15. Westward, Ho! #2
She sat for a few minutes, then used the mule to help her rise. As her clothing dried, she first shuffled, then shambled, then ambled, and finished up walking by the time she made her way back to camp.
Her eight mules were all hobbled and dozing where they stood, having grazed until full.
Hanging from the last wagon rib, one of the candle shades held a fresh candle, ready for lighting.
The lowered chuck box, set like a table, held the picnic basket in its center.
Each of their two chairs stood on either side.
“Kizzy,” she called, “I’m back.” From around the wagon strolled Mr. Cushing, her wife’s arm in his.
“About time, Dennison,” growled Cushing. “As you should remember, since you were one, most of these wagons hold single men lusting for gold.” He raised an eyebrow. “They’re only a day out from civilization, but I had to stop two from helping themselves to your wife and mules.”
Clem’s hands clenched into fists of rage. “Thank you for stepping in, Mr. Cushing. I won’t leave her unprotected again.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Cushing,” agreed Kizzy with a genuine smile, releasing his arm.
She stepped to Clem’s side. “And for all your help until Clem returned, but I have a pistol which I will keep on me. As our fellow travelers get to know me, they’ll learn to respect my personal property, or they’ll wear a bullet to remind them. ”
“You’re a feisty female, no denying it.” Mr. Cushing tipped his hat to her. “There’ll be a meeting around the campfire at six,” he said, walking away. “Enjoy your supper.”
“What happened?” Clem’s worry warred with her admiration of Kizzy’s response.
“Tell you as we eat. I’m starving, aren’t you?”
“I am,” admitted Clem. “It’s been a while since breakfast.” They sat down at the chuck box table and pulled off the cloth. Out came fried chicken, cornbread, butter, pickles, a fresh tomato, baked potato rounds, and a three-berry pie. They tucked in, grateful for their friends’ generosity.
“After you left,” Kizzy began her story as she finished a chicken leg, “I also had a little trouble moving around.” She rubbed her bottom. “It took me a few minutes, and by then a couple of men were standing by Henry and Curtis.”
“Who?” asked Clem, around a mouthful of buttered cornbread.
“That’s what I named the two lead mules,” Kizzy explained.
“One of them said our mules are bigger than theirs, but our wagon is smaller, so we should trade. I pretended I didn’t hear, took hold of the traces, and said you’d be back soon if they wanted to see you about something.
I hoped they’d go away. Instead, they saw I didn’t know how to undo the traces, and one of them reached over and took them right out of my hand.
He said I didn’t deserve them.” Her lips tightened.
“If I had my pistol, I’d have shot him.”
Clem raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”
“I saw Mr. Cushing riding along the wagons, and I called his name, waving. The second man yanked my arm behind my back, slapped a hand over my mouth, and tried to pull me behind the wagon. I stomped on his foot, bit his hand, and yelled for all I was worth. Mr. Cushing was there before I realized it.”
This was getting interesting. Clem pushed back her plate to listen. “What’d he do?” She had a pretty good idea.
“Pulled a coiled whip from his saddle and lashed the one holding me across the face, just above my head. I ducked and ran as he screamed and covered his eyes. The second one looked up at Mr. Cushing, saw me now standing beside his horse, raised both his hands, and started backing away.” She imitated his mumble. “Didn’t mean nothing by it,”
Kizzy’s blue eyes were enormous with an admiration Clem wished she’d earned. “Mr. Cushing called him a liar and struck him lower, across his mouth and cheeks. When he yelled and started away, he called after him, so calm, ‘Don’t forget your brother, Abercrombie.’”
“I’ve seen that whip in action before.” Clem nodded. “He always hits his target.”
A metal triangle sounded. They looked over by the central campfire where many had cooked their dinners and now sat, chatting, and resting.
“That’s a whole lot of men,” noted Kizzy.
“Yes, but here are some women,” Clem nodded as several walked from their wagons toward the fire, some with small children in tow. “Maybe you can make friends.”
“Let’s go find out,” said Kizzy, jumping up. “I’ll clean up later.” She laughed. “I don’t think we should keep Mr. Cushing waiting.”
“’Kay, Jed,” they heard an old man call as they approached. “Everybody’s comin’.”
With his audience assembled, the trail boss got down to business. “Every last one of you signed an agreement before you paid, and shook on it, but I’m going to tell you the rules once more, for anyone who needs reminding.”
“Or can’t read.” Someone snickered.
The trail boss glared around the group. “I’m Jed Cushing, and this is my wagon train. I’m its master, and yours. Yes, you heard me, and let me be very clear; you will do everything I tell you until I get you where you’re going.”