DESERT ANGELS
by Patrick Simpson
PUBLISHED BY:
Patrick Simpson at Smashwords
Desert Angels
Copyright 2011 by Patrick Simpson
ISBN 978-1-4660-9026-2
Discover other titles by Patrick Simpson at Smashwords.
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Acknowledgments
Dedicated to Nevada History Project's Carrie Townley Porter, for her inspiration and valuable insights, to cover artist Sherrye Alves, for her superb talent, to copyeditor Sarah Holroyd, for her patience and professionalism, to editor/writer Jake George, for believing in this book, and to the Lord Jesus Christ for His glory and honor.
(Note: In telling this story, I use the word Indian (rather than Native American or any similar alternative) because that is the term most often used in historical and legal scholarship today, by Indians and non-Indians alike.)
Chapter 3 — Pretty Shell Flower
Chapter 8 — Brotherhood of Enemies
Chapter 9 — Mission of Destiny
Chapter 14 — Race of a Different Color
Chapter 15 — Battle of Silver Creek
Chapter 16 — Chaos and Consternation
Chapter 19 — Seeds of Jealousy
Chapter 20 — Sisters in the Struggle
Chapter 21 — The Long Creek Parade
Chapter 22 — Seeds of Betrayal
Chapter 24 — Battle of Birch Creek
Eva Beardsley, a decidedly young but level-headed brunette from upstate New York's tucked-away town of Wells Bridge, was thoroughly enjoying her journey "out west". At last, it was springtime 1878 and the excitement of joining Cousin Lillie as a schoolteacher seemed like a dream come true. Eva planned to go as far as Utah Territory and then head north by stagecoach from Kelton to Walla Walla in Washington Territory. But when she changed trains in Iowa’s Council Bluffs, she learned her boarding ticket was only good for a Zulu car. Zulu, she learned, was a term coined by contemptuous trainmen for the ragtag assemblies of passengers, livestock, baggage and tools that emigrated in them cross-country. The rest of her trip on Union & Pacific’s world-famous transcontinental railroad promised to be in something not much better than a boxcar.
But she couldn't turn back; there was no “back” to go back to. Her friend Jody was dead; she could only think that it was all her fault. And just three months ago her family had left by rail from Pa's failed hotel in Wells Bridge for their new homestead in Dakota Territory. Little sister Frankie loved it but Ma was a fish out of water. She hated the flat, gray prairie, still frozen under steel-gray February skies. She hated the isolation, the loneliness, the disillusionment of having no neighbors. More than once, she'd wailed, "This is not my promised land, Theo!" So they'd pulled up stakes again. This time by wagon train for Oregon. "Third time's the charm!" said Theo. They let Eva go ahead alone to her promised new job.
Indians were not yet on anyone's mind.
For the wealthy, a trip on the transcontinental railroad was a luxurious experience. First-class passengers rode on express trains in beautifully furnished cars with plush velvet seats that converted into snug sleeping berths. The finer amenities included steam heat, fresh linen daily and gracious porters who catered to their every whim.
But the trip was a good deal less speedy and comfortable for passengers unwilling or unable to pay the premium fares. Whereas most of the first-class passengers traveled the transcontinental line for business or pleasure, the third-class occupants were often emigrants hoping to make a new start in the West. Many of the passengers were accustomed to such poverty that Zulu coaches seemed no worse than their homes in the Old Country. The railroad often attached the coach cars to freight cars that were constantly shunted aside to make way for the express trains. Consequently, the third-class traveler’s journey west might take ten or more days. A third-class ticket could be purchased for only forty dollars – less than half the price of the first-class fare. At this low rate, the traveler received no luxuries. It was passenger travel at the most basic level – not so much what they would bear, but what they could afford.
Eva’s family had sent her ahead to join Cousin Lillie in time for the new school year. But they would soon follow behind on a wagon train heading through Indian country. Pa said that shipping their belongings and livestock by train was far too expensive and would only have to be purchased later.
It could take four months to make the journey of fifteen hundred miles from their failed homestead in Dakota Territory’s southeast corner. It was a route that crossed through high plains, over mountains and across raging rivers – much of it in hostile Indian Territory. There were no freeways, few bridges and much danger ahead – both known and unknown. Like thousands before them, they’d left their homes and families behind, not knowing if they’d ever see them again in this life.
Eva stopped dead at the door. The stifling air smelled of unwashed bodies. It was filled with the din of crying babies, barking dogs and mothers trying to bring order. She looked around. Entire families crammed the seats and sat on the floor. Pets and children ran underfoot in the aisles. She counted ten dogs, a few cats, and about ninety passengers – mostly, she assumed, immigrants bound for the West. In one corner, between two strategically placed spittoons, several men had set up a card game on a makeshift table of planks. They seemed oblivious to the chaos. In another corner sat a potbelly cook stove where meals could be prepared. Each family supplied its own food.
Zulu cars, or "cracker box" cars, were based on the boxcar concept. The standard boxcar chassis was stretched out to fifty feet and a porch was added to either end for boarding. No pretense of comfort was made. The cars were dirty and congested, noisy and crowded. They were fitted with rows of upright narrow wooden benches that were hard and unpadded, and crammed together as closely as possible. The seats were removable so that emigrants could be carried out west and freight back east. Ventilation was achieved by opening a window. If the car was heated, it came from a wood burning stove. Light came from a couple of oil lamps.
"Missy, either stand aside or get aboard, please." A paunchy lady, around forty it seemed, had spoken from directly behind.
"I’m sorry," said Eva, as she stepped out of the way and into the car.
"Looks like yer lost. Come sit with me. My name’s Elsie and I don’t bite." She smiled, exposing the few teeth she had left, and waved her hand at a bench. A space opened up on the seat wide enough for both of them.
Eva smiled tentatively and slowly sat down next to the roly-poly woman, thinking maybe that she did bite. Feeling awkward, she said, "Hello…Elsie. My name is Eva."
"Eva. Such a nice name! How about a sandwich, Eva? Here comes the train butch." The peddler’s job was to walk through the car every now and then selling fruit, newspapers, peanuts, and even dime novels. This time he had sandwiches. Elsie bought two. "His prices are way too high but I ain’t got nowhere else to go," she huffed, as she gave one to Eva. "But we’ve got a long trip ahead – need to keep up our strength. Dearie, where’s a pretty little girl like you headed?"
Eva was a little annoyed by this somewhat domineering woman but, minding her manners, she took the sandwich anyway. For years, her mother had taught her to be a lady – always respectable and decent. With all the modesty and proper decorum she could summon up she answered, "I’m spending the summer in Walla Walla with my cousin Lillie. Perhaps I’ll become a teacher."
"God bless you, Dearie!" exclaimed Elsie. "That’s what the world needs – good teachers like you!" And then she winked and grinned that nearly toothless grin again. "You wouldn’t be looking for a good husband in the deal would you?"
The thought had never really crossed Eva’s mind. "I’ll be far too busy," she said.
Elsie looked around uneasily, lowered her voice, and said, "Just the same, Dearie, there’s bad eggs right on this train ready to take advantage of such a pretty school-marm like you. Just keep your guard up."
"Sakes alive," retorted Eva. "Any man touches me will soon be pullin’ foot for home like a streak of lightning."
"Ha!" laughed Elsie. "I got no worries ‘bout you!"
Eva began warming up to this eccentric. "And how about you, Miss Elsie? Where are you headed?"
"Just Elsie. Family’s mostly back East. Goin’ to San Francisco and live with my sister. But I can’t complain. Even ten days spent sitting on this hard bench seat is far better than six months walking alongside a covered wagon in the hot sun. Anyhow, this is our living room and over there’s the kitchen. Ha!"
Eva took a second look at the potbelly stove, a coal burner bolted to the floor with a flat top and two lids. A big coffee pot sat atop the stove and was wired to the stove pipe. Eva wondered why, but soon found out. Without warning, the car lurched forward, jumping like a scared rabbit. But the coffee pot stayed put – and so did the stove.
Their journey west had started.
It wasn’t long before they discovered that the car was springless, which made for a very rough ride. For the next two hours, they sat wordlessly on the bench watching the outside world go by. They crossed the mighty Missouri River, passed through the fledgling city of Omaha, and then moved out on the Nebraskan plains along the great Platte River.
Elsie sniffed. "They say the Platte’s too thick to drink and too thin to plow."
Eva looked up, then around the car. "Speaking of water," she said, "where are the toilet facilities?"
"Ain’t nothin’ but the thunder mug, Dearie," Elsie pointed. "Over there. Corner closet."
"Oh," said Eva. One more indignity.
* * *
For four days and nights they traveled across the endless prairie. They followed the Platte all the way to Julesburg, Colorado, waving to pioneers as they passed long wagon trains, lumbering along like prairie pachyderms. "Look," laughed Elsie. "They’re slower than snails. Ain’t they just pitiful?"
"My parents are joining a wagon train. Do you think they’ll run into trouble?"
"They might, Dearie. They just might indeed."
At night, the passengers slept on boards laid across the seats, with whatever bedding they could devise. It seemed to Eva they stopped at every whistle stop and water tower along the way. Cheyenne, Laramie, Rock Springs, Echo – the stops seemed endless. But now they were nearing Kelton, a small, but important railway station in the young, rugged territory of Utah. Eva had worn her pretty yellow dress for the occasion, thinking it proper for the stagecoach.
They first heard the stories at Ogden: war and rumors of war. "It seems," said a boarding passenger, "that Indians to the north have gone on the warpath. It seems they’re killing every white person they see. No one is safe."
Elsie blanched. "Dear Lord! What’s this world coming to? Why did I ever come out here? It’s not safe for a woman like me to be out here all by herself." She grabbed the man’s sleeve. "Soldiers," she implored. "What about the soldiers? Are they on the way?"
"Can’t say, ma’am," replied the stranger. "But the telegraph wires back at the station have been hot and heavy. Some mention of cavalry coming all the way from Camp Halleck in Nevada."
Just then the train butch made his ever-recurring trip through the car.
"Boy, sell me that paper," demanded Elsie. As she fumbled for change she read the headlines aloud:
News of the Indian War
Washington, June 3 – Telegrams have been received at the war department from Gens. Sheridan and McDowell stating that as many men as possible shall be sent to protect the settlers from the Bannock Indians. The news from the north is considered very alarming.
"Any talk of soldiers yet?" she asked.
"Don’t know, ma’am. Bannocks live up north where the trains don’t go. Soldiers might be takin’ the train to Kelton and then the stage road north."
Elsie let go of his arm. "Sakes alive! What’s the world comin’ to? I thought them savages long been taken care of."
Eva piped up. "I’m going up that same stage road, sir. Am I in danger?"
He smiled. "Not as long as the U.S. Cavalry’s around, miss. We stop in Kelton in two hours."
Eva smiled back. "Two hours? Well, sir, this may be my last chance to look around. I’d like to take a walk through the train. Any objections?"
He pointed. "No, ma’am. Go that way. First thing is the baggage car. Then the Pullman cars, the smoking car, the drawing-room car, and the porters’ cars."
"Why thank you, sir. You’re truly a gentleman."
Executing a low, sweeping bow, he smiled and said, "Glad to be of service, ma’am!"
* * *
It was less than a hundred miles to Kelton. Sergeant Jim Adams was playing checkers with Corporal Henry Stark in the Pullman car. Adams was young, angry, and slightly drunk. Angry because he’d been assigned this detail. Drunk because, as he put it, "What else is there to do on this dang train but play checkers and drink?" He’d joined the army for adventure and to get away from Judy Wood, who’d almost demanded that he marry her. "Can’t stand an overbearing woman!" he’d told Corporal Stark. "All I want is a nice girl to settle down with, someone who’ll be there for me and take care of me."
Adams was a young man in his prime. His six-foot frame was muscular and taut. Broad shoulders and a straight back tapered down to his slim waist. He was ruggedly handsome, with deep dimples on either side of his mouth. His dark chestnut hair was cut short, military style; his eyes were an amazing green-gray, quick and expressive, intelligent and clear – but they’d seen things, things that no man should see.
Like having an Indian handcuffed to his wrist.
He’d been playing checkers with Corporal Stark all afternoon with his left wrist handcuffed to the Indian’s right. The Indian’s other wrist was handcuffed to his seat. Adams and Stark had orders to transport Three Eagles from Fort Leavenworth, Kansas back to the Boise Barracks to stand trial for murder. Heavily shackled and handcuffed, Three Eagles had walked between them very slowly out of the interim prisoner-of-war camp.
Adams, who had once tanned hides for a living, was now guarding one of the most desperate Indians from what was left of the Nez Percé tribe. He glanced contemptuously at the sleeping Three Eagles. There was no special glory in this. It was only duty.
Born in Idaho and brought up in a typical frontier settlement, the young sergeant had become well versed in woodcraft in his boyhood. Like every other resident of the district in those days, he’d soon learned the tricks and strategies of Indian fighting, a knowledge necessary for protection against the occasional bands of marauding Indians that passed through the Idaho forests. Most of the Indians who lived in that area were peaceful and gave the white settlers little worry, but wandering bands continually passed through on their way to hunting grounds or back from wars with other tribes. Such bands invariably brought trouble. Sometimes they contented themselves with stealing whatever stock they could, avoiding any encounter with the white settlers, but others weren’t so wary.
However, the mastering of the essentials of woodcraft and Indian fighting were mere sidelines for Adams. While still a boy, he was apprenticed to an expert tanner to learn the trade – or art – of tanning leather, one of the most important vocations in any pioneer settlement. He’d served faithfully around the tanning yard until he became of age and his apprenticeship expired. Then he joined the infantry as a private, later working his way up to cavalryman.
Adams looked at his sleeping captive again with disgust. "Miserable half-breed," he muttered.
* * *
Yes, thought Three Eagles as he pretended to sleep, they call me half-breed. And worse. But I’ll show them. It will take more than two soldiers to hold me. Unseen, he’d been slowly loosening his hand from the seat handcuffs for an hour. It was almost free. The soldiers had removed his shackles so he could use the thunder mug.
Three Eagles was a Nez Percé without a home. He’d avenged the killing of his father by killing a white settler. The soldiers had only recently tracked him down. Captured with the rest of his people late last year, over four hundred of his tribe – including Chief Joseph himself – had been loaded into a dozen railroad cars and transported to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Three Eagles remembered that as the train slid through the landscape, Chief Joseph had painstakingly counted the mountains to "mark the trail" so he could find his way back home. Resignedly, he’d finally realized that there were too many to count; he would have to rely on the white man to lead him back to his homeland.
At Fort Leavenworth they’d been forced to live in tents and use river water for cooling and drinking. Three Eagles never forgot what Chief Joseph said. "The Great Spirit Chief who rules above seems to be looking some other way, and does not see what is being done to my people."
But that was then and this was now. The train whistle announced an upcoming station. Just ahead lay Promontory Summit, world-famous site of the "Wedding of the Rails," where in 1869 East met West as the last spike of the transcontinental railroad was ceremonially hammered into place. But its glory had since departed, and its importance was now chiefly historic. Most of its buildings were weather-worn storm-broken relics of bygone days, doors gone, sides and backs smashed in – poor, forlorn remnants of their former proud and glorious selves. Only ghosts inhabited the remains; spectral forms of previous occupants. It was near here that the Great Salt Lake came into view, looking like a green meadow in the distance.
But something – someone – else had materialized, immediately drawing everyone’s concentrated attention. Into the car had walked a young vision of feline grace, adorned in a beautiful yellow dress, like a rare flower at first bloom.
It was the moment Three Eagles had waited for.
Quicker than a scalded cat, he leaped to his feet and grabbed Sergeant Adams’s gun. He held it to the soldier’s head, handcuffs dangling from his bloody wrist. With a withering sneer, he motioned to the other set and snarled, "Free Three Eagles or die!" But suddenly a shot rang out, sounding more like cannon fire in the small Pullman car. It was Corporal Stark. He cocked the hammer back on his Smith & Wesson, fired, and missed again! The now-rattled Three Eagles began to fire wildly. Adams clutched his chest and slumped to the floor, pulling Three Eagles down on top of him. The gun careened down the walkway. Passengers began racing to and fro like overwound clockwork toys.
Stark was on top of the Indian. He shoved his pistol into Three Eagles’s mouth. "Don’t move!" he hissed. "I swear to God, I won’t miss again!" He waved his free arm at the gathering passengers. "Get back folks. Get back!"
Three Eagles stared at him with cold, unblinking fear – for a hundred years, it seemed. Then he looked around. Some passengers had drawn their guns and were waiting, just waiting for an excuse to kill him. Resigned now to his fate, he went limp, knowing he didn’t have a chance. With his free hand, Stark slowly unlocked the cuffs and separated the Indian from Adams. He cuffed Three Eagles’ hands around another seat and returned to his partner, who was still moaning.
The girl in the yellow dress was already kneeling by his side. Someone gave her a cup of water and she wiped his brow with her damp handkerchief. His moans were barely audible now and he was blinking his eyes.
In a voice audible only to himself, Stark murmured: "If a man was as cold as a wagon tire, she’d bring him to – if there's any life in him."
Slowly, Adams’s green-gray eyes opened and he looked up. "Are you an angel?" he murmured.
The girl smiled back at him "No."
"Then who are you?"
"My name is Eva," she said, "and you are still very much alive."
She reached for his little pocket Bible which had fallen to the floor. Imbedded squarely in the center was the bullet meant for his heart.
Adams looked at it in amazement and murmured, "This little Bible was carried by my uncle all through the Civil War. It protected him. Now it’s protected me!"
"And what a beautiful little leather case," she said. "And such beautiful engravings!"
He looked back at her and smiled weakly. "Thank you, Miss Eva, I did them myself. Been doin’ leather all my life."
A tall man, evidently a doctor, bent over Adams and thrust his hand under his shirtfront. He withdrew it and lifted his head so that he could examine his eyes. "I see that Sleeping Beauty has awakened," he chuckled. "Doc Burns at your service, Sergeant. I’ll be in Kelton if you need me." The doctor tipped his hat to them all and then carefully – with help from Stark and Eva – helped Adams get into his seat.
Adams grimaced as he gingerly sat down. "I think I’m gonna be all right, Doc. I think I’m gonna live."
"Yes, sir," said the doctor. "God must have saved you for a reason."
Eva smiled and waited for Adams to say something first.
A peculiar feeling stole over him. His tongue thickened and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. He could only stammer an awkward "Thank you… Miss Eva. I… I…" He tried to speak, tried to form words, but all he could do was stare at her. Neither of them could find the right words to say. He thought, Will I never see you again? Must this end before it starts? I want to say things, to tell you things.
Resignedly, Eva walked away, back to her Zulu car. But try as she might, she couldn’t get the handsome soldier out of her mind.
A much-relieved Stark teased Adams. "Thank God you’re alive, Sergeant. Now I won’t have to be alone on the stagecoach tonight with that murderin’ redskin all the way to Boise. Who would I talk to?"
Adams rubbed his chest, clutched his tiny Bible and, still in a state of shock, caught a last glimpse of the girl in the yellow dress. Oh, dear God, he flinched. I don’t even know her last name!
* * *
Kelton, locally called Indian Creek, was a mere speck in the desert, consisting of some half a hundred houses built around the depot and large commission warehouses for handling freight. Gamblers were welcome, with every other door opening into a saloon. Groups of "tame" Indians loitered around the depot, curious about the incoming and outgoing trains.
Nothing grew here but squirreltail grass and sagebrush – in all its shades and sizes – because the desert range was composed of greasewood flats and alkali. The town’s water, pumped from an artesian well, was so alkaline it could only be used for non-drinking purposes such as laundry and bathing. But the railroad company had laid an eight-mile aqueduct of four-inch-diameter redwood pipes. It carried water pure enough for drinking and steam engines from a spring just north in the Raft River foothills. The water filled large trackside water tanks and water cars. A large underground water tank sat next to a loading ramp.
From Kelton the Northwestern Stage Company supplied freighter and Overland stagecoach service north to Boise and beyond. Stagecoaches left daily, carrying passengers to Boise in two days, Walla Walla in four days and Portland in less than six days. Oxen-pulled freight wagons hauled tons of supplies daily. The Kelton Road meandered through Idaho and eastern Oregon all the way to Umatilla on the Columbia River, where it connected with steamers of the Oregon Steam Navigation Company.
Over two hundred people called Kelton home. One of them, Joseph Larkins, limped out onto his porch and looked at the darkening sky. He knew about the Indian threat but was more concerned about his right leg. Three days ago, he’d been helping Mr. Rosevear, the hotel keeper, unload a cattle car and Mr. Rosevear’s dangerous dog had bitten him on the right leg. Mr. Rosevear wouldn’t kill the dog and Joseph offered to kill it for him. Mr. Rosevear still refused so Joseph was taking it up with the Justice of the Peace tomorrow.
Joseph wandered over to the depot. He could hear harmonica music coming from the dance hall. In the distance he could hear the whistle from the approaching train. "Good," he said, to no one in particular, "Old Doc Burns should be on it. Maybe he could look at my leg again." The good doctor had gone to Ogden for the day. Joseph had been very busy of late, with all the immigrants and freighters too scared to leave town.
They’d heard enough Indian stories to turn their hair white. Some wanted to stop, some wanted to go one road, and some another road. Some wanted to sell their wagon teams and continue their journey by rail. Others were afraid to go north on the stagecoach; it had been reported that Bannocks had already killed two white men up there. Even letter mail and freight shipments had been stopped by the stage line owners until further notice.
What they all had in common was fear.
But it was a little quieter now. The soldiers – over a hundred of them – had left only yesterday morning. Two special trainloads of them had arrived from Camp Halleck over the last two days: Captain Carr’s I Company; and Captain Sumner’s D company. Their orders were to combine forces and march north on Kelton Road toward Camas Prairie, to protect the settlers and to track down the Bannocks. Some said that even more soldiers were coming to guard Kelton itself.
The thirsty steam engine pulled the westbound emigrant train into the station and stopped under the water tank. Joseph watched it suck up huge quantities of cool fresh water. Doc was following two soldiers. Between them was an Indian in shackles, chains, and handcuffs. "Must be a bad one," muttered Joseph.
"Sergeant," said Doc, "you take care of yourself, now. Just a bruise on the chest. You’ll be okay. But get rid of this Injun as soon as you can before he really hurts someone."
"Thanks, Doc, I will," said the sergeant. "And by the way, can you direct us to the stage station?"
"This man will." Doc smiled and tipped his hat at Joseph. "And Joseph, come over to my office right after you show Sergeant Adams gentlemen the way. Let’s have another look at that leg."
As Joseph led them toward the stage station, Adams noticed his bad limp. "Seems like everybody’s getting hurt around here," he said. "Been fightin’ Indians?"
"Nope…dog" replied Joseph. "And he started it. Gonna sic the law on ‘im." Then pointed at the Indian. "What’s he done?"
"Killed a white man in cold blood. Nearly killed me. Gonna sic the law on him, too."
The Indian looked at them and spat in disgust.
At the stagecoach office, old Ebeneezer Penner was taking down a message, flapping his arms like a stilted birdman. The telegraph key finally stopped clicking. Ebeneezer bent his head back and looked up from under his green eyeshades.
"Wires are hotter ‘n blazes since the Indian trouble began," he said.
Adams handed him his orders. "We need the next stage north." He smiled a little, as if something about the old-timer’s agitated state was amusing. "Got priority."
Ebeneezer looked at the orders, then at the two soldiers and the Indian, then finally at the passenger list. "You’re in luck," he said. "Just one passenger – a Miss Beardsley. Goin’ out in one hour. Plenty of room. No one else wants to ride. I wouldn’t either. Too dangerous. But the driver wants to go. Family emergency, he says. He’ll feel better with you soldiers on board. Get yourself a bite to eat at the hotel, boys. You’ve got time."
Joseph limped back toward Doc’s office, muttering to himself about the dog. He couldn’t wait to start drinking again after Doc had his look-see. He heard a young woman’s voice behind him.
"Excuse me, sir, could you kindly direct me to the stagecoach office?"
He hadn’t seen this pretty young girl in the yellow dress before. How could she have escaped his notice back at the train?
He tipped his hat. "Evenin’, Miss," he replied. "Stage office is just yonder."
"Thank you kindly, sir." Eva smiled and headed in that direction.
"Glad to be of service, Miss…?" Joseph tipped his hat back, wondering if she would volunteer her name.
She looked back and smiled again. "Eva. Eva Beardsley."
"Glad to be of service, Miss Eva. Do beware of the Indian danger, hear?"
"I… I will."
He watched her walk away, but her smile still lingered in his mind.
Ebeneezer looked up again, this time clearly pleased. It wasn’t often he got to wait on a pretty young lady.
Eva checked in, having already bought a combination stagecoach and railroad ticket package back in Dakota. She asked him to wire her parents…
ARRIVED KELTON STOP
LEAVING ON STAGE FOR BOISE AND WALLA WALLA STOP
LOVE EVA
"Pardon me for askin’, Miss," said Ebeneezer, "but it’s dangerous travelin’ alone like this. The Indians up north are on the warpath. Sure you want to go?"
"I’m not afraid."
Ebeneezer looked down at his passenger list again. "Leaves in fifteen minutes. But it looks like you’ll have an escort… Two soldiers."
"Then I’m not alone after all, am I?" Eva smiled and took a seat in the small waiting area. There was nowhere else to go.
"Fifteen minutes?" It was Sergeant Adams, holding out a hand. "May I offer you some tea?"
"How lovely." Eva raised her eyes and smiled in recognition. "It’s great to see that you are very much alive."
"And kicking. Cold lemon tea."
"My goodness. Wherever did you get it?"
"You can find anything in the West – if you know where to look."
* * *
It was evening. The red eye of the sun sank behind the hills, and huge sheets of crimson and gold shifted across the vast dome of the sky – shifted and faded into the dull blue-gold of twilight, as if some mighty unseen artist had dabbed carelessly with delicate colors upon a limitless canvas. And all the while, bizarre lights and shadows stole along the ground, stole across the flat and empty reaches of the desert, stole like phantoms into the receding distances. In this unearthly glow, nothing but the dusty, gray-green sagebrush seemed alive, nodding mournfully in the wind.
Fate had again thrown Adams and the young Eva Beardsley together.
Eva paused in front of the stagecoach. "Sergeant," she said, and smiled.
"May I help you aboard, Miss Eva?" He scanned her face, looking for any sign of approval.
"Yes, Sergeant, you may." She blushed. "And you remembered my name. How nice."
She took his offered arm, grateful for the support it gave, because her knees were weak from nervousness. He helped her into the stagecoach and took his seat beside her. They had barely settled down when the stage driver cracked his whip and the coach jerked forward. Adams pulled out his pocket watch and looked out the window. "It’s right on time. He’s trying to hurry. With no mail to carry and only four passengers, he figures to catch up with the soldiers and safety."
Adams had thought about Eva constantly since his near-fatal encounter with Three Eagles. But now he felt shy and inarticulate. He certainly felt far more comfortable on a horse; at least he would have known what to do with his hands. And he wouldn’t have to worry about what to say. But at last he turned to Eva. "So, what brings you out here?" he asked.
She blushed and laughed. "I’m going to teach school in Walla Walla with my cousin Lillie. It sounds like an exciting place to visit and I’ll be staying with her. I don’t know how long I’ll stay; maybe forever."
Adams looked at her in surprise. "Don’t you have family back East?"
"I do," she said, "Dakota Territory, and before that, New York. But my parents and my sister are coming to Walla Walla too. They’re waiting to join a wagon train."
"Are they aware of the Indian danger ahead?"
"I’m sure they are by now, Sergeant…"
"Adams," he said. "Jim Adams." He took off his cap, smoothed back his hair, and then pulled his cap back down. "Please… just call me Jim."
She smiled. "Eva… Eva Beardsley." Then she blinked and looked at him. "As I was saying… Jim… I’m sure they have by now, but I’m not worried; I’m sure this so-called ‘danger’ is highly exaggerated. My father says most Indians are beggars, not warriors. Besides, the soldiers are not only on the way, they’re already here."
She smiled.
He loved that. Not only the smile on her lips, but the smile in her eyes. He knew now – knew that there was no one else but her. He’d lost her once. He would not lose her again. He could not lose her again. …
The frightened driver was trying to hurry. His arm snapped and he cracked his whip constantly, urging the horses on, sending that thin lash across the backside of each in turn. Although it took freighter wagons nineteen days to cover the two hundred thirty-two miles to Boise, stagecoaches took only forty-two hours. Coaches ran twenty-four hours a day, stopping every ten to eighteen miles to change horses at a "swing" station. About every fifty miles they would also change drivers at a "home" station, a haven of meals and overnight lodging for weary travelers.
Corporal Stark rode shotgun atop the coach with Three Eagles handcuffed to the luggage rail. The corporal’s only job was to watch the shackled renegade’s every move like a hawk. Meanwhile, he kept his guns handy and his eyes open for Indians or cavalry, hoping he would see cavalry first.
Eva’s gaze shot upward to the roof. "Are they gonna hang him?" she asked.
"Most likely, Miss Eva. He killed a white man."
"Does that make a difference?"
"Not officially, Miss Eva. But if it had been a white man killed an Indian, officials might shuffle a few papers, then do nothing." She’s talking to me, he thought excitedly.
"Doesn’t seem fair, even if he is an Indian."
"No, Miss Eva. It’s just the way things are."
Eva rode for several miles, saying nothing. She remembered the Indian tales of her childhood and her visit to the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia just two years ago. It was the middle of the nation’s worst depression. Her father had taken the whole family there right after he’d walked out of his small-town failed hotel for the last time. He said he needed "time to think, to clear his head."
Even though it was the country’s hundredth birthday party, there were no Indians present. Instead, mannequins were used to display costumes and artifacts. The implied message was that Indians really couldn’t be trusted and had little future in America; they were expendable and a hindrance to America’s divinely inspired mission of Manifest Destiny. Indians were a race of savages of no importance in the modern world. In fact, they were probably not even people!
But this Indian was real. He lived and breathed. He had a name – Three Eagles. What a strange name!
Sergeant Adams broke the silence again. "It bothers me, Miss Eva."
"What bothers you, Sergeant Adams?"
"Three Eagles." He glanced upward. "He belongs to the Nez Percé tribe. Gold prospectors moved in on their land. The Indians fought back – said their treaty was broken. We made another treaty and took away more of their land. Then we broke that treaty and told them they had to move to Idaho. One thing led to another and they killed a few soldiers. Last year we chased them for months through snowstorms and blizzards and many of their women and children died before we caught them. We shipped four hundred of them to Fort Leavenworth last fall and I hear a hundred of them are dead already from sickness and mistreatment."
"Why that’s just terrible!"
"But what bothers me most, ma’am," he continued, "is that so many of them are just children."
Eva looked away. She was angry. Angry that innocent children had to die. Angry at a heartless government that would issue such orders. Angry that she’d never been told the truth before. She couldn’t remember why even she hated Indians; she just knew that she did.
Yet, she was strangely attracted to this man – this soldier who seemed so trustworthy, so safe, so compassionate. He was handsome in his blue uniform and, unlike many in the army, he was clean-shaven and his hair was cut short. But his eyes had already seen too much war, too much death.
The stagecoach suddenly seemed a mere speck on the great high desert. Elsewhere in the world great cities thrived, civilizations struggled, ships sailed, and children went to school. But here, it seemed, fate had brought this frontier horse soldier within arm’s reach.
Only months ago, she’d stood beside Jody’s grave for one last goodbye. Jody, oh, Jody. If only… She once had dreams of loving and being loved; of a church wedding and life in small-town Wells Bridge; of teaching their children to ride horses. She’d seen her life unfold through rose-colored glasses – a future full of hope and optimism. Until Jody, of course. Until Dakota. Until this sudden Indian war in the Far West.
But here was a rescuer – a white knight. Her emotions had shut down since Jody died that fateful morning by the river. But now a spark of hope rose in her heart: hope that she could make up for her past mistakes; hope that she could find a path out of her distress; hope that it was more than just fate that had brought this protector to her side.
Suddenly, she realized that her feelings of loneliness and isolation were gone, replaced by a growing awareness of warmth and protection. She barely knew this stranger – but how long did you have to know someone to love him? Somehow – since the moment she first saw him – the seeds of love had been planted. She tried to keep them out, but they’d taken root in her doubting heart. She couldn’t deny it; she wasn’t looking for love but it happened anyhow. And now she couldn’t hold it back. She closed her eyes tightly. Why is this happening to me? Why can’t I make it stop? I’m too young, too far from home. My place isn’t here. This can’t be… love.
But love it was. Eva Beardsley had fallen in love with Sergeant Jim Adams.
* * *
The stagecoach to Boise lurched into the gray, early light, thirty hours and one hundred sixty miles from Kelton. With seventy miles to go, a third driver had now taken the reins. The passengers had seen no women at any of the stage stations because of Indian fears.
Sergeant Jim Adams couldn’t tear his eyes away from this girl with the smiling eyes. Unwilling to meet his gaze for fear of what he might read in her face, she kept her eyes demurely lowered.
"You’re beautiful," he said quietly, and without thinking she lifted her eyes to his face. She met his eyes, those green-gray eyes, and found that they were soft with tenderness for her.
"I love you," she said, her heart in her eyes. She had not meant to say it in the least; under the compelling warmth of his gaze the truth had just come tumbling out.
His eyes widened; his eyes bore into hers.
She couldn’t believe that she’d said it. She put out her hands toward him and he accepted them as if they were a sacred trust, folding his reverently about them. She caught her breath and her hands trembled in his. There was something glorious in the sparkle of her eyes.
For a long moment they sat with clasping hands, unaware of the beauty of the dawn, aware only of their own two astonished, hurting souls that had somehow found each other. They didn’t seem to need words, for each knew what was in the other’s heart.
He traced her features lightly with his fingers. Then, before she could protest, he cupped her face gently in his hands and kissed her. Her fingers reached for his, and she held them locked within her own. Outside the stagecoach, wheels turned as surely as dawn follows darkness. Inside, two lives changed forever.
To Eva, he was no longer Sergeant Adams. He was Jim. All I ask is just your hand in mine. Just the pressure of your hand is sweet joy enough.
"I love you! How I love you!" he said, in a low, shaken voice, as if he knew this moment was fleeting and must be treasured. "I never knew there was a girl like you. I loved you at once as soon as I saw you in the train. But I’m not fit for you – I’m not in your class at all – and I wouldn’t have dreamed of anything but worshipping you from afar."
He let go of her hands and abruptly fell backwards against the seat, a bitter expression on his face. "If I had known a girl like you was coming my way I’d have done things different – I’d have been ready – but I didn’t know. And now it’s too late. I’m not worthy of you."
"Oh, don’t," she pleaded softly, quick to see his changing mood. She looked at him and felt her heart racing. "Please don’t look like that. What have you done that is so wrong that you don’t deserve to be forgiven? What have you done that is so bad that you punish yourself – and now me for it? Am I not punished enough having no way to bring Jody back?"
"Jody?"
The memories suddenly came back to her like a runaway train. "It was my fault he died. My fault! I made him race me by the river. His horse fell and I jumped down to save him. But he died in my arms." She turned her head to the window and closed her eyes. The very mention of Jody’s name had stirred a train of painful thoughts, and she couldn’t easily shake them off. "It’s all my fault," she said as she dried her eyes with the back of her hand. "I cry every day."
There was silence for a moment between them while the two whose souls had come so unexpectedly together sat stricken before the appalling irrevocable deeds of the past.
"Eva," said Jim, "What’s done is done. It’s not your fault that Jody died, and it’s not his fault either – it’s just a terrible accident and that’s that. You can’t change what happened, anymore than I can change the things I’ve done. The past is the past. We have to go on with our lives."
Eva turned and smiled softly. Her eyes filled with tears, and without a sound her lips formed the words "Thank you." She turned her head away again and became suddenly quiet, lost in her own thoughts until she lost track of time.
Corporal Stark broke the hypnotic rumbling of stagecoach wheels. "Sergeant," he shouted from somewhere above. "The stage station – it’s deserted!"
The driver pulled the stage to a stop and the trailing cloud of dust swept over them. Jim let go of Eva’s hands and kissed her again – on the forehead this time.
He jumped down. It was quiet. Scattered around like broken toys were smashed dishes, a shattered iron kettle, battered pots and pans, and a heap of still-smoldering ashes. The ground was littered with hoof prints.
The horses, used to being unhitched immediately and led away for much-needed rest, whinnied nervously and glanced around them. Where was the human who would take them to the corral for hay and water? Why the delay? Where were their replacements? Apprehensively, they pawed the ground, not knowing what to expect.
"Corporal Stark," barked Jim. "Keep a sharp lookout. Watch that Indian – he’s a tricky one. Miss Eva, stay in the coach."
Experienced in the ways of the west, Jim stopped and looked for Indian signs. He found them: fresh Indian moccasin tracks and pony tracks without shoes. "All right, boys," he said, "it’s Indians and plenty of them."
"Sergeant! Look!" Corporal Stark was pointing toward King’s Crown, a proud butte about three miles north. Jim looked up the canyon road. Four men on horses were advancing, with a couple of spare horses to carry their packs. Three Eagles grinned, thinking the Indians had come back. But his grin quickly became a frown. "It’s soldiers," shouted Stark. "Hallelujah!"
"We must have caught up with the boys from Camp Halleck," said Jim.
The squad pulled up along the stagecoach. "Greetings, Sergeant. Lieutenant Creech from D company. Captain Sumner’s. Seen any Indians?"
"No, sir," said Adams. "Lots of sign, though. They really busted up this station. Don’t know what happened to the hostler. I’m Sergeant Adams from Boise. This here’s Corporal Stark."
"Mr. Packard’s safe with us," said Creech. "Someone warned him the Bannocks were coming and he escaped just in time. He said the redskins stole nine horses and all the provisions. Then they burned Glenns Ferry and headed west across the Snake. We saw your dust and came back to check." He looked up at Three Eagles. "What’s his story?"
"Our prisoner, sir," said Adams. "Nez Percé. Takin’ him to Boise to stand trial for murder." He motioned to the coach. "Horses are gonna need rest."
The driver spat in disgust as he looked down at the tired horses. "Can’t move ‘til they do, Sergeant."
"Tell you what, Lieutenant," said Adams. "Can you stay awhile until our horses are rested? If the Bannocks spot us on the road right now, we won’t be able to make a run for it. And besides," he added, "we’ve got a lady passenger."
Eva poked her head out of the coach, smiled, and waved.
Creech smiled and tipped his hat. "Mornin’ ma’am." Almost under his breath he added, "She’s a pretty one, she is." Then he turned to Adams. "Will do, Sergeant. And maybe we’ll have time to see what we can salvage."
One of the soldiers found water and hay and even a bag of grain for the horses. The others found a buckboard wagon, good for hauling supplies. It was perfect except for a broken wheel. So they spent hours repairing it and filling the wagon with what few things they could salvage. Eva spent the day in what was left of the station house.
It was getting dark and the increasing overcast made it even darker.
"It’s gonna rain, that’s for dang sure," said the driver. "I can feel it in my knees." He harnessed his team to the stagecoach. One of the soldiers hitched the spare horses to the buckboard. He threw a tarpaulin over the broken booty to keep it dry.
"Sergeant Adams," said Creech, "We’re headin’ west for Sheep Ranch Station – about a hundred and sixty miles hard ride. Gonna meet General Howard there. We need every man we can get; you and the corporal come with us. Bring that redskin and drive the buckboard. You’ll get your own horses when we catch up with our company." He glanced at the station house, Eva’s temporary refuge. "The lady’ll be safe in the coach – it’s goin’ north and the Bannocks have hightailed it west. Hurry now! Storm’s a-comin’."
Adams knew the lieutenant was right. He found himself walking into the station house where Eva sat so still on a broken stool, surrounded by debris, a figure of sudden sorrow. Her head turned slowly, a small smile crossed her lips.
"I heard him," she said weakly, in a voice just above a whisper. "Some place called Sheep Ranch Station."
He took in a deep breath and quietly approached her, taken by the dark strands of hair that framed her face, her eyes closed in anticipation of what he was about to say.
"Eva, I have to go," he said. "I’ll catch up with you later – I can’t say where or when. Maybe Walla Walla." She stood and began to walk away, but he grabbed her hand, not ready to let her go. "Eva. I love you."
She turned and faced him. "I love you, too, Jim."
He looked into her eyes for any kind of message. He saw what he was looking for in an instant, and pulled her to him. They kissed passionately. Two different worlds, two different lives, brought together by circumstances beyond their control.
"I have to go, dear Eva. But I promise you this – I’ll find you no matter what."
"Go, Jim," she whispered. "Say no more. I know you must go. But also know this… I love you more than any words can say." Her hand touched his cheek, her fingers fleetingly brushing it. He closed his eyes and took in a long, deep breath.
Then Eva pulled her silver locket off over her head and gave it to him. It was the precious locket that Jody had given her back in Wells Bridge. Her photo was still there but she’d replaced Jody’s with a small lock of her own hair. Before Adams could say anything else, she walked away and climbed into the stagecoach.
It began to rain hard as Adams and Stark secured their prisoner between them on the front seat of the buckboard. They could only see to fasten his shackles by flashes of lightning. Finally, Adams cracked his whip and they began to follow the other soldiers as lightning streaked back and forth across the sky and thunder shook the earth.
Jim never saw the young girl racing toward his wagon through the mud, dress lifted high so she wouldn’t trip. He never saw the young girl grab the back of the buckboard, flip herself into the rear, and slip under the tarpaulin.
He never saw Eva Beardsley become a stowaway.
For a long time, she lay motionless as the wagon bumped along. No one had heard her. No one had seen her. Whatever possessed me to do such a thing? Why didn’t I just stay with my family? Oh, Frankie and Ma and Pa – Where are you now?
* * *
As the Bannocks warred, the unassuming Beardsleys trekked across the Nebraska prairie with their new wagon train neighbors. Released from the self-imposed isolation of their Dakota homestead, they had swiftly discovered that out on the prairie they could spend days on end walking and chatting with friends. Frankie and the other children ran to and fro picking flowers. Mary Jane knew she would treasure the memory of this experience for the rest of her life. Indians were not yet on her mind.
Almost everyone walked because the wagons had no springs and the terrain was almost always rough; it would have been foolish to overload the wagons by adding their own weight. The yoked oxen required no reins. Instead, the drivers guided their teams by walking beside them and yelling out commands.
But something else had entered the picture, something Mary Jane had never expected. Only a few weeks after her thirty-ninth birthday, nearly eleven years after the birth of Frankie, she felt the old familiar symptoms. She knew without a doubt – she was pregnant again.
I won’t turn back, she thought. If this child can’t be born in Wells Bridge, it won’t be born in this desolation. My children and I won’t live on this lonely prairie. I will not tell Theo, Frankie – anyone. I will go west to Walla Walla. I will travel now, while the weather is still good. And I will make it to Walla Walla before the baby comes.
She pulled her hat down tightly against the prairie wind and doggedly slogged on.
From dozens of campfires scattered among Bannock and Shoshoni lodges at the head of a small, aspen-fringed mountain valley, smoke curled lazily into the clear, crisp sky.
For countless generations, this valley had been a Garden of Eden to them. In this remote corner of southwestern Idaho Territory grew a purplish flower with the botanical title of Esculenta. To Indians and white pioneers alike, it was known by the simple name of camas. The Indians pounded its roots and used them like the whites used wheat flour.
When white men first climbed Purple Ridge and stared across at the jagged snow peaks of the Sawtooth range, camas flowers carpeted the floor of the trough-like valley with a rug of startling beauty. Wave on wave, row on row, mile on mile, they nodded in purple glory, their silken petals caressed by the warm northwestern sunshine, their tall slender stems swayed gently by the lazy winds of summer.
But trouble, which had been brewing for months, was ready to explode.
Only a few days before Eva Beardsley had begun her trip west, and while her Oregon-bound family enjoyed their first breakfast on the wagon trail west from Dakota, Buffalo Horn, a Bannock chief, stepped from his teepee and gazed east onto Camas Prairie below him. His face was solemn.
Widely known through all the western territories north of the Central Pacific Railroad, Buffalo Horn was a small, gracefully built Indian. His eyes mirrored the fierceness of the eagle and the tender gentleness of the antelope. The black coils of hair on one side of his head were wound with threads of leather, making each resemble a buffalo horn. Some supposed this to be the reason for his name. In truth, when he was still a youth, Bison Skeleton had appeared in his Medicine Dream and given him the name.
Bison Skeleton had told him, "Many horses you will take from the Blackfeet, from the Crows, from the whites and the Dakotas. You shall be rich. You shall be a very great warrior. You shall be known as Buffalo Horn."
This morning the other warriors watched this exotic figure with great interest, noting how thin, how dark, how small-boned, how vivacious of movement he was – so different from all the others.
Different from the others, too, were his features: straight nose, small graceful mouth, thick lips, high cheekbones. His eyes were mysterious-looking with their Mongolian slant and fathomless stare. His teeth gleamed white when he talked.
Buffalo Horn had all the qualities needed to win the Indian’s admiration. He was a perfect daredevil on horseback, a crack shot, intelligent, and exceedingly proud. Some said he had a strain of white blood in his veins. But he spoke only very broken English.
Settlers in the American West, backed by the U.S. Army and corrupt Indian agents, had constantly squeezed the Indians off their land, broken treaties, and systematically starved them, until seeds of rebellion were born. Patterned after the ancient warrior chiefs, the rebellion’s brightest ray of hope was Buffalo Horn.
And now this steely-eyed Indian had secretly organized a coalition of nearly every Indian tribe in the Northwest.
With field glasses he’d retained from his scouting duty with General Howard during the Nez Percé campaign, he scanned the prairie before him for traces of white men’s cattle trespassing on the sacred camas ground of his tribe. Young Eagle, a Bannock brave of Chief Pocatello’s band, proudly sat next to him.