The Lost Wagon Train

  The Lost Wagon Train

  Stephen Bly

  Retta Barre’s Oregon Trail

  Book 1

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Bly Books on Smashwords

  Copyright©2002,2015 by Janet Chester Bly

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Design: David LaPlaca

  Cover Illustrator: Bill Dodge

  For a list of other books by Stephen Bly write:

  Bly Books, P.O. Box 157, Winchester, ID 83555

  Or check website: http://www.blybooks.com/

  Dedication:

  For Katherine Davis

  ...Without ceasing I mention you in my prayers, asking that somehow by God’s will I may now at last succeed in coming to you.

  Romans 1:9-10 ESV

  Chapter 1

  North Platte River, one day west of Robidoux’s Trading Post, near Scotts Bluff, June 28, 1852

  They waved flags on Main Street of Oregon City.

  Children shouted.

  Women waved.

  Men cheered.

  Boys whistled.

  Retta Barre straddled the chestnut and white pinto and waved to the crowd. People in Oregon are so friendly, but I’m not sure if it’s me or my horse they like.

  She stopped the horse in the middle of the dirt street. “Now, boy, show them what you can do. Bow down on one knee ... I’ll wave. They love it!”

  Retta was in Oregon.

  We made it. Nothing can go wrong now.

  * * * * *

  At the sound of the gunshot, Retta sat straight up. The quilt tumbled to her lap in the pitch-dark, but she heard talking. She flopped back down on the pillow.

  Her mother’s voice was soft, almost pained. “Time to get up, girls.”

  She heard her older sister Lerryn sit up next to her.

  Retta propped herself up on her elbow. “Why do they have to wake everyone up with a gunshot?”

  “Why do they have to wake us up at 4:00 A.M.?” her sister grumbled.

  “Girls, you should be used to that by now,” Mrs. Barre said as she lit a lamp. “You have chores. Papa is already working.”

  Retta fumbled for her dress.

  “Are you wearing that purple dress again?” Lerryn asked.

  “It’s not purple. It’s pansy plum.”

  “Are you going to wear the bonnet?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you know you’re the only girl in the wagon train who doesn’t wear a bonnet?”

  Retta grinned. “Yep.” She began to lace up her high-top black shoes. “Do you want to trade chores? You make the fire, and I’ll milk the cows.”

  “I’m not touching that stuff,” Lerryn huffed. With a tiny mirror propped against a crate, she began combing her long blonde hair.

  Retta licked her fingers and mashed down her wild dark brown bangs. “Well, it is dried up.” She crawled over the top of some crates toward the front of the covered wagon.

  “Are you going outside looking like that?” Lerryn demanded.

  “This is the way I always look. Besides, I don’t have to primp because I’m your little sister who looks like a ten-year- old boy, remember?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Lerryn mumbled.

  “What did you mean?”

  “Never mind. Go on with your chores.”

  Retta had a small fire glowing when her father hiked into their camp. “Hi, Papa. Did you see any Indians? Was there a buffalo stampede? Did the prairie pirates try to raid camp? Did the horses run off with a wild stallion? Did a mountain lion sneak into the ox pen?”

  Mr. Barre laughed and then licked his fingers and smoothed down the back of her hair.

  “Oh, darlin’, I’m afraid it was just another boring night on the trail.”

  “Well, at least my dreams are exciting,” she said.

  “You aren’t dreamin’ of boys again, are you?”

  “Papa! Lerryn is the one who dreams of boys ... especially one boy. No, I was dreaming of the pinto for sale at Robidoux’s. I dreamed I rode him all the way to Oregon.”

  “That’s a good dream, darlin’. You reckon you could dream me up some coffee?”

  “I was just about to.”

  “How’s Mama? I think she had a rough night.”

  “I think she’s okay,” Retta replied. “But her voice sounded tired. Papa, do you think anything exciting is going to happen today?”

  “You mean like an axle breaking or a mule running off or someone falling asleep and tumbling out of a wagon?”

  “No, I’m thinking of a wagon sinking out of sight in quicksand, never to be seen again.”

  “Was there any particular wagon you wanted to sink in quicksand?”

  “No, but I could probably think of one if I tried.”

  Mr. Barre grinned and ran his fingers through her tangled shoulder-length hair. “The MacGregor wagon is certainly the heaviest in the train. Now get the coffee boilin’, and I’ll go check on Mama.”

  By 7:00 A.M. the wagons creaked their way west parallel to the wide, shallow, treeless North Platte River. A dry, hot breeze rolled down from the northwest. For miles in every direction the short, tough buffalo grass painted every rolling hill and valley brown, broken only by gray sagebrush and an occasional spiked-leaf yucca or prickly pear cactus.

  Retta’s wagon was near the middle of the sixty-wagon train. She and her friends plodded along several hundred feet north of the wagons and out of the fog of dust that surrounded them.

  “I ain’t afraid of nothin’,” Ben insisted.

  Retta locked her arms across her gingham dress. “Then pick it up.”

  “I don’t want to,” the boy replied, sticking out his dimpled chin.

  Retta wrinkled her nose. “Ben Weaver, you’re afraid to pick it up.”

  “I ain’t neither.” He kicked at the pale dirt with a worn brown boot. “I jist don’t have time.”

  Retta glanced back at the endless line of covered wagons. “Oh? Where do you have to go, Ben?”

  He tugged his suspenders over his shoulder and pointed to the hill in front of him. “To the river to look for a lost cow.”

  Retta raised her chin. “I don’t see any lost cow.”

  “If you could see it, it wouldn’t be lost. Besides, you girls are supposed to pick up them chips. Not us boys.”

  Retta stared down at the prairie dirt. “Why is it a girl’s job?”

  Ben shoved his thumbs in the front pockets of his brown ducking trousers. “It just is—that’s all.”

  She glanced at the three girls behind her, each with a burlap sack over her shoulder. “I believe he’s truly afraid to pick up a buffalo chip.”

  As Ben reached down, his blond hair curled out from under his floppy felt hat. He scooped up a bone-dry buffalo chip and sailed it right at Retta Barre. She ducked, and it landed at the other girls’ feet.

  “There. Are you happy?” he shouted and then trotted up the gradual rise of the brown grassy hill.

  Retta Emily Barre wiggled her upturned nose, blew her bangs off her forehead, and grinned at the girls. “I told you I could talk him into picking one up.”

  Christen Weaver shifted the weight of the burlap sack to her other shoulder. “You told me you could sweet-talk my brother. I wou
ldn’t exactly say telling him he was afraid to touch buffalo dung was sweet talk.”

  “Especially since he threw it at you.” Two fields of freckles bracketed Joslyn Jouppi’s smile.

  “But he missed. And he did touch it. So there.” Retta picked up the dried chip and dropped it into her sack.

  Gilson bent her sloping shoulders and stepped up next to Retta. “How come picking up buffalo chips is a girl’s job anyway?”

  “Because, Gilson O’Day, no one else will do it—that’s why,” Joslyn blurted out.

  “It’s not so bad,” Retta said. “We get to climb off those dusty covered wagons and visit with each other out here. I think I’d rather walk to Oregon City than ride on that wagon.”

  “But the sack is heavy,” Gilson complained, her blonde hair swinging back from her pale face.

  “I don’t know how you do it without a bonnet,” Christen said to Retta. “It’s so hot.”

  “Retta’s face is as brown as ... as an Indian’s,” Joslyn declared. “I think. We haven’t gotten close enough to see one yet.”

  “And that’s just the way I like it.” Christen shuddered. “I hear they like to kidnap girls and make them slaves.”

  “I wonder if they would make us pick up buffalo dung?” Joslyn murmured.

  The yellow-brown soil was dry and silent under Retta’s step. There was a fine taste of dust in her mouth. “Colonel Graves says that after Fort Bridger, we will wish we had buffalo chips.”

  Joslyn stroked her dark hair off her smooth white forehead and left a dirt streak. “I’ve been thinking maybe I won’t go beyond Fort Hall.”

  Retta spun around. “Oh?”

  Joslyn put her hand on her narrow, smooth chin. “Maybe I’ll just find me a handsome soldier at Fort Hall and get married and settle down.”

  “Get married?” Christen gasped. “Joslyn, you are only twelve years old. You can’t get married.”

  “I’m very advanced for my age. Besides, at the rate we’re going, I’ll be thirty by the time we get to Fort Hall. We’ve been on the Oregon Trail for almost two months out of Independence, and we haven’t seen the Rocky Mountains yet.”

  “Or an Indian battle,” Christen added.

  Gilson plopped her sack down on the dirt. “Or even a buffalo up close. They are always fifty miles away or something.”

  “Some things might be best seen from a distance.” Retta shrugged.

  “Just green grass, then brown grass and faded sky and a yellow sun,” Joslyn said.

  “And the stars at night,” Retta added. “I think the stars are the most beautiful in the world out on the prairie.”

  “But they are the same old stars.” Joslyn scooped up a dried chip and plopped it in her sack.

  “But—but they are prettier,” Retta insisted.

  “My sack is getting heavy,” Gilson murmured again as she changed it from one shoulder to the other. She coughed, and the girls paused until she caught her breath.

  Retta shaded her eyes with her hand and looked across the prairie. “I wish I had my own pinto horse. William and Andrew have their own horses, but Mama says ladies don’t ride horses. They only ride in carriages.”

  Christen stared at a buffalo chip at her feet. Retta picked it up and shoved it into Christen’s sack.

  “I think I’ll ask Papa if I can buy myself a horse,” Retta announced. “If I had had the money, I would have bought that pinto at Robidoux’s.”

  Joslyn reached under the collar of her faded blue gingham dress and scratched her shoulder. “And just how are you going to buy a horse?”

  Retta gazed across the distant grassy prairie and watched the heat rise off the land. “I have some money my Grandma Carter gave me when we left Ohio,” she explained. “How much do you have, Retta?” Gilson asked. “Enough.”

  “Enough for a horse?” Christen challenged.

  Joslyn flipped a buffalo chip over and brushed off some bugs with her hand before she dropped it in her sack. “Ansley MacGregor said her horse cost fifty dollars in St. Louis.”

  “Do you have fifty dollars, Retta?” Gilson asked.

  “Of course not.” Retta Barre marched ahead of the other girls as if playing Follow Me If You Dare. “I don’t need a fine trotting horse. Just a common one will do.”

  “Like the pinto at the trading post?” Joslyn questioned. “I thought the man wanted twenty dollars for that horse.”

  “That was just the asking price. I’m sure he would have negotiated,” Retta insisted. “My brother Andrew paid only ten cash dollars for Beanie.”

  Gilson untied her calico bonnet and fanned her neck with her hand. “Do you have ten cash dollars, Retta?”

  “No, but I don’t need a horse as big as Beanie. Just a small pinto horse will do me fine, but he has to have nice colors. Chestnut and white would be good.”

  “How much do you have, Retta Barre?” Joslyn inquired. “Six dollars,” Retta muttered.

  “You’re going to buy a fancy horse like that for six dollars?” Joslyn challenged.

  Retta licked her chapped lips. “Maybe I’ll earn some more money.”

  “How’re you going to do that?” Christen asked. “We’re on a wagon train to Oregon City. You can’t exactly make blackberry jam and sell it to old Mrs. Willington like you did in Barresville, Ohio.”

  “I’ll think of something,” Retta mumbled.

  “Was your hometown really named after your kin?” Gilson asked.

  “It was named after my grandfather,” Retta replied.

  “I don’t think there was anything named after my family,” Joslyn said. “I named a pet skunk after my brother once, but I don’t suppose that counts.”

  Christen moved ahead of the others and picked up a buffalo chip for her sack. “Retta, I still say you won’t be able to earn money on a wagon train.”

  Retta dug her heels into the soft sandy dirt. “I’ll think of something.”

  “And buy a horse?” Christen said.

  “Yes, I will.”

  “I don’t think you can do it,” Christen challenged. Retta glanced at her slightly taller friend. “Is that a dare?”

  A smile broke across Christen’s face. “No. There is no one who dares Retta Barre.”

  Retta slipped her thumbs under the burlap strap of her sack to relieve the strain on her shoulder. “I’ll have a pinto horse by the time we reach Fort Hall.”

  “How about Fort Bridger?” Joslyn asked. “Mama still says we may take the California cut-off there.”

  “I’ll have a horse by the time we reach Independence Rock,” Retta boasted.

  “We’ll be there in a week or so,” Christen reminded her.

  “Yes, well ... I, eh, will have to get busy, won’t I?” Lord, why did I say that? Why do I say I’ll do things I can’t possibly accomplish?

  “Can I ride your horse, too, Retta?” Gilson asked. She coughed and dropped her sack. Then she added, “I love to ride horses.”

  “We can all take turns,” Retta announced.

  “And pile our chip sacks in the cart,” Joslyn said giggling.

  Retta stood up straight. “Oh, yes! A cart. Perhaps I will get a cart, too.”

  “By the time we get to Independence Rock?” Christen plodded next to her. “Now you’re really dreaming, Retta Barre.”

  “But it’s a nice dream,” Joslyn remarked.

  Gilson wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her light blue cotton dress. “My back hurts.”

  “Your back always hurts,” Joslyn replied.

  “I know. Doesn’t your back ever hurt, Retta?”

  “I guess not. My Papa says us Barres have strong bones.”

  Christen stared at her shadow stretching across the prairie. “My papa just says I’m fat.”

  “You’re not fat. You just have big bones,” Retta defended her.

  Christen grinned. “I like that.”

  “Well, I’m not fat. I’m too skinny,” Gilson confessed. “And I don’t have strong bones. My shoulder really hu
rts.”

  “You’ve just been sick, Gilson. You have very pretty skin, you know. It’s fair—just what the boys like. Look at me. I’m brown as dirt.”

  “I’m going to need to rest,” Gilson said.

  “I’ll carry your bag for you,” Retta offered.

  “You can’t carry two,” Gilson protested, but she didn’t hesitate to hand her burlap bag to Retta.

  Retta balanced a sack on each shoulder. “Oh? Who says?”

  “I mean, I should carry my own,” Gilson replied.

  “You’ve just been a little poorly. When you get stronger and get over your cough, you’ll be able to carry it,” Retta assured her.

  “She’s been sick every day on the trail,” Joslyn commented.

  Retta gazed at the brown eyes of the shorter girl. “We all know that. Do you have a point to make, Joslyn?”

  “Eh, no.”

  “I can’t remember when I wasn’t sick,” Gilson admitted. “Papa says Oregon will make me well.”

  Retta watched the dust fog along the trail of wagons to the south. “Maybe we should go back now. Our sacks are nearly full.”

  “If we go back too soon, Mr. Landers will make me come back out for another load,” Joslyn said.

  Christen hiked up her ankle-length dress and tugged a burr from her white cotton stocking. “How come you always call your papa Mr. Landers?”

  “He isn’t my papa. He’s my stepfather,” Joslyn declared.

  “But your papa is dead, and Mr. Landers is the only papa you’re ever goin’ to have,” Christen said.

  “He ain’t my papa.”

  “It’s okay,” Retta put in. “Joslyn’s mama calls him Mr. Landers, too.”

  “Yeah, Mama’s that way. She’s very polite,” Joslyn confirmed.

  “Do you want to hear what my mama calls my papa when the lamp is out and they think I’m asleep?” Christen smirked.

  All four girls stopped hiking.