Takoda Read online

  Takoda

  T.M. Hobbs

  Takoda

  Copyright 2012

  By Books to Go Now

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  First eBook Edition –January 2012

  Printed in the United States of America

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

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  Takoda

  I sat in the buckboard wagon and looked around the place I had called home for the last three years. As I did, I remembered the day I came to live here. It was just after my father and mother were both killed in an Indian raid on our farm. That day, I hid in the cellar, inside a trunk for an entire day, before I had my wits about me.

  When I climbed out, I found my parents dead. I felt alone, terrified, and like my life was over.

  My aunt and uncle, having received word of what had happened, arrived a week later and brought me back here to live with them and their children. Montana was beautiful, and I hated to leave it behind, but my uncle had received word he could claim a large spread in Wyoming. We headed south in search of bigger and better dreams.

  The wagon moved, and the slow and steady jostling had me drifting into thoughts of what adventures we would encounter. After all, I was eighteen and hadn’t been anywhere but North Dakota and Montana.

  Our first day, travel was long and tedious. By the time we stopped for the night to make camp, I was ready to help cook and get things prepared for the evening.

  “Aunt Helen, have you ever been to Wyoming?” I asked, as she and I peeled potatoes for a stew we were cooking over the open fire.

  “No, my dear. I have lived in Montana my whole life.”

  “Are you going to miss it? Montana, I mean.” I asked, placing the potatoes in the pot.

  “Oh, I suppose, but I told myself long ago that home was the people around you, not necessarily the place in which you dwell. So, I am home now, and tomorrow, and the next day, because I have you, Charles, and the boys,” she said, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron.

  I knew she was right, and I loved her for sharing her thoughts with me. She was a strong woman, and I have always wanted to be like her. She took me into her home and raised me like I was—her daughter. She only has boys of her own.

  I looked over at the boys helping their dad get things ready for the night. There was John, who was my age, and Ren and Mark, who were both twelve. I was close to my cousins I suppose.

  We all had jobs to do in the family, and we all worked hard. That was the way things were living on the farm. We pulled together and did our part, which made things easier on everyone.

  After super that night, I took the pot and dishes down to the creek to wash them out. John went with me to help.

  “Are you excited to be moving?” he asked, as he scooped water up into the stewpot to wash the other dishes in it.

  “Yes. I’ve always dreamed of traveling,” I replied, laughing at the irony of what I was saying.

  “You know, you’re pretty when you laugh,” John said quietly, looking at me in the moonlight.

  “Thank you,” I said thoughtfully.

  John was a handsome young man, with broad shoulders, brown wavy hair, and a stocky build. We never really had neighbors or had been around many people, except when we would occasionally go into town with Uncle Charles for supplies, once every month or so. I knew the young ladies always turned their heads to look at him, but he never seemed to pay them any mind.

  I finished washing the dishes and scrubbed out the pot, then John and I carried the dishes back to the camp, but he carefully wrapped his strong hand around mine, as we carried the large pot together. I liked John, simply because he always looked out for me, but I wasn’t sure I liked his new affection toward me. His hand was warm, however, and mine was cold, making it difficult to resist the innocent gesture.

  When John and I returned, we settled down for the night. The stories of Indian raids had accompanied us on our journey, and we didn’t want to let our guard down, even when we rested.

  Ren kept the first watch, sitting with a shotgun across his lap. Uncle Charles would relieve him around midnight, John would take the next watch, around three in the morning where he would keep watch until time for us to pull out. Mark would take the first watch the following night.

  Aunt Helen and I slept in the bed of the wagon and huddled together to stay warm. The pile of blankets and quilts helped, but the night air was still frigid near the mountains. Uncle Charles, John, and Mark slept by the fire on the ground on bedrolls. No doubt they were cold too, but at least they were near the fire.

  The next morning, we began our journey once more after loading our supplies back onto the wagon. It was slow moving, and, by the end of the day, I was once again ready to get out of the wagon to help prepare the meal, and move around. We had only stopped once for a quick meal of bread, butter, and dried apples, and once for the horses to rest and get a drink.

  That night, Aunt Helen and I made bread and gravy which we ate with dried meat. It wasn’t bad, considering we were all very hungry. Again, I took the pot and dishes to a nearby stream, and John tagged along. He was quiet tonight though, like he had something on his mind.

  We continued our travels for three days, until we came to a small town in Wyoming called Frannie. It was nice to see civilization. The first thing we did was go to the hotel’s restaurant for a nice hot meal. Uncle Charles and John went to the local land office. While we waited on our food, Ren, Mark, Aunt Helen, and I made quick work of the loaf of hot bread and butter they served us.

  When the others returned, they told us of the area we were to travel to, which was to the east, just beyond a town called Lovell. We were to settle near the Bighorn River. We talked contentedly, as we ate and rested ourselves after the long journey. Uncle Charles thought we had another day’s travel, but now that we were this close, it all seemed worthwhile.

  After finishing our meal and freshening up a bit, we went to the general store to get a few supplies, and were on our way again. We traveled until almost night fall, then made our camp, knowing tomorrow we would reach our destination.

  I cooked the meal that night, making a large pot of fried potatoes. We also had dried meat and bread we had bought in town. When we finished, I took out a large white handkerchief from in the wagon, unwrapped it, taking out the hidden surprise of a cookie for everyone, which I had saved from our meal in town. There was enough for everyone, except me. They all thanked me, and I went to wash the dishes at the stream nearby.

  I didn’t hear John following me, so I was startled when he came up behind me at the stream.

  “Oh, John. Don’t do that,” I said, trying to catch my breath.

  “Here, I want you to have my cookie,” he said, holding it out to me.

  “No. No, I saved those for all of you,” I said, drying my hands on my apron, as I stood from where I was crouched near the water.
>
  “Then you take half of it,” he insisted, carefully breaking the cookie into two pieces and offering half to me.

  “John...”

  “I insist. We better enjoy it, there may not be any for a while,” he said, smiling at me in the dim light.

  “Thank you,” I replied, taking cookie.

  We ate in silence and smiled at each other uncomfortably after we had finished. I gathered our things and took the pot and dishes, with John again helping me carry them, back to the camp.

  That night it was hard to sleep, as I thought about what would await us tomorrow near the Bighorn River. The idea of living near the river sounded pleasant, and I could almost hear the sound of the water rushing by, as I tried to go to sleep.

  The next day, with everything packed away once more, we moved a bit more quickly, knowing we would be to our new home by the end of the day. And, just about dusk, we finally arrived.

  “Look. There it is,” Uncle Charles said, pointing toward an old abandoned cabin.”

  “Charles, you didn’t tell me there was already a cabin on the place,” Aunt Helen said, looking at him with wonder. I thought I saw tears in her eyes too.

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. There’s a lot to be done, but we can do it, if we all work together,” he said, patting her on the knee.

  The boys and I got out of the wagon running toward the old cabin. It was in severe need of repair, but I saw potential, as did Uncle Charles. But I couldn’t help but wonder why the cabin had been abandoned. It was in the perfect location near the river with lots of trees around it.

  We unloaded the wagon, and Aunt Helen and I tried to clean up places for us to sleep, then she and I made another pot of stew for supper. We were tired, but excited, so while we ate gathered around the fireplace, we made plans for how we would build furniture and fix up the cabin.

  Later that night, everyone curled up on the floor near the fireplace on our bedrolls and went to sleep, but during the night I awoke when I heard a noise, far off in the distance. I wasn’t sure what it was, so I lay there and listened keenly. That was the first time I heard the drums since my parents were killed.

  A chill ran through me.

  I pulled the quilt around me tight and scooted closer to Aunt Helen, but I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was too scared. I kept seeing the images of my parents. Tears ran silently down my face, as I realized how much I missed them.

  The next morning, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Aunt Helen was already preparing breakfast, and the others weren’t in the cabin. I guessed they were out looking at the place.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep for such a long time,” I said, getting up to put away my bedroll.

  “It’s all right, my dear. I knew you were probably tired. Can you go fetch me some water from the river?” Aunt Helen asked.

  “Yes ma’am,” I replied, and went to the wagon to get a bucket.

  The river wasn’t far, and the morning was a good one, crisp and clear, for the short walk. I was delighted to see all of the wild flowers and take in the sweet scents of nature drifting on the breeze. As I walked, I spotted a small grove of cottonwood trees, and a couple of pecan trees. I was surprised to see the young trees growing there. I had heard of them, but thought they were more common down south. I suspected that the former tenants of the land had brought them there in hopes they would grow.

  They had produced a few nuts, some of which were still lying on the ground, undiscovered by the squirrels. I would have to come back and gather the nuts later, I thought, and began to plan the nice treats we could make with them.

  I walked quite a ways to find a spot low enough for me to get close to the river. I held my dress up and tucked it between my knees, squatting down to fill the wooden bucket with water.

  There was a rustling in the grass near the trees behind me. I turned, but I didn’t see anything, so I went about my task of filling my bucket and hauled it back to the cabin.

  ~~**~~

  The days passed, and we made steady progress on repairing the cabin. Uncle Charles and John worked doubly hard also trying to get the field ready to plant a crop of corn.

  At night, we gathered around the table John had made for us and ate a hearty meal. Then sat around the fire where I would read for a while. Aunt Helen often sewed, John whittled on his latest carving, and Uncle Charles would talk quietly with the boys or tell them a story.

  During the days, Aunt Helen and I were busy cooking or working on the cabin. It was always my job to go fetch water for cooking, and I loved the walk to the river, but more and more often I thought I could hear something in the trees and thought someone or something was there watching me. However, I was never able to prove it.

  When things were quiet at night, I sometimes heard the drums in the distance, but I wasn’t afraid as much anymore. There was a lonely, haunting sound about them, and I often wondered what the different beats meant.

  I also wondered if I was the only one who heard them, or if they were even real, but I never mentioned it to my Aunt and Uncle.

  We had been at our new home for a little over two months and one afternoon, John came down to the river to see if I needed help with the water. I had finished filling my bucket and had stopped at the pecan trees to pick up a few nuts.

  “So, this is where you’ve been hiding,” he said, as he snuck up behind me.

  “Oh! John, don’t do that. You scared me half to death.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said and chuckled.

  “What are you going to make with the pecans?” he asked, looking at the pile I had gathered in my apron.

  “Cookies. I think we can spare a little sugar and flour,” I said. I thought it was about time to have something special for the boys. They work hard around the place and deserve a reward.

  I guess I was lost in thought and didn’t realize John had moved closer to me. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

  It had been a while since we had been alone, and he hadn’t exhibited any signs of particular interest in me since our journey here. For that I was glad. I liked John as a cousin, but I didn’t have any feelings for him, at least not in that way.

  I involuntarily moved away and touched the hair he had tucked behind my ear. He didn’t say anything, but started helping me pick up the pecans and before long, my entire apron was full.

  “Thank you for helping. I’m sure Ren and Mark will love helping me crack these, knowing they’ll get to have the cookies when we’re done.”

  “Yeah, if you can keep them from eating them all,” he said, cracking two of them in his hands and picking the nut out of the shell.

  He took a bite then leaned over and offering me one. I shook my head no, but he placed it against my lips, so I took it.

  “Thank you. I guess we better be getting back,” I said nervously, as I gathered my apron up tighter to carry the pecans. John picked up the water bucket, and we walked back toward the farm.

  The next day, I made my trips to the river and each time I had an uneasy feeling something wasn’t right, and I was about to find out why.

  When I went down late that afternoon, the sun had already dropped behind the trees, forcing shadows to form along the path I had been taking.

  I hurried to the riverbank and made my way down to the water. After filling my bucket, I stood and began climbing the bank. As I made my way down the path, I came to the grove of pecan trees, and I heard the sound of a twig snap behind me.

  There wasn’t anything in plain sight, however, as I turned back toward the path. Just then, a pair of arms wrapped around me, one pinning my arms against my sides, the other clasped tightly against my mouth. I dropped my bucket and began kicking and screaming, but I was dragged off into the tall grass.

  No amount of struggling could free me from the strong arms which held me captive. My heart was pound
ing so hard that it was hurting inside of my chest. I knew I was going to meet the same fate as my parents. It was an Indian who had me.

  When I was half dragged into the seclusion of the trees, I saw a paint horse waiting in the shadows. The Indian wrapped his hand even tighter around my mouth, let go of my arms for a split second, then brought his hand up with a thick piece of leather in it and put it up to my mouth.

  I refused to open my mouth, but he kept prying until he finally got me to open up and he quickly tied it around the back of my head. It tasted terrible, and I gagged at the thought of it being animal hide, but that was forgotten, as he bound my hands in front of me, and I realized I was being stolen.

  He sat me on his horse then swung himself up behind me so fast I didn’t have a chance to get a good look at him. He wrapped his arms around me and flicked the reins galloping away.

  We rode until it was too dark to see, but we had arrived at a small camp. There was a lone teepee, and the remnants of a fire.

  Then it dawned on me, he must have been camped here for several days.

  He dismounted gracefully from the horse and helped me off in front of him. I tried to pull away from his secure grasp, but he was too strong. I was emotionally drained, scared, cold, and hungry. Too dark to plan a escape, I decided I would wait until morning then assess my options. The good thing was, he had kept me alive thus far, I prayed my luck would hold out.

  I began to tremble, unable to control the emotion that was washing over me. The fear of death, or something worse, playing havoc with my thoughts. I closed my eyes for a few moments, remembering the sight of my mother and father lying in their own blood.

  My eyes snapped open, as he sat down on the ground near the old fire and went about building a new one. I watched in amazement at his skill in rekindling the fire. He was no stranger to self-preservation.

  Once the fire was blazing, he went into the small teepee and came back with a bag, the contents were yet a mystery to me. He took out dried meat and two pieces of flat bread. Holding it out to me, I took the bread, but refused the meat, holding it in my hands which were still bound.