Sorrows’ Children

 © Kim Roberts 2001

Chapter 1

Buck placed the cap back on the canteen and wiped his shirtsleeve across his mouth.  Twisting in the saddle, he arched his back trying to relieve the persistent ache.  It didn’t help much.  Too many days in the saddle and nights in a bedroll had rubbed his joints raw and left his muscles rebelling.  Pulling his left foot from the stirrup he straightened his leg, flexing his foot in an attempt to work out the nagging cramp that had settled in his calf.  He’d been riding a long time and there were still a good many miles between him and his bunk, Rachel’s cooking and the company of his Express family.   The familiar outline of Rock Creek’s rooftops would be a welcome sight even if he didn’t care much for their new station.

He had never been pleased with their move to Rock Creek.  If they had stayed in Sweetwater then Ike wouldn’t have. . .

“Don’t think about it, Buck,” he ordered himself.  “Just don’t think about it.”

The Pony Express was a private enterprise but “special” runs for the Army, such as this one, were becoming more and more common as the financially strapped owners of the Express eagerly offered their riders as couriers for the military. A parcel of documents was to be picked up from the commanding officer at Fort Kearney and delivered to a unit temporarily stationed at Fort St. Vrain in Colorado Territory, well south of the established Pony Express trail.   It was a long run, likely a ten-day round trip for a single rider, and there were reports that the Arapaho were becoming increasingly hostile in the area.  But the government paid too well for the head office to turn the work down, even if the runs were a bit out of the ordinary.

Buck knew Teaspoon had hesitated before asking him to take the run.   He had seen the worry in the older man’s eyes.  Teaspoon knew Buck was familiar with the area and of all the riders employed by Russell, Majors and Waddell, he was the most capable of avoiding an encounter with hostile Indians. The boy had an uncanny sense of “knowing” about him.  Each of Teaspoon’s riders had a gift unique to them and that was Buck’s.  An ‘awareness’ that was born in the blood.  But still.  It was awfully soon. 

“You sure you’re up to this, son?” the older man had asked as he saw his Kiowa rider off in the gray light of early morning seven days prior.

“I know where I’m goin’, Teaspoon.  I’ve been around there before,” Buck assured him even though he was aware his employer’s concern didn’t rise from whether or not he knew the area.  “I’ll be fine.”

It did seem to Teaspoon that Buck was doing better.  The consuming grief that had swallowed him after Ike’s sudden death had lessened and Buck seemed to be adjusting to the newness of being alone.  But sometimes he still saw it  - a hurtful look casting a long shadow over the boy’s dark eyes, a word caught edgeways in his throat.  They were small things but enough to make Buck’s assertion that he had come to terms with Ike’s death suspect.

In his own mind, Buck had come to terms with losing his friend.  Trapped in a remote darkness by a heartache too big to get past, he had bargained with Ike’s memory.  The conditions of the agreement were simple.  He would be permitted to sleep without Ike’s pale ghost bleeding across his dreams and eat without his stomach tossing back the food forced into it as long as he didn’t think about Ike.  He just couldn’t do it.  Provided he held up his end of the bargain, he would be fine. 

Buck settled back into the saddle waiting for the bay gelding beneath him to drink its fill from the shallow water hole.  He had been worried about finding water.  He hadn’t traveled through this part of the territory for several years but he remembered it being terribly dry during the summer months.  Thankfully, an out of season rain had left scattered pockets of water that were easily located.  He had no difficulty finding the fort either as the route was well marked by a steady trail of tracks left by mounted troops moving in and out of the garrison. 

While grabbing a quick cup of coffee and a little rest in the mess tent after delivering the parcel to the officer in charge, he overheard bits of conversation about the Arapaho uprising.  An overblown account he suspected.  Noticing his presence, the men’s voices grew louder just so he would know of their opinion of Indians in general.  It was nothing new but it still bothered him.  It didn’t matter that he had just spent five days pounding his body black and blue across the plains to deliver ‘their’ mail. It bothered him more that nothing he said or did would sway their opinion and the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.  He sat the tin cup back on the table, still half-full, tossed his weary bones back into the saddle and left.

Its belly cooled, the bay raised his head from the pond, flicking its ears to deflect the flies that congregated around the water hole.

“You ready to go, Red?” Buck asked, leaning forward to give his companion’s neck an affectionate scratch.  As if to answer, the horse pawed the ground impatiently and tossed his black-maned head sending the metallic clatter of bit and bridle into the air.  A slight touch of Buck’s heels was all that was necessary to urge the horse into an easy lope.  Like all Express ponies, its energy and desire to run was close to the surface and both horse and rider would have preferred a faster gait.  But the gelding was his only mount until they reached the nearest Express station at Julesburg, still a day and a half away.  Although he had seen nothing to indicate hostile Indian activity on either leg of the trip, it would be best to conserve the animal’s speed for a time when it might be needed.

Easing into the bay’s rhythmic stride Buck’s thoughts began to wander down the trail toward home.  Teaspoon had promised him some time off to compensate for the long run although there was no particular place he wanted to go.  A few days rest at the station would suit him just fine.  His mouth began to water envisioning Rachel’s steaming blackberry cobbler.  She didn’t make the dessert very often, but knowing it was a favorite she had offered it as a treat when he got home.  A smile slipped across his face as he pictured himself sitting in the rocker on the bunkhouse porch, feet propped up, a dish of cobbler and fresh cream in his hands relaxing while the others grumbled through mucking out stalls and painting the barn.  Buck laughed out loud at the thought causing the bay’s ears to flit in curiosity.  Watching the others work.  Now that would be time off well spent.

Two hours later Buck felt pretty good about the progress he and the bay gelding had made.  Even at the slower pace they had covered a sizeable amount of ground and a few more hours of travel were still possible before darkness stopped them for the night.  Barring bad luck, he would make the station in Julesburg by the next afternoon, bid the gelding a reluctant good-bye, grab a fresh horse and sprint across Nebraska for home.

At first he thought the disruption breaking the straight line of the horizon before him was his imagination.  A long run in the flat lands could do that to a rider.  Reining in the bay horse a bit, he rubbed the dust from his eyes and stood in the stirrups to make sure.  No.  He wasn’t seeing things.  His expression twisted in a grim thought, Buck sat back into the saddle, weighing his options.  A part of him argued to swing a wide berth around the wagon and continue on his way, but that side of his nature had never been very persuasive.  Slowing the gelding to a pace that would hopefully be taken as non-aggressive, he walked the horse closer to the wagon, hoping he wasn’t met with the serious end of a shot gun.   It had happened before.   

A violent death isn’t silent.  The terror of a brutal ending lingers tangible in the air for a time.   Makes it heavy.  Cries linger long after their voices have died. Resisting the call of the hereafter, disbelieving souls hover over lifeless bodies, wringing their hands and sobbing, imploring the Fates to mend the snipped thread.

Buck had felt it before.  The heaviness.  He had been a small child, six or seven at most, when the Kiowa village was attacked by a thieving band of Paiute.  He remembered it well - the smell of blood, the buzz of flies swarming over open wounds, their steady hum announcing the killings to higher predators.  Taking the reins in his right hand he slowly slid his pistol from its leather holster and nudged the bay forward.  The color in his face drained away when he rode upon them.  He swallowed hard and looked away.  The soldiers at the fort hadn’t been exaggerating after all.

They were a young couple, not much older than he was.  She had been pretty.  Fair haired and skinned.  Freckled.  She reminded him a little bit of Emma, or what Emma might have looked like in her early twenties.   She lay on her side, nearly hidden in the tall grass, her hands folded prayerlike under her chin.  Her eyes were still open and when he rolled her onto her back it looked almost as if she was searching the heavens for her God, reciting her prayers before sleep.

He tried to remove the arrow protruding from her abdomen, but the pierced flesh had closed around the shaft so it almost looked like the arrow was a part of her – a feather embellished appendage of some sort.  The large bloodstain marring the front of her lavender checked dress told that she had not died quickly.  A still heart doesn’t pulse blood.  Her death had been slow and painful.  Degrading.  Buck wrapped his hand around the arrow and with a quick movement of the wrist snapped the shaft above the wound.  She almost looked grateful.

A young man lay in a lifeless, bloody sprawl a few feet from her.  Buck presumed he was her husband.  He had probably been a good man.  He had made a mistake to be sure.  Heading out on their own through such dangerous country had been foolish, but that didn’t make him any less a good man.  Naïve . . . stubborn maybe.  He guessed they had been part of a wagon train.  The long, winding caravans bound for paradise had become commonplace.  The man had probably been warned about the dangers of traveling alone.   Buck wondered if he thought about that warning as the Arapaho brave bore down on him, his lance raised in intimidation, war cries ripping the air.  

Death is at an arm’s length with a tomahawk. Close enough for the man to have seen the hatred in the Arapaho’s eyes before the heavy, knife-edged blows rained down on him.  Close enough for the warrior to have found the terror in the white man’s eyes as the weapon split his skull in half.  Buck tried to brush the excited flies away from the gaping wound to give the dead man a bit of dignity, but no sooner than he swatted them away, they settled back.

Buck pushed himself to his feet, his heavy steps marking a path back to the gelding waiting patiently nearby. He doubted the animal would stray, but the last thing he needed was for a coyote intent on claiming a meal to spook the horse and be left in this vast emptiness without a mount.  He led the faithful animal to the wagon, looping the leather strands through a wheel. He noticed that several spokes of the wheel were broken, the wood shattered by a stress the mechanism wasn’t meant to bear.  Buck ran his hand thoughtfully over the splintered wood as it told the story.  The entire attack had probably lasted only a few minutes.  The images were vivid and troubled him.  He understood the need of the Arapaho to protect their home against enemies, but this couple’s only crime had been poor judgement. 

They were warring factions in an argument that repeated over and over again in his mind.  In the singular, the white couple posed no threat, but when one came others would follow.  Towns and cities, roads and fences would sprout in the Indian’s fertile homeland and they would be pushed off ground that had been theirs for as long as the land could remember.  Seeking revenge upon those who wronged you was a natural response.  He’d done as much himself.  “No . . . “ he quickly corrected himself.  “Neville was different.  Very different.”  Neville deserved what he got.

“Don’t think about it, Buck.  Don’t think about it.”

Shaking off the forbidden thoughts, Buck untied the leather straps securing a shovel to the side of the wagon, resigning himself to the task.  The Arapaho had no use for it or the white couple’s belongings.  All they had taken were the horses and whatever weapon the man might have had.  Heaving a sigh laden with unwanted responsibility, Buck walked a few paces from the wagon and plunged the spade into the earth. 

He knew this was the white man’s custom, but it still left him unsettled.  This act of burial.  How was rest possible in a place so cold and heavy?  He dug until the spade hit rock then collected the bodies and laid them together in the grave.  Together they could keep each other warm.  The woman’s eyes bothered him.  He had tried to close them but it was too late.  Although dull and sunken, her gaze was unrelenting and set his nerves on edge.  Buck turned away from their pleading and blindly filled the grave until the woman’s face was covered, her desperation hidden under a layer of soil.   

Buck wiped the dirt from his hands on his trouser legs and placed the shovel back where he found it.  He doubted the grave was deep enough to deter predators for long, but he had done the best he could and was anxious to be rid of this duty.  The abandoned wagon looked strangely out of context in the sea of grass.  If a more fortunate homesteader stumbled upon it, they would be welcome to it.  Buck pulled the reins from the wagon wheel and placed his foot in the stirrup, too tired to merely swing into the saddle.  Grabbing hold of the saddle horn, he started to raise himself in the stirrup when a sound from the opposite side of the wagon stopped him cold.  He slowly lowered himself back to the ground.  

It sounded like an animal whimpering but a quick glance around the area revealed nothing.  He had almost convinced himself the wind was toying with him when he heard it again, louder.  Buck looped the reins around the wheel once more, warily moved to the rear of the wagon and pulled himself inside.

He felt like an intruder standing there under the canvas covering amidst the young couple’s belongings.  Clothing and bedding were strewn about, tossed from their places as the wagon bounded across the rough terrain. A Bible, thrown open to Song of Soloman, lay on the floor near a woman’s hand mirror and an empty ammunition box.   The broken pieces of mirror crunched under his boots as Buck moved further into the small enclosure.  The sound called to him again, directing his movement and in a heart-ripping moment he understood the urgency in the woman’s eyes. 

Buck dropped to his knees and pulled the wicker basket from its hiding place, laying aside the blanket covering.   Sinking down onto the wagon floor, he rubbed his hand wearily across his forehead and pushed his hair back as if it would help smooth out his tangled thoughts.

He wasn’t a good judge of such things, but the child didn’t appear to be very old.   Feeling very inadequate, he reached into the basket, holding the impatient infant at an awkward arm’s length as if there was something dangerous about the child.  Frightened by the stranger’s touch, the baby wailed in a voice that seemed much too large for his small size and wriggled against the unfamiliar hands.

“Shhhhh…..”  Buck pleaded, nervousness spilling into his voice.  “Hush now.  Don’t cry.  Please don’t cry.” 

Questioning what to do with the small, squirming being in his hands, he hurriedly tried to picture the women of his village or the mothers who shopped at Thompkins’ store.  Emulating their actions as best he could, he drew the child to his chest, patting the small back with a stiff uncertainty.  Buck leaned heavily against the trunk beside the table, the weight of his discovery settling on him all at once.  “It’s gonna be all right,” he assured the quieting bundle in his arms, although he wasn’t sure who needed to be convinced more - himself or the baby.  “It’s gonna be all right.”

According to the neatly penned wording in the family registry of the Bible Buck found on the wagon floor his name was Daniel.  Born to Timothy and Lorena McAlister on the fifth of April, 1861. Buck did a quick calculation.  April to August.  Four months old.  He thumbed through the pages in hopes the registry would provide the name of family members – perhaps an aunt and uncle or grandparents who could care for the child but Daniel’s birth was the first entry.   The book was new, the pages crisp and slick, the gilt edges still bright.  Unlike the worn, limp-paged Bible stored under his bunk, a child hadn’t drawn pictures in it yet.

“Don’t think about it, Buck,”  he reprimanded himself.  “Don’t think about it.”

Buck quickly laid the Bible atop the table and pushed it away.  Rising slowly with Daniel awkwardly cradled in the crook of his arm, he stood and started for the rear of the wagon.  He had lost enough time already, there was nothing more to do there.  He wasn’t quite certain what to do with Daniel. Finding the child had certainly altered his plans, but imagining what would have happened to the defenseless infant if he hadn’t stumbled upon the wagon sent a shudder through him and Buck sent a silent thank you to whichever watchful spirit had plotted his path.   Sad, he thought, that Timothy and Lorena McAlister’s path hadn’t been as divinely directed.

Buck turned around, his eyes quickly flitting through the wagon’s contents, searching for something to bind this child to the parents he would never know.   Though it felt like trespassing, he opened the trunk and carefully sifted through the items stored away inside.  Bed linens, a faded quilt, a few articles of clothing. Nothing he felt was suitable.  No photographs, no treasured keepsakes, no letters professing the depths of a young couple’s love. 

Buck knew all too well that in the years to come Daniel would need something to remind him that he had been loved.  His hand wandered to the cloth pouch hanging around his neck, his fingertips gently stroking the meticulously stitched seams.  His mother had sewn the pouch for him when he reached twelve summers and was ready to begin collecting his medicine.  The same year she died.  The items securely bundled inside were precious to him, but no more so than the pouch itself.  It connected her to him in the same way that Ike’s Bible . . .

“Don’t, Buck.” 

Buck drew a deep breath, berating himself for breaking the rule again.  After a long moment of hesitation he reluctantly reached for Daniel’s Bible and tucked the book under his arm. 

Fearing Daniel would wiggle out of his grasp while he mounted the gelding Buck held the little boy so tightly that he wailed in protest causing the bay to side step nervously, wary of the small burden.  Buck’s first thought was to take Daniel with him to the nearest station, but the more he thought about it the more he realized finding a decent home for him there would be unlikely.  Julesburg was a rough town, better known for bar room brawls and loose women than benevolent families willing to take in a newly orphaned child.  

He had witnessed the town’s sinful nature himself having stopped long enough to trade his spent horse for the red gelding and treat himself to a hot meal.  The vision of a half-dressed whore flying down the saloon’s staircase after a drifter who had refused to pay her full fee was fresh in his memory.  The woman spat obscenities as if she was possessed with something vile, the foul language flowing from her painted mouth like water.  Even Teaspoon would have blushed.  Julesburg was a place to pass through, maybe indulge for a moment in its song and drink, but not to put down roots.  It wasn’t a safe place for a child.  The ride itself just to reach the town wouldn’t be safe either. Julesburg was still a good day and a half away, now it would take even longer.  He had no way to feed or care for a baby in the middle of the prairie.  With Daniel in tow it would be difficult to watch for signs of the Arapaho and he certainly couldn’t outrun a raiding party with a child in his arms.

Buck slouched back in the saddle and grazed his teeth over his bottom lip, remembering.  He knew of a closer place.  They could be there in a few hours.  His decision was made with some reluctance, but he didn’t have much choice.  His arm crossed over Daniel’s back securely holding the small bundle in place, the little boy’s cheek resting against his guardian’s shoulder, Buck reined the bay to the northwest in the direction of a home for orphaned children and more memories than he cared to face.

TO CHAPTER 2