Wagon Train Reunion

The noise of the gathered crowd assaulted his eardrums. Tin plates rattled as the women washed dishes. Babies wailed. How were the little ones going to endure the trip? Hopefully the moving wagons would lull them to sleep.

Five excited young fellas were shooting their pistols into the air and shouting—young men, thirteen to fifteen likely, on the cusp of adulthood.

“Oregon here we come.”

“I’m gonna get me a buffalo.”

“I’m gonna fight a bear.”

Someone should warn them they should save their bullets for bears and buffalos. But he understood the excitement that almost crazed them.

A child screamed.

“You shot my baby,” a woman screeched.

Ben straightened to see a little one in his mother’s arms, a dark-haired little boy of about a year, if he didn’t miss his guess. Blood stained both their clothes.

Women picked up their skirts and ran toward the pair. Abigail was among the first to reach them and knelt at the woman’s side. “Let me see him.”

She eased the woman’s fingers from her son’s side and lifted the little shirt. She glanced toward Ben.

Across the space her gaze found his. “It’s just a graze but he needs it tended to.” She obviously meant for him to take care of the problem. Did she see him as a man she could order around? He should inform her that he was one of the committeemen and as such, had some authority. He didn’t intend to jump at her command.

But her opinion didn’t matter because a child was injured and he knew who could help.

Ben grabbed the nearest man. “Go back to the wagon at the corner. Ask for Emma Hewitt. Tell her to bring her medical supplies.”

The man took off like a shot.

Ben pushed through the crowd of women to Abigail’s side. He spied a clean diaper and grabbed it. “Press this to the wound until my sister arrives.”

He looked around for the youths who were responsible.

They saw him and began to slink away.

“Hold up there.” He strode toward them.

Forced to face him, all but one of them put on defiant faces. “We ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” one said.

“You could have killed a child and you don’t think there’s any reason to be apologizing?”

“I’m sorry, mister,” said the only repentant one.

“Glad to hear it, though it’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

The boy took a step toward the bleeding child.

Ben caught his shoulder. “Hold on a minute. What’s your name?”

“Jed. Jed Henshaw.”

Ben would be remembering Jed. A lad willing to admit his wrongs could prove to be an asset in the months ahead. He held out his hand. “I’ll take those firearms before someone else is hurt.”

Jed immediately dropped his gun into Ben’s hand.

“My pa ain’t gonna be very happy with me.” He hung his head.

The four others grunted and shuffled their feet but did not offer up their guns. The biggest, loudest, most belligerent of them spoke. “You ain’t gonna take my gun.”

For answer, Ben reached out and wrenched it from his hand. He reached for the others and they were released grudgingly.

“Here now, what do you think you’re doing?” A big man edged between Ben and the boys. “You ain’t gonna take my son’s gun.”

A crowd of men pressed close arguing about whether or not the boys should be allowed to retain their firearms.

“A baby was shot,” Ben pointed out, but others said each male old enough to carry a gun should do so in case of some kind of attack. Ben pushed aside the big man crowding him and realized he was every bit as big. The man moved despite his attempt to stay planted. He addressed the boys. “I’d like your names.” Only Jed had told Ben his name.

Three gave theirs, but the fourth only scowled.

“You don’t need to tell him,” the man at Ben’s side shouted.

Ben cringed as the noise swelled. “There’ll be a meeting of the committeemen at noon. Attend it and make your case. We’ll all abide by the ruling as to whether or not you get your guns back.”

Jed left the raucous crowd and broke through the cluster of women around the injured baby.

“Ma’am.” He addressed the woman holding her baby. “I am truly sorry for behaving so foolishly. I hope your little boy will be okay.”

Half the murmurs were accepting, half condemning.

At that moment, Emma rushed up with Rachel at her side. They made their way through the ladies and Emma dropped her bag and knelt to examine the injured child.

“It’s only a flesh wound. It needs to be kept clean and covered.” She sat back and glanced around. She saw Abigail at her side and gaped.

“Hello, Emma, Rachel.” Abigail nodded toward the sisters.

“You’re traveling with us?” Rachel asked. She stared at Abby. “Why on earth are you on this wagon train? Doesn’t your husband’s business keep you in the manner you prefer?”

“My husband is dead.” Abigail kept her voice low but even so the women watched and listened curiously. “I am traveling with my parents.” She nodded toward them. Her mother sat in a high-backed chair perched on the ground beside their wagon, her back rigid, disapproval written in every line of her face. Mr. Bingham stood at his oxen, looking like he was having second thoughts about this journey.

Emma hid her surprise better, focusing on the injured baby. She leaned back on her heels as if thinking what to do. If it had been a man injured, she might have cleansed the wound with alcohol, but knowing how much it hurt, he understood she was considering other possibilities.

Finally she turned to Rachel. “Would you bring me some warm water and a clean cloth?”

Rachel hurried to the nearest fire where a kettle of water stood and poured a little into a bowl. She glanced about for a cloth.

One of the women reached into her wagon and pulled out a square of pure white. “For the little one yet to come.” She patted her stomach.

Rachel hustled the items over to Emma who carefully sponged the area then wrapped a dressing over the wound. “Keep it clean.” She would be worried about infection. Emma grasped the mother’s hands. “I’d like to pray for the baby. What’s his name?”