Wagon Train Reunion

Mother would never let her forget her promise.

She remained convinced that Andy would have fulfilled all her dreams of advancement. And now she expected Abby to be the means.

“You’ll need to find a suitable suitor soon,” she’d been saying since they made plans to head West. “In Oregon, there are far more men than women. That means you can have your pick of the best.”

Abby hated the reminder of her duty. Surely she’d paid for it with her marriage to Frank. However, one thing no bank, no demanding mother or cruel husband could take from her was her faith. God would provide the strength she needed for every test and trial. And please, God, a chance to start over.

Sally shifted and glanced at the sun overhead. “It’s noon. I need to start dinner but I hate to put Johnny down.”

“Let me hold him while you cook.” Abby held out her arms. By rights she should offer to make the meal, but she doubted Sally and her husband would appreciate her efforts.

Sally shifted the sleeping Johnny to Abby’s lap. “You never had any little ones of your own or did they—?” She clapped her hands to her mouth to stop the words.

Abby understood Sally feared she might have brought up a painful subject—like she’d had babies and they died. “No, we never had children.”

“I’m sorry.”

Abby brushed Johnny’s hair off his forehead. Oh, to have a child of her own to love and cherish, though she couldn’t be sorry Frank had not given her one. It would have been a thousand times worse to endure Frank mistreating a child and she knew he would have if only to get at Abby.

She shifted the baby so she would look westward. In Oregon she hoped and planned and prayed she would find the freedom she longed for which, to date, had always seemed far out of reach.

Little Johnny fussed and Abby sang softly until he relaxed again. All the while, she watched Sally stir a pot of stew that had been simmering over the coals then slice a loaf of batter bread she’d baked in the tin oven. If Mother wasn’t watching like a hawk, Abby would have asked Sally to explain how she did all that. Mother had forbidden her to ask for help from the women around them.

We’re Binghams. We don’t need help.

Abigail knew otherwise. If they were to make it across the great plains and over the mountains, Bingham or not, they’d need help because Abby had no idea how to manage under these circumstances. She’d have to learn by observation. They had a tin oven, as well. She’d try baking biscuits in it.

Mr. Littleton returned. “How’s Johnny?”

Sally answered. “He’s sleeping.” But at the sound of his father’s voice, Johnny stirred and held out his arms. Mr. Littleton took him gently, careful of the bandaging around the baby’s middle.

Abby pushed to her feet. Her fingers trailed down Johnny’s back then she stepped away. “I best go prepare dinner for my folks.” She returned to their wagon.

Mother huffed as Abby set to work. “I hope you don’t plan to spend a lot of time with the likes of those people.”

Abby pushed aside annoyance. “Mother, it’s a long trip. Those kinds of people will be our constant companions.”

Mother pulled herself into her self-righteous posture. “You don’t need to associate with them. Keep yourself apart until we reach Oregon and then we’ll find you a proper suitor.”

Ben’s image as he faced those rowdy boys and then the questioning men filled Abby’s thoughts. He was a noble and kind man. At least he had been at the time they courted. But that didn’t alter the fact that marriage changed a man. Gave him rights to his wife that no law, no friend, nor even family could defy. She would never again subject herself to such ownership of her body and her rights.

She fried bacon and boiled potatoes. Even potatoes were difficult to cook over a fire. They burned on the bottom and were hard as rocks inside. Father ate them without a word. Mother nibbled at the food. Plain fare had never been her first choice. They both accepted a cup of tea. Abby sighed and turned her attention to washing up the few dishes, but her thoughts went round and round. She must become adept at all sorts of things if they were to survive this trip.

At Mother’s request, Father took her wooden chair into the back of the wagon and parked it atop two chests. Mother followed and perched on the chair. She barely fit beneath the white canvas. Mother had brought as much as she could pack into the wagon which was far less than she insisted she needed.

Abigail had brought a minimum of belongings. A few changes of clothing, a warm coat, a waterproof duster, her Bible, a few of her favorite books and her mandolin. After Frank’s death she’d learned how little material things mattered.

Abigail opened her mouth to warn Mother she wouldn’t be able to ride all the way in that precarious position then she closed it without saying a word. Mother would soon learn or she’d find a way to remain there just to prove to one and all that she was a proper lady who shouldn’t be expected to endure the heat and dust.

Not for the first time, Abigail wondered if this trip would destroy them. She shivered as she recalled Mother’s words. The death of them all. Then she prayed, Father God in heaven, guard and keep us.

How many times had she prayed that on her own behalf when Frank scared her with his behavior? She wrapped her arms about herself and let the tears flow through her heart. Her eyes stayed dry. She wasn’t about to bemoan the consequences of a choice she’d made. Though she had no idea that a man could pretend such sweetness before marriage and reveal such cruelty afterwards.

A walk would calm her. She hurried through the maze of wagons and tents and people to a place where no one was parked. Perhaps she could find a minute of peace.

A glance about revealed there was no one who would recognize her and she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Anyone watching would assume she was peacefully enjoying the scenery.

They would have been wrong.

Slowly her emotions subsided. She rubbed at her breastbone, knowing the ache would ease but not disappear entirely.

Oh, God, be Thou my strength. To Thee I flee for help.

Chapter Two (#ulink_a0e84474-084d-5dda-9ee1-1a0a62565c0a)

The committeemen assembled to discuss the issue of the youths randomly firing their guns. Sam Weston the trail guide stood to one side. The tall, lean man stroked his bushy brown mustache as he observed the crowd with a steady gaze. He’d give his opinion if called for, but other than that he made it clear the emigrants would have to solve their own problems.

Ben wondered what he saw. An unruly bunch without any sense of working together? An eager assortment of men and women and children willing to do anything to get to Oregon? Likely there was a little of both in each of them.

Jed stood beside a gentle-looking man who seemed more fitted to tailoring suits than driving oxen across the country. No mistaking the father–son likeness.

The other youths also stood by men Ben assumed were their fathers or guardians. Most family groups consisted of an assortment of people. Besides the teams of oxen, most wagons had a milk cow, a horse or two and various other animals in tow. Many families had offered to allow a single young man to accompany them, providing meals in exchange for help with the animals. Like the Morrisons who had young Clarence Pressman traveling with them. Few traveled alone. Miles Cavanaugh, one of the committeemen, was an exception. The journey would be more difficult for him with no one to help with the animals or spell the driver off or even cook meals while the other camp chores were taken care of.

The Hewitt wagon consisted of himself and his two sisters.

Mr. Cavanaugh chaired the meeting. “We are here to deal with the disagreement between Ben Hewitt and these young men. He says they were using their firearms carelessly which resulted in the injury of a child and he therefore confiscated their guns. Is that correct, Ben?”

“Yes, sir.”

The father of the rowdiest boy stepped forward. “He ain’t got no right. Why, he can’t even say for sure it was these boys was responsible.”

“Did you see one of these boys actually shoot the child?” the chairman asked.

“I didn’t but they’d been shooting and yelling wildly and there wasn’t anyone else nearby shooting off guns.” Let the truth speak for itself.

“See,” shouted the belligerent man. “He’s just guessing it were my boy.”

“I didn’t accuse your son,” Ben argued. “Only said the boys were being careless and the baby had been shot. I suggest the boys get their guns back when we are on the trail.” After a day or two, their high spirits would have subsided and they’d be less likely to shoot so carelessly.

“No,” the angry youth yelled. “Ain’t no one taking my gun from me.”

Ben tilted his head toward the firearms stacked on the table in front of Mr. Cavanaugh. Obviously someone had taken his from him.

The boy tried to grab his gun. Someone pushed him aside and an uproar ensued.

Mr. Cavanaugh pounded his fist on the table. “Seems to me you’re inclined to be a little hotheaded.”

Ben would sure like to know that boy’s name for future reference.