Unto This Land

Chapter One

     If I hadn't been relieving myself in the tall grass, they would have killed me, too. Or worse, taken me as a slave. They took the little McCullough girl. I hid in the grass and kept quiet while they massacred the entire train. Poor Mrs. Bailey tried to hold her baby but they snatched him from her arms and bashed his little head against the side of the wagon. I couldn't watch any more after that. I didn't see them kill my Ma or Pa or little brother, Stephen - all of them. I heard the screams, though - the agonized screams of being scalped alive, Mrs. Bailey's soul-wrenching scream as she watched her baby die, and Virginia Blaylock's pleading moans when they violated her dying body. After the screams came the silence - a ghastly, ear-shattering silence. The attack seemed to last for hours, but really it was all over in minutes. They swept down on us without warning, howling and screeching, their faces hideous with war paint.

     My legs ached from squatting, but I dared not move. I stayed there the rest of the afternoon and all that night. And, Lord, it was hot. The prairie grass was both my safety and my enemy. No breeze, no shade, just the sun beating down. I'd left my bonnet at the wagon - I was only going to be gone a minute. How I wished I had listened to Ma's last warning. She had harped on me to wear it.

     It was well after dark before I risked moving, slowly easing myself down to the ground. Tired, hungry, and sunburned, I just sat there, crying and trying to rub the life back into my swollen legs. When the coyotes started howling, I jumped but my legs wouldn't support my weight so I fell back into a prickly pear. White-hot pain shot through me each time I pulled out a thorn.

     My imagination ran wild as I listened to the coyotes feasting on their easy-gotten meal. Oh, how I prayed to be delivered safely back to civilization.

     I waited for some time after sunrise before going back to the train. Nothing in my eighteen years prepared me for the scene I encountered. Supplies were scattered around the wagons and the coyotes had done their work, too - bodies ripped apart, flesh torn from the bone - only the heads intact with cold, staring eyes and mouths forever frozen in screams. The bile rose in my throat and I couldn't stop my stomach's revolt. I was weak with hunger and trembling with fear, and couldn't even give them a Christian burial. Self-preservation spurred me forward and I hurriedly gathered what supplies I could carry. I felt it prudent to change my clothes, so I put on Billy Whitaker's britches and Mr. Taylor's coat. I tucked my hair up under Mr. Adams' hat, then gathered some biscuits and hardtack off the ground. And bless Pa! He had hidden a gun in a false compartment under the wagon seat. I found a broken knife and tucked it in my waistband for good measure, then I set my course due east by the sun. On a little rise about a half mile away, I stopped for one last look - not that I could ever forget what I had seen.

     I must have walked for three, maybe four, days, staying in the tall grass, paralleling the wagon tracks. I was so thirsty. I used the knife to cut the prickly pears so I could suck out the juices. The first night, every time I would doze off, heads and faces and screams filled my mind, and I would wake with a start. Even the familiar noises of the night creatures startled me. I was so alone and so afraid. The wagon master told us the Indians wouldn't attack at night, but he also told us that we weren't in Indian territory yet. My second night I saw the glow of camp fires off in the distance. It could have been another train . . . but it could have been their camp, I don't know. I only wanted the safety of the fort. By the third morning I was out of food. I found a few berries - what the birds hadn't eaten - and a couple of eggs that I swallowed raw - couldn't risk a fire. Finally, the prairie grass gave way to the trees and I knew the river was close.

     About mid day I reached the riverbank and my caution paid off. My empty stomach churned and growled as the aroma of roasting meat drifted up the riverbank, assaulting my nostrils and testing my self-control. Using the scrub brush as cover, I crept to the edge and peeked over. They were there, alright, sorting their bounty - our supplies, my clothes, all the things they took from the wagon train. I saw the little McCullough girl, running and playing in the river with the Indian children and I saw Mrs. Mitchell, too. She looked tired, her dress torn, but, otherwise, okay. My heart ached for their plight. The men were laughing, pointing at each other while they tried on our clothes, throwing the discards to their squaws. I saw one wearing my mother's wedding dress. How I wished I could inflict as much pain on them as they had on me, that their children would drown, bogged down in quicksand; that the men's bodies would bloat from the poison of water moccasins, bitten while tying to save the children; and the women would bleed to death, slowly, after cutting themselves in grief. But all I could do was wait for them to leave.

     Early the next morning, they did leave, heading south following the riverbank. A fat old squaw was pulling Mrs. Mitchell, her hands bound by some sort of leather strap. She kept looking back over her shoulder and, each time she did, the old squaw jerked the strap. I heard Mrs. Mitchell cry once.

     They hadn't cleaned up their camp very well. Meat scraps and flat bread were scattered all over the sand. Hunger overcame caution and I lowered myself down the bank. I looked in every direction, but there was no sign of them. I dashed out into the open, grabbed what scraps I could and ran back to the riverbank. Greedily, like some half-starved animal, I ate the tough, bitter meat, buffalo I guess, chewing until my jaws tired, then swallowed it whole. Among the scattered clothing I spied a squaw's dress and the thought struck me - that dress was rightfully mine. Not thinking of the danger and half out of my mind from heat and thirst, I risked one more run into the open.

     About dark, I decided to cross the river. Using the shadows to my advantage, I crawled to the water's edge and eased myself into the cool water. It was soothing on my sunburned skin and a real treat after the prickly pear juice. The river was shallow enough to crawl across, leaving me to luxuriate a while longer. I wrapped my gun in the squaw's dress, held the edges in my teeth, then slowly I inched my way across, changing course several times to avoid the quicksand. It was completely dark when I reached the other side and I lay in the warm sand, exhausted from my trials, exuberant that the fort was only 30 miles away. With the last of my energy, I scrambled up the riverbank and fell into a clump of trees, and into my first real night's sleep since the attack.

     Sometime after dawn I awoke with a start. I felt a presence, like I was being watched. Ever so quietly, I got to my feet and, when I turned, I saw him riding down the hill toward me. He wore a long duster almost the same color as the buckskin he was riding. His hat was dark, pulled low over his eyes. He rode slowly, never raising his head. The sight of him filled me with foreboding and terror gripped my very soul. The rustling bushes behind me warned that he had brought the others, too. They had me surrounded, had set me up for an ambush.

     I saw his body jerk, then heard the crack of his shot, and I threw myself on the ground, his bullet whizzing past my ear. There was such thrashing and squalling but I knew they were trying to scare me, trying to make me do something foolish. Closer and closer they came, louder and louder they squalled. I vowed not to be taken alive. I had but one bullet and my choices were narrow. I could shoot the rider and risk missing at this distance; I could use the bullet for the ones behind me; or I could save the bullet for myself. He made my decision with his second shot and, from pure reflex, I turned and fired. My shot traveled true to its intended mark, the impact raising him out of the saddle then knocking him to the ground. The thud behind me drew my attention to the more immediate danger. Every nerve in my being was on edge and I was ready to spring, to fight until my last breath.

     When I heard the slow, harsh breathing of death, I realized his shot had gone wide and he had struck one of his own. Pa told me never to trust an Indian, none of them, so I kept to cover and waited. After a while I started to make my way toward the rider. He was still, very still, and I didn't see him breathing. I circled him once, twice, then carefully reached down to move his hat. I wanted to see the face of the savage I had killed, to fix his features in my mind. With his death I had avenged my family.

     As quick as a lightening bolt, he grabbed my arm, pulling me closer. "Did I get it? Did I get the cat?" he gasped, then lapsed into unconsciousness. It was then I realized I had shot a white man and my blood ran cold. A white man! He could have saved me, brought me back to the fort.

     The bullet had buried deep in his shoulder and his wound was bleeding badly. I had nothing for a dressing, no way to stop the bleeding. My mind raced, searching for something - anything. Mud! I could use mud to pack his wound. I sped back to the riverbank, skirting the cat on the way. Scooping up as much of the red mud as I could and, with rivulets running down my arms, I ran back to pack his wound, double checking the cat on the way. It was dead. At least I didn't have to worry about a wounded cat attacking us.

     The mud slowed his bleeding some but I knew I had to hurry, put as much distance as possible between us and the river. I figured that, if the Indians were anywhere around, they had heard our shots and would come lurking back.

     I used the knife to cut two small saplings. I had blisters on my hands after cutting the first one, blood after the second. I fitted the squaw's dress over them, stretching it tight, to make a travois, then rolled the man over on it. He roused a little, groaning in pain. Next, I caught his horse and lifted the end of each sapling into the stirrups. He was so heavy I didn't think I would have the strength to lift him. The Lord knew our predicament and gave me the strength. There was a rope on his saddle and I used it to secure the saplings to the stirrups. Then we started out, me leading the buckskin, the buckskin pulling the travois. I knew we would be leaving a trail a blind man could follow so we traveled day and night until we got to the fort. I do believe that horse knew the urgency of our situation because he kept going when I was ready to quit.

     At the fort, I turned myself over to the soldiers' protection and asked them to wire my uncle in St. Louis of my plight. I have told all I can of the attack other than I saw no more Indians. I was in need of a hot meal, a soft bed, and a doctor to tend my wounds. Oh, one more thing, the man roused once, long enough to tell me his name. Rafe - Rafe Kincaid.

About the Author

   I am a native Texan and the mother of two - a daughter who teaches in New Mexico and a teenage son who plays bass guitar with a local group. My column, Old Town Talk, can be found at www.wordmuseum.com.

     The first piece I published was a poem and the writing bug bit me! Since then, I've been published in various magazines and newspapers as a freelance writer.

     Orphan of the Heart is my first book-length publication. The idea for the story came from an article I read about a little boy who had been made a ward of the court when his parents were put in prison for drug dealing. My imagination kicked into high gear and - WA -LAH - a book came out my fingertips.

    Unto This Land is my second work, and my favorite to date. I hope you enjoy it!