“That would be something, all right.” As the wagons ahead of her rolled to a stop, Forsythia flicked her whip to halt the oxen. “Whoa.”
“What’s going on?” Del called from driving the Durhams’ ox behind them. They’d decided to switch positions so the Nielsen wagon drove ahead of the other.
“Buffalo.” Lilac led Starbright back to explain to Del.
Lark strode up. “Want to go see the herd?”
“I know Lilac wants to.” As a distant rumble reached their ears, Forsythia’s stomach fluttered with excitement despite herself. “But I should stay with the oxen.”
“You girls go ahead. I’ll stay with the animals.” Lark smiled, her dark eyes full of big-sister generosity. “Never know if you’ll encounter a sight like this again.”
Del didn’t care, so Forsythia and Lilac hurried to the front of the wagon train, hand in hand, lifting their skirts as they ran. The ground shook now with the thunder of the approaching herd.
They pushed their way into the crowd of travelers at the front of the train, everyone jostling for a view.
“Look.” Lilac pressed Forsythia’s fingers. “Aren’t they something?”
Above the din of their hooves, the huge dark heads and shoulders of the beasts rose amid clouds of dust like moving mountains in mist. They tossed their wooly heads and snorted, but thankfully kept their thundering path across the trail, not toward the wagons.
Forsythia squeezed back and nodded. Lord, thy creation never ceases to amaze.
A small herd, Lilac had said, yet it seemed to go on and on—the choking dust, the pounding hooves, the majestic animals—Forsythia even glimpsed a calf or two.
As the last of the buffalo passed, a man suddenly rode out on horseback toward the stragglers near the end. Raising his rifle, he aimed and shot. One buffalo stumbled, then wheeled dazedly. Catching sight of the rider, it paused, then shook its massive head and charged toward him.
Mr. Hayes gave a shout. The horse under the rider—Forsythia could see it was John Manning—danced frantically in place, the man fighting to get it to turn, to get away. The wagon master swung up on his own mount and rode toward the wounded animal, shouting, but he was too far—another instant and the buffalo would reach Manning.
Then the wooly beast roared and toppled to the side. Another quiver and it lay still, two arrows sticking from behind its shoulder.
From atop his horse on the other side, Little Bear lowered his bow.
Forsythia gasped out a breath she didn’t know she’d held. Thank you, Lord. Lilac clung to her arm. They’d no great love for John Manning, but nor did they want to see him and his poor horse gored to death before their eyes.
Manning was now getting the talking-to of his life from the wagon master. Meanwhile, Little Bear dismounted and led his horse to the fallen buffalo. He knelt quietly for a moment, then began to skin the carcass.
Mr. Hayes returned to the wagon train. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I said no shooting.” He glared at the assembled crowd. “Thinking you can shoot into a herd of these creatures without proper know-how is as dangerous as poking a rattler. But since this foolishness didn’t end in tragedy, thanks to our guide, let me have a few volunteers to help skin and gut the animal. We’ll divide the meat among the wagons and have steak tonight.”
A few tentative cheers.
Still a bit shaken, Forsythia and Lilac made their way back to their wagons.
Lark met them, but when they poured out the story, she just nodded and held up a hand, her brow furrowed.
“While we were stopped, Jesse spotted some buzzards circling off to the side of the trail. I’m going to see if anything needs tending to.” Lark swung up on Starbright.
Sobered, Forsythia nodded and watched her sister ride off. Her brother, to anyone else watching. Lark filled the role faithfully, and it seemed no one suspected any differently. So far.
A few minutes later, Lark came loping back and slid off Starbright almost before she stopped.
“About a mile away there’s a wagon broken down. Father dead, mother close to it. Two little children—you’d better go get the doctor. It’s a good thing the train is still stopped.”
Forsythia ran, lifting her skirts to her ankles.
“Dr. Brownsville?”
He looked up from checking his oxen’s hooves. “What’s wrong?”
“Clark found a family that needs help. Their wagon broke down off the trail—it’s those buzzards Jesse saw.”
He set his pick aside and reached inside the wagon for his bag. “I’m coming.”
Forsythia was out of breath by the time they reached the broken-down wagon, the doctor striding ahead. She could smell the stench of death and sickness even before she saw the poor man’s body lying under the wagon, flies buzzing like smaller versions of the buzzards overhead. No oxen or horses—they must have been cut loose or run off.
A small child’s whimper came from inside the covered wagon.
“Go ahead.” Doctor Brownsville inclined his head. “I don’t want to frighten the woman.”
“Hello?” Forsythia lifted the canvas flap aside. “We’ve come to help you.” She climbed up.
Sunlight streamed over a thin mother lying amid barrels and bundles. A newborn baby squalled at her breast, wrapped in a soiled blanket. A little girl, perhaps two years old, stared at Forsythia with big blue eyes swimming in tears.
“Thank . . . heaven.” The mother gave an exhausted sob. “Answered . . . prayers.”
Forsythia pushed aside more filthy bedding to reach the woman and her children. This woman had not only given birth but been ill, by the look and smell—perhaps dysentery like Alice? Or worse, given her husband’s passing. Oh, Lord, what are we dealing with here?
“A doctor is here to tend you. May he come in?”
“Of course.” The woman waved her hand weakly.
Forsythia scrambled down to make room for the doctor. “Careful, it’s a mess.”
He climbed into the wagon. “Dr. Brownsville, ma’am.”
“Lena . . . Olsen. Thank God you have come.”
Olsen? Forsythia perked up her ears. The name sounded Norwegian. She’d wondered from the woman’s accent, faint
