Wed On The Wagon Train

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She simply had to trust that Adela was ever mindful of the danger and guarded her tongue around the others. Just as Mattie did with Josiah and the other men.

“Supper’s going to be full of grit,” Mattie commented, noting the uncovered pot suspended above the cooking fire. The cast-iron lid clinked into place as she remedied the situation.

“Sorry.” Adela grimaced and brushed aside loose tendrils of hair the wind blew across her eyes. “I forgot to replace the cover after I stirred the food. But at least I didn’t let it burn this time.”

Mattie made a noncommittal sound in response.

Despite Rebecca Dawson’s instructions, Adela’s cooking ability hadn’t improved much over the past fortnight. More often than not, Mattie returned to camp after completing her own chores only to find the food burned or otherwise unappetizing. But at least Adela’s complaints had decreased. With all the challenges they faced, Mattie supposed that small victory was enough for now.

* * *

After supper that evening, Josiah and Elias worked together to stake their covered wagon to the ground, to prevent it tipping over in the high winds that hadn’t abated as the sunlight waned.

The task complete, Josiah glanced around the wagon circle to see that most other families had done the same. Or were making a start on it, at least. Including Matt Prescott.

The past couple weeks had proved that the kid was adept at learning what to do by observing those who were more experienced. He had conquered many an obstacle in that way.

But this job looked to be getting the better of him. Though he clearly understood what needed to be done, he struggled with the heavy iron chains. And his slight frame didn’t have the sheer weight required to swing the unwieldy mallet with enough force to drive the stakes deep into the hard-packed earth.

Josiah started forward, and as he neared the Prescotts’ wagon, he caught Matt muttering, “This would be a lot easier if I had a third hand.”

Squatting down next to the kid, Josiah held out his palms. “How about one of these?”

Matt gasped and narrowly missed smashing his thumb with the mallet.

Josiah curled his hands into fists and let them drop. “Sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to startle you. But you’re right—this will be quicker work with an extra set of hands. Why don’t you thread the chain between the spokes and over the iron rim of the wheels, while I pound in the stakes?”

The boy hesitated a moment before nodding. “Thank you.”

Accepting the proffered mallet, Josiah shifted back slightly to give Matt space to maneuver. Links of chain clinked together as he positioned the heavy iron. Then Josiah swung the mallet, filling the air with a series of dull thuds.

The temperature had dropped in the last hour, and his hands felt numbed from the cold even inside a pair of leather gloves. He flexed his fingers as he followed behind Matt, who had already moved on to the next wheel.

Gusts of wind buffeted the covered wagon while they worked to secure it. Josiah prayed it didn’t tip over in the meantime and crush either of them. And he sent fervent thanks heavenward when the job was done.

Soon afterward, he left the Prescotts and headed in the direction of his horses. He was greeted by a chestnut mare prancing along the edge of the enclosure.

Patting her neck, Josiah glanced back over his shoulder toward Matt. “What do you make of him, Flame? He’s a puzzle, sure enough. Still, I can’t help but like the kid.”

The mare bobbed her head up and down as if indicating approval.

Josiah didn’t consider it the least bit outlandish that he was consulting a horse for a second opinion. He’d found they were excellent judges of character, better than most people at sensing when an individual possessed a cruel streak. Or perhaps it was simply that men didn’t feel any need to hide their true selves from animals.

The horses had never displayed any hints of fear or aversion toward Matt Prescott. In fact, they always moved forward, eager for his attention, whenever he approached.

“I reckon he’s a good kid at heart, Flame.” With a final pat to the mare’s glossy coat, he checked on the other horses before rejoining Elias and Rebecca by their campfire.

His sister-in-law greeted him with a smile. “It was kind of you to go over and help Matt.” Her mouth turned down slightly. “The poor boy’s in over his head, with no male family members to support him.”

“A bit, perhaps,” Josiah acknowledged as he took a seat and stretched his legs out in front of him. “But sooner or later every young man has to step out into the world on his own for the first time. I was no different, years ago. Only in my case, I had an older brother who rode to my rescue.” Though admittedly, the time between his mother’s death and Elias’s arrival had been tough.

At thirteen, Josiah had already been working odd jobs for years to help his mother as much as he could. But the money he made wasn’t near enough to cover room and board for himself once she was gone. And the townspeople who had looked down on Louisa Dawson hadn’t stirred themselves to offer charity to her orphaned son.

He didn’t want to think about what his life would be now, if his half brother hadn’t shown up. When he’d been at his lowest point, the Lord had sent Elias to him. To lift Josiah up.

Now that he was in a place where he could, he felt called to help others less fortunate. It was his small way of showing thanks for the blessing he’d been given when his brother had appeared in his life just as Josiah needed him most.

“And now you’re doing the same for another boy.” Rebecca reached over and placed her fingers on Josiah’s arm, her expression beaming with approval. “You’re a good man.”

He drew his legs up and folded his hands together between his bent knees. “I try to be.”

Elias clasped Josiah’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “That’s all any of us can do.”

Half an hour later, Josiah covered a yawn with his hand. “It’s been a long day, so I’m going to call it a night. I’ll see you both in the morning.” He left the pair sitting by their campfire and headed back toward the horse enclosure.

Since he wasn’t scheduled for guard duty, he opted to bed down near his horses, fearing the turbulent weather might unsettle them.

Somewhere around midnight, rain began to fall. It made for an uncomfortable night out in the open. But the oilskin cloth on the outside of Josiah’s bedroll kept the worst of the dampness from soaking into his clothes. At least until he got up to check on his horses.

The storm suddenly seemed to gain intensity, as the rain blew sideways, pelting him with fat drops. He regretted his lack of forethought, that he hadn’t retrieved his rain slicker from the covered wagon earlier.

But he was nowhere near as wet and miserable as the horses standing huddled together. Rainwater sluiced off their coats, and the wind blew their sodden tails out behind them like streamers. The drenching wasn’t likely to cause any lasting harm to such hardy stock, but they looked pitiful all the same.

Near dawn, the deluge let up at last—leaving behind a soggy quagmire even hours later. While the group enjoyed a welcome respite from the dust, the mud added a new hindrance. Over the course of the morning, several wagons became mired along the trail. It slowed their progress, and tempers were short.

Especially when Hardwick’s overloaded wagon got stuck tight, and he simply stood back, expecting others to assist his servants in doing the physical labor required to free it.

Josiah, along with Matt and half a dozen other men, put a shoulder against the tailgate, while the oxen strained at the front. But whereas lighter wagons had been freed with relative ease, it was no use this time. The wheels had sunk deep and refused to budge.

“This isn’t working,” the man to Josiah’s right grunted in frustration. In his early forties, Thomas Malone was tall and thin with pale blond hair—traits he’d passed down to all four of his children.

“Stop pushing for a minute,” Miles instructed. “We need to come up with a different plan.”

Glad for the opportunity to take a breather, Josiah relaxed his muscles and propped an arm against the wagon box.

Jed Smith rubbed his jaw as he studied the covered wagon, then turned toward the wagon master. “If we unload some of the heavier items, then we might be able to push it forward.”

Several heads nodded in accord.

But Hardwick took exception. “You dare to suggest that priceless antiques be placed in the muck?” Pinching a tiny dot of mud from his trousers, he cleaned his fingertips on a monogrammed handkerchief. “I will not hear of it!”

His words were greeted by angry retorts from many of the others, all of whom were mud-splattered from head to toe.

A piercing whistle cut through the ruckus, halting the grumbles of discontent. “Does anyone have any other ideas?” Miles inserted into the silence.