “He’s wise, he’s kind, and he seems to keep us going.”

  The country grew more mountainous. The steep inclines and descents took their toll. Most days they only traveled about a fourth of the distance they had covered on the prairies. Somehow the sense of adventure disappeared.

  Just a few days past the Rio Grande, Mr. Lane took sick. Pa said he thought it must be the mountain fever. Everyone in the party waited and hoped, but in a short time, Mr. Lane died.

  With heavy hearts, the travelers buried him at the foot of a hill. Olive, Susan, and Lucy dug up small flowering shrubs and planted a mass of color on his grave. That day marked the saddest day of the trip so far. No one talked—it felt as if their father had died and they were all orphans.

  It can’t get much worse than this,Olive thought as she scuffed her way alongside the wagon. Who will take care of us now?She looked over at Pa and saw the hunch of his shoulders. Yes. There’s no way it can get worse than—

  A shiver crawled along Olive’s shoulders. What? She turned around to focus on the dusty back trail just in time to watch
a group of Apaches turn their horses off the path and splash down into the stream.

  Maybe it can get worse.

  The Gila Trail

  Winter settled on the land, but still no rain. How strange to be so cold and yet so thirsty at the same time. It wasn’t like any winter Olive had experienced. After one long day without water, the wagons finally circled, and the travelers bedded down without having found a single creek, spring, or pool. The oxen bawled all night long. Babies whimpered and mothers worried. Olive could feel her lips cracking and her tongue getting thick and sticky from thirst. Her mouth gave a cracking, smacking sound every time she opened it.

  By morning the air had turned frigid, and snow had fallen during the night, capping all the mountains around the thirsty travelers. What a cruel joke to be looking at snow on the mountains while dying of thirst in the valley.

  They decided not to even bother cooking breakfast. Without water there could be neither corn mush nor coffee and, as thirsty as they were, dry food could never be coaxed down swollen throats. Besides, rations were so short that each person received less than a handful of food for a whole day. Their only hope was in pressing on toward possible water.

  Getting the thirsty oxen hitched and moving took real patience. Pa took solace in knowing that oxen were best suited to go long distances without water. Had they used only horses, they would have been stranded here.

  By midmorning hope began to flicker on the horizon. Up ahead, the tired, thirsty, hungry pioneers could see what looked like a stand of timber. Timber like that could only grow near water. At first they hardly dared to hope. They had seen many mirages in the desert—places that looked like lakes and trees but disappeared into the haze as they drew near. These trees, however, did not disappear as they drove toward them.

  After a full day’s travel they reached the grove of trees. A creek ran through the woodland, and though the water was too cold to drink in any quantity, plenty of wood lay around for the gathering. The chill was taken off the frigid water over a hastily built fire, and everyone drank deep and long.

  Not only did they find water, but wild game was plentiful as well. As soon as the wagons had been circled and the area secured, the men set out to hunt. They found turkey, deer, antelope, and wild sheep. To the half-starved travelers, it seemed as if a feast had been laid before them. They decided to stay for the better part of a week, gathering strength and letting their livestock fatten up on the rich grasses. The women began drying meat over smoky fires for the journey. The children picked the few fall berries that still clung to bushes.

  Susan took out her violin once again in the evenings, and the emigrants enjoyed singing. Olive could feel the group drawing closer once again. Her own family seemed to regain their sense of adventure.

  “Olive,” Royce called holding up three turkey feathers. “Want to play Indian brave and Indian squaw with me?”

  “I don’t think those are good words, Royce.” Olive noticed that the Indians they met never used those words at all.

  “What words?”

  “Squaw and brave.”

  “What do you call them?”

  “We say ‘Indian’ because that’s what they were called by mistake when the very first explorers came to this country. Pa says they never call themselves Indians. They use only their tribe names, like ‘I am Walapai’ or ‘I am Pima.’”

  “Not Indian?” Royce was confused.

  “No. Pa says their names for themselves usually mean ‘the people.’” Olive had been thinking about this. If the Oatmans were going to be living near Indians, she wanted to know more about them to lessen the fear she too often felt.

  “So what do you call a squaw?”

  “I don’t know, Royce.” Olive wondered if one just said “Apache woman.” She heard Indians referred to all different ways, many of them cruel. “Too bad we just didn’t learn their names so we could call them by name like we do Mr. Metteer or Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Well, do you want to play Indians or not?”

  “Sure. My legs could use a little running. I don’t want to grow soft during our rest.” She stuck a turkey feather in her hair and ran round and round with Royce. How good it felt to be playing with her exuberant little brother.

  One of the worries of the last few days had been Mary Ann. She continued to rest but did not seem to be bouncing back as the others did. She’d developed a cough that worried Ma.

  While Lucy walked with Susan—Olive suspected they were looking for berries to stain their lips—Olive stayed near Mary Ann.

  “Olive, tell me a story,” said Mary Ann.

  “What story do you want to hear?”

  “Oh dear, how about ‘Beauty and the Beast’?”

  “How did I know you’d choose that one, little sister?” Olive laughed. “That was always your favorite one from our book of fairy tales.” She helped Mary Ann settle into the quilts propped up against an outcropping of rock.

  “I hope I can remember how this goes . . .” Olive said with a smile.

  “I’ll help if you forget.”

  “Once upon a time there lived a rich merchant who had . . . let’s see, four daughters.”

  “Four?” interrupted Mary Ann, “I thought it was two.”

  “Who’s telling this story? You or me?” Olive gave Mary Ann that broad wink that meant “play along with me.”

  “All right, Olive, but make it really good.”

  “All the girls were pretty. The oldest, Lucy, was golden; the next daughter, Olive, was raven; the baby, Charity Ann, was a cherub; but it was Mary Ann who was accounted the real beauty. In fact, they no longer called her Mary Ann, they just called her Beauty.”

  At this, Mary Ann blushed and made an embarrassed tsk sound while she pretended to thump Olive on the leg, but she didn’t interrupt again.

  “Unfortunately the sisters were vain, especially Lucy who squeezed berry juice on her lips to deepen their color when nobody was looking.” Olive looked over toward the creek where Susan and Lucy sat talking. “The girls’ jealousy of Beauty grew deeper with each passing day as they saw their own vanity contrasted by her modesty and charm. Beauty knew contentment and peace and longed to stay forever with her father in their safe and comfortable home. Bad financial troubles hit, though, and his business failed without warning. The family lost their home and their business and ended up penniless.”

  “That’s like us, isn’t it, Olive?”

  “I guess so,” Olive replied, thinking back to LaHarpe and the mercantile. “Beauty’s pa decided to venture out, seeking to regain his wealth. Lucy, Olive, and Charity Ann didn’t care a fig about the troubles. They only knew they were tired of being poor. When Pa, who longed to give his daughters the finest, asked them what he should bring them, the sisters demanded he bring them expensive garments. Each one dreamed up an elaborate and expensive dress. When Pa turned to Beauty, she thought for minute and asked for a fragrant lilac bloom.”

  “Oh dear, I do like lilacs, Olive.”

  “A long time passed and, sadly, Beauty’s pa failed in his tries to regain his wealth. He finally gave up and began to make his way home through the forest when he found himself trapped in a snowstorm. Just when he could go no farther he stumbled on a seemingly deserted palace.”

  “Was it beautiful?”

  “Well, it felt warm, and the table was set with delicious food. After eating his fill, he found a bed all made up with fresh linens. He sank into the featherbed without having seen a single living soul. The next morning he woke to the scent of lilacs blooming in the garden. Without even dressing, he walked into the garden where he saw the perfect lilac bloom for Beauty. Using the golden shears which lay alongside, he snipped that fragrant lilac.”

  “Oh dear, I know what happens next, Olive. A hideous beast appears out of nowhere and says that for his theft of the lilac he must die.”

  Olive paused. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

  “Please, Olive, don’t stop.”

  “Thinking
of his daughters, the father begged for his life. The beast listened to his pleas and finally agreed to let him go free if one of his daughters would come back to take his place, paying ransom with her own life. If she refused, then Pa must return to die himself. The beast gave him a chest filled with gold and jewels and sent him home. The treasure allowed the father to buy his daughters as many pretty dresses and bonnets as they wanted.”

  “Did Beauty get bonnets?” Mary Ann asked.

  “Don’t you remember? Beauty gets the lilac bloom. As Pa handed Beauty the lilac, he couldn’t help but tell her what happened. Beauty—being as good as she was beautiful—insisted on taking her father’s place, and so she returned with him to the beast’s home where he reluctantly left her.”

  “The palace?”

  “Yes, I meant the beast’s palace.” Olive continued, “At first the beast frightened Beauty and she avoided looking at him, but he treated her well. He gave her beautiful gowns and sweets and things she’d never ask for. Every evening he visited her at suppertime. A friendship slowly grew, and Beauty looked forward to her visits with the beast. At the end of each visit the beast respectfully asked Beauty to be his wife. She politely refused, though she promised never to leave the palace.”

  “Oh dear, she can’t marry the beast can she, Olive?” Mary Ann asked. “He scares her, doesn’t he?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Maybe she’s getting used to him?”

  “Maybe. But one day Beauty looked into a mirror and saw a faint image of her father, growing weak with worry over her. He desperately missed her and she him. Beauty’s eyes were still red from crying when the beast came for their evening visit. When he asked if anything was the matter, she begged leave to pay a visit to her father. The beast laid his head on the table for a long minute but agreed on the condition that she return in seven days. He told her if she tarried, he would die.”