“Just what we need’s an infant.”
“The sons can handle guns as good as you or me,” Bobbo said. “The wagon’s ox-drawn, and they’re traveling with four good horses besides. Mr. Comyns said he’d allow one of us to ride that extra horse, was we of a mind to. That’s his name, Pa, the carpenter. Jonah Comyns.”
“Has an extra horse, eh?”
“Yes, Pa.”
“Mm,” Hadley said. “And the other family?”
“Does it sound interesting, Pa?”
“You said there were two families.”
“Aye. The other’s a man named Willoughby and his two daughters. He’s a widower, Pa, decided to move from Pennsylvania when his wife passed on.”
“How old are the daughters?”
“One’s just Annabel’s age. Be somebody for her to play with, Pa. She’s been hurtin for company.”
“And the other one?”
“A toddler two or three years old.”
“With no mother to take care of her.”
“Most well-behaved little child I ever did see,” Bobbo said. “Sat on a bench along the wall all the time her pa was gettin shaved, never made so much as a peep.”
“Mm,” Hadley said.
“There’s that extra horse to think about Pa. Mean less of a load in the wagon; mules’d have an easier time of it.”
“Mules made it all the way here from Virginia, I reckon they can make it beyond as well. ’Sides, your brothers ain’t here yet.”
So that was it.
“Pa,” Bobbo said, “we told them—”
“I don’t want to leave without em,” Hadley said.
“We said we’d wait only till we found some wagons going out. Either that or—”
“They’ll be here any day now,” Hadley said.
“Pa, we don’t know when they’ll be here — that’s the plain truth of it. I found us two wagons we can join up with—”
“Three, if you’ll include me and mine,” Timothy said. “I’ve got but a small one drawn by a pair of mules, and no horse to contribute. But I’m a good shot, and I own a Hall percussion carbine. I know Indians well, sir, the good ones and the bad. I’ve been to the Rockies and back as many times as I’ve got fingers and thumbs. I know the terrain, and I know what—”
“We met a fellow in Louisville, had no horse neither,” Hadley said. “He’s got one now.”
“Eh?” Timothy said.
“How far’d you say you were going?” Bobbo asked.
“The Coast of Nebraska.”
“Where’s that?”
“This side of the Platte.”
“Pa?” Bobbo said.
Hadley knew the mileage from Carthage by heart — Gideon and Will should’ve been here by now. This was the ninth of June; they’d parted company outside St. Louis on the twentieth of May. His every instinct told him to wait here for his boys, but he knew he couldn’t delay the rest of the family any longer. Bobbo was right, this was a fine opportunity. Counting Oates here, there’d be four wagons, which maybe wasn’t a proper train, but enough of them to form some kind of circle at night, keep from getting scalped. Didn’t much like the idea of an Indian right in their midst, woman or not, but Oates seemed a decent enough fellow, and Hadley supposed you couldn’t go around blaming every redskin in the world for something had happened to your father forty-one years ago. Besides, it wouldn’t be charitable to let a man struggle across the plains all by himself, just him and his wife in a little old wagon. He sure wished Gideon and Will were here. Seemed like all he had to do anymore was make decisions all the time, each one harder than the one before. Back home, a man woke up of a morning, why the day just seemed to unfold of its own accord, and you didn’t have to go making up your mind every time you took a breath.
“Pa?” Bobbo said again.
“Yes, son, yes,” Hadley said wearily.
They left Independence shortly after sunrise the next morning. As they moved out in single file, Bobbo saw his mother look back over her shoulder. It seemed to him in that minute that she was looking clear to St. Louis or beyond. Evansville maybe, or Louisville, or straight through the Gap to Virginia. Timothy’s wagon was in the lead; they had charts, but he alone had made the trip before. The wagon behind Timothy’s was that of the carpenter, Jonah Comyns, followed by the Pennsylvania widower and his two young daughters. Last in line was the Chisholm wagon, Bobbo riding the borrowed horse beside it. The day was clear and bright; they could not have wished for better weather. They could see Independence behind them for the longest time.
Then suddenly it was gone.
This was the wilderness.
Not at all what Bobbo expected. No dense forest to hack through, no underbrush ripping clothes and flesh, no wild animals crouched to attack. Just... nothing. No houses, no fences, no barns. Emptiness. Except for every now and then an Indian going by on the horizon.
Bobbo rode up alongside Timothy’s wagon, slowed his horse.
“Is that the same Indian I see out there all the time?” he asked.
“How’s that?” Timothy said.
“See an Indian going by all the time, thought maybe he’s scouting us for a massacre.” Bobbo smiled. But he was serious.
“I think it’s several different Indians you’re seeing,” Timothy said. “They’re peaceful farmers. You needn’t worry.”
“Mm,” Bobbo said. He supposed Timothy knew; he’d made the journey west often enough. In the back of the Oates wagon, Timothy’s Indian wife huddled as if chilled. “Is your wife all right?” Bobbo asked. “She ain’t ailing, is she?”
“No, she’s fine, thank you.”
“She looks so sad all the time,” Bobbo said.
“She is sad all the time,” Timothy said.
“Why’s that?”
“Misses her people.”
“You met her out there west, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I hope she gets to feeling better,” Bobbo said.
“She will, I’m sure,” Timothy said, and smiled.
Bobbo turned the horse about, and rode back to where his father and sister were sitting beside each other on the wagon seat
“Pa,” he said, “you want to swap places awhile?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Hadley said, and tugging at the reins, stopped the mules. “Backside’s beginnin to wear thin. How’s that horse, son?”
“Good one, Pa.”
“Well, get on off him,” Hadley said.
Bobbo dismounted and handed the reins to his father. Hadley swung up into the saddle and adjusted his rump to it. He said, “Come on, horse,” and clucked gently to the animal. Watching him ride ahead past the lead wagon, Bobbo climbed onto the seat and picked up the reins. “Ha-ya!” he shouted, and the wagon rolled into motion again. Beside him, Bonnie Sue was silent.
“What’s troublin you?” he asked her.
“Ain’t nothin troublin me.”
“Then how come you don’t say a word to nobody, just sit around moping all the time?”
“I ain’t moping,” she said.
“It sure looks like moping,” he said. “Looks like wilting, you want to know.”
“Bobbo, it ain’t your business,” she said.
“Well, it is my business,” he said.
“No.”
“Cause I love you half to death, and can’t bear to see you unhappy.”
She looked at him.
“That’s right,” he said.
“Well,” she said, “I ain’t unhappy. It’s... I’m scared, is what it is.”
“What of?”
“There’s smoke goin up in the distance there. I’m sure it’s Indians sendin some kind of message, tellin each other to come scalp us.”
“Bonnie Sue, that ain’t it,” Bobbo said.
She looked at him again.