Linda Ford - Wagon Train Reunion

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?”

The baby stuck his thumb in his mouth and clung to his mother.

“His name is Johnny. I’m Sally Littleton. And I thank you.” She squeezed Emma’s hands. Then they bowed their heads.

The women circling them also bowed their heads and Ben and the men removed their hats.

“Our Father in heaven, thank you for sparing Johnny’s life. And grant our deepest desire that he recover from this wound with no ill effects. Amen.” Emma opened her eyes and patted little Johnny’s back. She straightened.

All this time, Abby sat beside Mrs. Littleton, one arm wrapped about the woman’s shoulders, comforting her.

A man rushed up. “I heard my son was shot.” He threw his hat on the ground and knelt before his wife. He ran his hands over the baby. “Is he...is he?”

Mrs. Littleton pressed her palms to her husband’s cheeks. “It was only a flesh wound. Miss Hewitt tended it.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” He shook hands with everyone around him and introductions were made. “Thank God. Johnny is all we have left. Our other three died of swamp fever last year.”

Ben’s throat tightened. So many bore the pain of loss yet faced the great adventure full of hopes and dreams. Ben and his sisters, Emma and Rachel, shared the excitement. They’d eagerly sold the ranch and most of their possessions, bought three teams of oxen, outfitted their wagon with enough supplies to carry them across the continent to Oregon where they’d join their brother, Grayson. Grayson had gone out two years ago to escape the memory of his young wife’s death in childbirth. He wrote often, urging his siblings to join him and for Ben to consider working at his store. After the death of their father late last year, they made plans to do so. Ben would do his best to see that everyone else on the train made the trip safely, as well.

As he continued inspecting the wagons in the section he’d been assigned, he overheard bits and pieces of conversation.

New beginning. Fresh start. Opportunity. The final word rang throughout most of the conversations. It was the promise that filled them all with hope and determination. For a new beginning almost a thousand people were prepared to face the dangers this journey held.

Soon he was again engulfed by the noise of the camp as he went from wagon to wagon. Men yelled at oxen. Women shouted at children who raced about excitedly. Metal rang on metal as wagon wheels were prepared for the journey. Over it all hung the smell of hundreds of animals.

The poor oxen had to endure inexperienced men ordering them every which way without any real idea of how to direct the animals. Ben had taken the time to instruct both his sisters on how to drive their oxen. He planned to drive most of the time, though being one of the committeemen might necessitate he ride his horse along the wagon train to help convey instructions down the line.

He assessed those he was destined to travel with. An assorted lot to be sure. Many wore the clothes and had the markings of farmers. Others, like Mr. Bingham, appeared to be businessmen hoping for better times. There were small groups traveling together but most of the emigrants were meeting each other for the first time. There’d be plenty of friction as strangers were forced to learn to work together.