I can still recall pieces of memories of the tragedy that occurred four days ago. The weather was pleasant. There were no signs of a tornado, and sunlight sprinkled on my eyelashes like golden teardrops. It was such a nice day that I did not expect anything as unfortunate to happen.
Four days ago, I was living the normal, simple life, herding farm animals and traveling along the Oregon Trail with my family. Our final destination was the Salt Lake Valley, and following the path of Brigham Young, we were already miles away from our home in St. Louis. My wife Kailyn and I believed that a better future awaits us in the West, which was why we chose to bring our children with us on this long, long journey.
August 17 was like any other day. My family, as well as many other Mormon families, woke up in the early morning to continue our trek. Packing and setting up a tent were no longer difficult for me, since I had been repeating these processes numerous times along the way. Everything seemed repetitive, but at least everything went well—until the afternoon, when I noticed something different than usual.
At first I thought it was just me fighting against my ordinary life and wishing for a change in daily routines. You’re faking a dilemma just to satisfy your thirst for adventure. I told myself. However, I soon realized that that was a lie. Something was different; something was not right. The next minute I almost shouted my panic out loud: A cow is missing!
I was stirring the great stew-pot (when my husband, Samuel, told me it would be a waste of space to bring the huge, iron-cast pot, I told him straight out that even if we had to give up some of our clothes to carry the pot in our covered wagon, we were going to do it. And look now, I feed half the camp out of it.) It was rabbit, mixed with the salted meat we had brought with us from the last trading post, because hunting had been light. Funny the things you remember. Little Hiram had been running around between the women’s legs, until he made Mary trip and spill an entire dish broth and I sent him away to help the older boys hunt for fire-wood. Lisa, my oldest, was being ever so helpful stoking the cook-fire, and hardly seemed to mind when the sparks hit her dress. Joseph was still lying in the wagon, recovering from his dysentery.
It seems a completely normal day, perhaps better than normal, since the sun was up but not too bright and there was a little breeze, which kept the stifling summer heat off. But then we heard a shout, coming from outside the circle, where we had put the cows out to graze on what meager grass was still around. The voice was muffled, but I could easily recognize my husband’s distinctive tone, the one he only uses when someone (usually me or the children) has made a serious mistake. And I will admit, although it hurts now, my first thought was from myself. It couldn’t be me: I hadn’t been near the cows in days. But perhaps that was the problem.
Mary’s husband, who had been helping in camp because a broken leg prevented him from assisting in the usual man’s duties, was the first of us up rushing toward the paddock. Hr probably blamed himself for whatever it was, having not been on guard due to his leg. He got about three steps before realizing that the broken leg also prevented him from running, and promptly collapsed, so Mary went instead.
By the time she returned the entire encampment was in uproar. It transpired that Samuel had been counting the cows (one of his habits: the need to count, to measure, to tap out little patterns whenever he is uneasy) and discovered that one of them was missing. As soon as he had announced the fact, the men and older boys, even those who couldn’t count past two or three, immediately checked to see if he was right. Mary, who’s woman’s sense is worth more than any amount of book-learning possessed by all the men in our camp, reported back that it was indeed true.
The next few days were all about that cow, the men rushing about to all sorts of places, first to find it and then get it replaced. In the clamor, no one had the sense to go hunting and we women-folk were stuck with stewing the same stored, salted meats for days. From what I could tell of what Samuel said in the few, brief moments he had to talk to me amid the commotion, I got the idea that his cow had been stolen and eaten by a ferocious band of redskin warriors.
Today Samuel has left to see the Lieutenant at Fort Laramie, and I admit I hope he will let the trained military man deal with it. From what I can tell from the boys tell around the fire, I pray to God those savages never get their hands on my husband.
I arrived at Fort Laramie just after sunrise, and I immediately went to talk to Lieutenant Hugh Fleming regarding my lost cow. After some brief investigation and contact with those filthy Indians camped outside the fort, we had discovered that one of my cows had been slaughtered and consumed by one of the savages, named High Forehead (Honestly, why can’t those people have proper names?).
Myself and a score of the local militia had set up a meeting with the savages, where we spoke to their leader, “Conquering Bear” through our interpreter, a man named Auguste. I can’t be sure, but I think that I smelled liquor on his breath that morning. That may have been the cause of the massive confusion between our two sides. After hours of argument, the savage chief relayed his final offer. One horse or cow from the tribe’s herd to replace my stolen cow. The audacity of that barbaric leader. Trying to offer me one lowly horse or sickly cow? Those filthy brutes butchered my prized bull, and they were offering me next to nothing in return! I had made a completely appropriate request for 25 dollars to make up for the pain and suffering I had been exposed to because of these brutes, and what does their so-called chief do? He turns his back on me!
The nerve of these savages! I was so furious I could have blasted the whole lot! And it seems that my feelings were mirrored in some of the other men, because seconds later, the first shot was fired.
Silence. The savage fell. Then mass hysteria.
The Indians cried out in their wild tongue and Lt. Grattan barked out orders that no one followed. Someone knocked me down as I turned to flee and I could feel the vibrations of many feet stomping past. I attempted to get up only to be beaten down again by one of the savages.
Landing face first in the dirt, I quickly rolled over to try my luck for a second time. I did so in vain. My eyes locked onto the cold, hard, unfeeling stare of the same savage that had struck me. It gave a shout in its brutish language, and dove at me with a knife. I swiftly spun out of the way, crawling to my hands and knees and running as fast as I possibly could away from the progressing fight.
But still it followed me, that barbarian with the dark skin and violent eyes hungering for my blood. What did I ever do to deserve this? All I wanted was compensation for what was rightfully mine! These brutes have no concept of due payment! Stupid, selfish, murderous Indians! They are not human!
And still they beat us, like the starving black bears, coyotes, and cats that would sometimes wander into our town in St. Louis and attack people for food. No mind, no thoughts, living on sheer desire to senselessly kill.
I was running out of breath. Already exhausted from our journey, I felt I could run no more. But I had to. The savage was still chasing me. I thought of Kailyn and our children, and continued. They needed me. A woman could not support a family on the Oregon Trail all by herself; it was too harsh an environment for such a delicate lady as my Kailyn. She needed someone to protect her, and provide her with food, and tell her exactly when we could afford to rest, or when we should try to ford a river. Women just had no aptitude for such things.
Even with the thoughts of what my poor family would suffer without me, I could press on no more. The Indian caught up with me as I took my last step and tripped over a rock, thoroughly cracking my leg in half. I cried out with pain and looked up into the savage’s eyes one more time, foolishly hoping for mercy. It showed none.
The day we found out that my husband had died at the hands of the savages was dead we left the camp sight, moving froward on our road to freedom. It feels slightly less free now, knowing the savages can always come, can take what is ours, and face no punishment beyond having to clean the blood from their fields. The only comfort I can take is this: our sons will grow to know who killed their father. They will be raised to understand the cruelty of the savage, to treat him with the same mercy and respect that he showed my husband. They will know to hate.