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Sinclair and PL Gold Rush |
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This Story Started in July 1998 PART 5 Rummy eyed, the resident medicine man parted the growing crowd of onlookers. Whispers dried with his passing. Spitting slowly on each hand, he cleaned the deposit down the face of his grey shirt. Sinclair was appalled. As the coterie disembarked from the wagon, clucking and shaking their heads, he stood sentinel at the entrance. "Do you need some clean water?" he enquired. Hardly a flicker acknowledged Sinclair’s words. There was no doubt, who was doing whom the favour of his presence. Thick meaty hands grabbed at the canvas, dramatically thrusting all before aside. Confused, Sinclair stepped back. Could he let this man touch Claire? Cattle fidgeted in their traces. In the background, whistles and shouts called attention to the imminent restarting of the journey. Striding the length of his convoy the Wagon Master approached the gathering. ----------- 22.3.99
Strong early afternoon sunshine illuminated the wagon interior. Sinclair followed inside; wrinkling his nose at the stale smell of the unwashed, scrutinising the medicine man's every move. "Is it the sickness?" Slapping a hand on her forehead the man confirmed the raised temperature. "Yes, Yes. I know that, but what is the cause?" Suffering a glower for his interruption. Pressing roughly close to her abdomen, the investigation moved deeper. Almost breathing down the man’s neck, Sinclair stood protector, friend … lover. Claire sweated through the fever. Conscious, Sinclair felt she silently appealed to him to stop the imminent invasion of her person, as the podgy fingers poked and then started to undo the bodice buttons. "Is that really necessary?" Sinclair squeezed past box and keg and knelt, clasping her hand in comfort. "Peel an onion if you wanna know what's inside." Came the perfunctory reply. Somehow Sinclair could not fathom the parallel. -------- 23.3.99 Probing fingers pressed down, working their way across the pale abdominal skin, under Sinclair’s eagle eye. Stroking the back of her hand, he followed their journey through the pressure of her grip. Feeling each muscle contraction as his own. In a convulsive reflex, she screamed when the digits dug deep. Simultaneously Sinclair pushed the medicine man, leaning forward to cradle Claire in his arms. "Enough -- I say that is ENOUGH."
"You want my opinion or not?" Wiping sweaty hands on the loose cover, the quasi doctor eased back on his heels. "Yes I want your opinion." Carefully he drew the material together, refastening and secreting. "But you don’t touch her again." Once more taking control, slowing the rapid breathing with tiny caresses. Calming. Amazed that without knowledge he had so much power. "Suit yourself." Rising stiffly to his feet, the medicine man towered tall within the narrow confines of the wagon. "Not the sickness in my opinion". He pronounced with authority. "In - ter -nal cramps." Drawing out the word as if each additional syllable confirmed his importance. Sinclair folded Claire’s arms into a peaceful repose, before rising to match the doctor on equal terms. "So what is to be done?" "Are you a praying man?" Pausing to make sure Sinclair followed his meaning. "Nothing … Let nature take its course." Absorbing the unspoken message, Sinclair’s voice dropped to a shallow whisper articulating his worst fear. "I could lose them both?" "Wont be the first on this wagon train, you know that Mister Bryant." With a flapping of canvas the medicine man was gone like a giant bird of prey. --- 26.3.99
Sending red tongues through the darkening clouds, the sun died in the sky. Faint breezes raced the gullies, feeling their way along the canvas between the ribs of the wagon. Never before had the pace seemed so desperately slow. Sinclair found snapping the whip across the team had little effect, beyond further unsettling the horses, in urging forward the slow methodical steps. Agitated by the sudden drop in air pressure the horses broke into a brief trot. Loosely roped to the wagon side they raced ahead, whites of eyes rolling, until the end of the tether reined them sharply. Sniffing the air the oxen did nothing more than plod on relentlessly. First signs of the inclement weather had ruffled Sinclair’s clothes as he stood forth and announced their departure. A shiver of cold echoed the involuntary shudder at the medicine mans prediction. He understood that the success of the venture could not be jeopardised by further delay. The Wagon Master was a fair man, but his duty was to the Wagon Train not individuals. As she had held his future at the journey's onset, he now held hers. Icy calm detachment, of the kind that allowed cool analysis of the cards in hand, allowed Sinclair to make the decision. Gone from his mind were the easy pickings of the San Francisco gaming tables, he saw nothing beyond the next hours. Heavy drops began to fall on the lonely caravan travelling east along the Snake River. Within minutes it had disappeared from sight in the rain mist. ------- 29.3.99
Sinclair had coaxed each sip, to the last drop, past her lips before the journey’s onset. Never before had tea tasted so bitter, nor done its work so quickly. Sliding away the pain creating an aura of comfortable well being, heightening senses, distorting perception. Lurching of the wagon over the rutted trail, became the swing of a hammock. Beating of the rain drops, the tune of the tin bath. Time suspended. Before Sinclair reached down to wrap the blanket, Claire identified his presence. Smelt the piquancy of sweat, wet woollen, musk of leather. But she saw not the rivulets running from the Stetson brim, chasing over the long waxen coat but soap trails running from the newly shorn locks, streaming over the ivory skin, arms reaching out to entwine. Rough fibres dragged against her cheek as the blanket enfolded --- First touch of his finger tracing the stubborn jaw line. Twisting, turning being cocooned ready for departure --- Wet slippery entanglement, matching contours, one fitting the other. Vicious swipes of rain, tearing at the canvas roof ---Raking fingers. Folding her arms around his neck ---Embracing. Lifting, breaking out into the darkness --- Hoisting her aloft *Do you love me? * Lanterns swung out. Sinclair slipped and staggered towards the cries of "Over here." --------- 1.4.99 "More light. Get me more light." Snapping with the taughtness of the brace elastic that held his hastily dressed shirt, Samuel T Moore's request was an order. Fireflies drawn to the General Store, lights materialised from the barracks, from the small wagon train nestled within the protection of Fort Hall's stockade. "She seemed in such pain. Can you do anything?" "What did you give her?" Sharp, gimlet eyed; the surgeon measured the pupils' dilation. As he shuffled along the counter, there was an indistinct light scraping of wood, as in a chair being moved into position. "Just tea, herbal tea -- something to make the journey bearable." Sinclair hesitated feeling it necessary to justify his every action. "I can only Do when I know what the problem is." Brisk rather than abrupt. "Tell me the background." Checking temperature and pulse. Howling gusts cut through the store, chiming pans suspended from wooden beams. "SHUT THE DOOR" he roared, looking up at the perpetrator. "She didn't want to drink it .. It's been hard to get her to drink at all." Sinclair began unwinding the sodden blanket. Rain had run tears over the pale face. "She has been sick .. I just thought it was .. well .. PL said it was usual." "Get your coat off man, and that hat, don't drip all over her .. What's your wife's name?" Reaching behind him Moore grasped a roll of material and ripped off a length. Daring the small bespectacled storekeeper, still in his nightshirt, to utter a word. Despite clawing anxiety, all in his mind for that brief second, was that she would give him hell for the coming lie. "It's Claire" Sinclair began. Removing the signet ring. "My wife's name is Claire." Slipping the golden band to where he assumed it belonged. ------ 4.4.99 "What's going on out there?" Restless animal sounds, spasmodic calls, punctuated the weather's voice. "There's a new wagon near the store." O'Hara peered into the gloom. "I can't really see anything." "So just another late arrival?" Dana snuggled under the blanket from the cold. "Seems to be a bit more than that. A lot of activity for a late arrival." As he spoke, more lanterns drew giant shadows on the Conestoga. "Looks more like an accident. I had better see what I can do." Closing the canvas door he started to rummage for clothes. She sighed, a broken nights sleep, a mind mulling over O'Hara's threat to Wagon Master Brooks. "Tell me if I can help, there is no sense in both of us getting wet." ---------- 4.4.99 The metal spring bounced back with his weight. Dana heard the sound of boots scraping over the wagon entrance. PL had been gone no more than a minute. "So what was it?" She enquired of the dripping figure who flung back the canvas curtain. "Late arrivals no doubt .. Are you coming back to bed?" Plunged into darkness again as the door closed, she heard him grunt and the rustle of the overcoat brushing against the boxes. Turning away from the splatter of wet drops, she waited for him to return. A warm body slid in next to hers, but a cold barrel touched her cheek. "Just come to collect my dues." That voice stopped her heart. "And who is going to hear you scream now, little lady? " ------- 5.4.99
"PL" exclaimed Sinclair, swinging round to the latest entrant to cause the surgeons ire. "Scissors" demanded Moore of the storekeeper before attacking the fabric of the sodden dress with sweeping slices of the blades. O’Hara shook himself, but the rain-matted hair dribbled streaks that he brushed from his eyes as he crossed the store. "What happened?" While following the exploratory prodding of the doctor, Sinclair gave a brief resume of the day. "I couldn’t think of anything else to do, except bring her back." Cutting across the explanation, Samuel Moore intervened "You say she is pregnant? How long?" Pressing across the pale flesh of the lower abdomen, investigating, assessing. "I think you can afford your wife a new dress, Bryant, on last nights winnings." "So she agreed? That was ...." O’Hara’s words were cut short by a simultaneous glower and crushing of his foot as Sinclair stamped out the conversation. "About two months I think." Hazarding the first thing that entered his head, covering O’Hara’s startled yelp. ---- 21.4.99 "You are certain of your facts? Two months." Furrowing his brow the surgeon cupped his hands, warming the fingertips and with the delicacy of a pianist sought internal confirmation of Sinclair’s words. Swinging pots silenced. Only the lantern creaked with the rustle of the wind through the clapper-boards, as the room paused for breath. Sweating, Sinclair forced a reply "Well I’m not sure exactly. Is it vital to know?" Worrying doubts surfaced. Claire had told him nothing. "This is vital Bryant -- because I am going to open her up." A collective gasp greeted the announcement. Samuel T Moore seemed aware for the first time he had an audience. Scrapping along the counter's edge he manoevered the tools of his trade into view. Sinclair swayed slightly before whispering "Is that necessary?" Knowing the stupidity of the words before they were uttered. --- 22.4.99 "Going to need someone who can stand tall with the light." Ordered the surgeon. Sharp –eyed. Sharp – tongued. Motioning O’Hara as he stepped forward to catch Sinclair’s stagger. "You’ll do soldier." "Clear the room – The show is over. Leave the lights." Amid boot scrapping, coat rustling and muttering, one by one the men retreated to the General Store entrance. The door flew open. Replacing hats, drawing them to their faces, they attacked the weather. "Good luck Doc." Floated back on the wind. "Not you little man." Addressing the storekeeper scurrying to close the door after the bystanders. "I want this roll here ripped into swabs and bandages." Firing the light cotton roll across the counter into the man’s arms. Easing Sinclair onto the nearby chair, O’Hara made reassuring noises. "Shall I fetch Dana? – She is good with this sort of thing. May even know about the bairn – what do you say?" "She is going to die PL – I know it." Exhaustion talked. "Rubbish. You know nothing of the sort. Without you she could be dead already." Glancing up at the surgeon now shuffling his way towards various liquor bottles stacked high. What did it matter that the man had one leg, that did not affect the steadiness of his hands, PL reasoned. Watching Moore pull the cork. Or did it? ---- 23.4.99 Eerie shadows cast across the General Store. Half dozen lights remained twinkling the ceiling hung pots and pans the latter gently rattling in the draughts. Sucking against the glass, the distinctive sound of a cork's release roused in Sinclair a despondent retort. "I think I’m the one who needs a drink." "No you don’t. Hold this." O‘Hara steadied the oil lamp, opening Sinclair’s unyielding fingers placing the handle within the grasp. Head so close demanding attention. "Concentrate – the man needs light. I will be back in a few minutes." Slowly lifting bloodshot eyes from beneath their natural hoods to meet those of PL, he acknowledged the instruction. "Good" exhaled O'Hara. Concerned at the speed the intended scalpel cut had severed all Sinclair's belief, sliced away the strength of purpose - the driver in previous hours. Liquid splashed against the pail. Drizzled noisily from a height over thin blades and bone handles. Faint whiffs of whisky tantalised. But the sweet sickly vapour on the cotton wadding, slowly drifting from the countertop, soon devoured all else. "Chloroform." Announced the surgeon. "She will feel nothing, I know my work." ------- 29.4.99 Running back O’Hara squinted through the driving rain. Catching his attention, a rocking movement as the wagon tilted, straining the leather straps, compensating for sudden shift in weight. Dana had come to seek him out, he supposed. Good that would save time. Hailing "Dana" to the emerging shadow brought no response. PL forced his way forward; wiping the water from his eyes, assuming the wind had consumed his words. He stood for a few seconds under the canvas run off, oblivious to the additional torrents, looking first one then the other way. Expecting direction at any second from a splashing of shoes around the wagon. Sound of boots sucking lubriciously at the mire came from the Conestoga's rear. "Did my wife just pass you?" he queried before recognising the wagon master. No blacksmith's iron sizzled between them. Their eyes met, PL disadvantaged by his error, turned away quickly, placed a foot on the wheel spoke and swung up to the empty wagon seat. None threatened Jake Brooks; he had a reputation to preserve. Had PL but known, the leer that bore into his back told all. Branded your woman, Irishman. ------ 6.5.99 Deliberately the blade followed the fold. Metallic jaws dividing, opening to expose the flesh below. Neither tear of muscle, nor rip of cloth but slicing deep. Unconscious of the body contours on a predetermined path guided by a nerveless hand. Revealing the nakedness inside. Reacting to the cutter the belly twitched. But the guiding hand refused all deviation on the premeditated route. Intent on completion, preoccupied to the exclusion of external distractions. Rhythmically ... snip ...snip .. snip. Brusquely a hand stilled the blades. "What are you doing?" ---- 11.5.99 Surrounded by barrels and boxes stood a ragged waif. Neatly cut vertical strips purposefully divided the gown. Tatters, cotton streamers hung instead of Dana's shift. To O'Hara the streamers immediately spoke bandages. "Good idea - who told you? Never mind." Words fell out. Too dark to notice any disconnection with reality in her stare, PL grabbed yesterday's attire and began hunting for more weatherproof garments. Shaking the frock to encourage an urgency alien to Dana's listless state. "Here get dressed." Failing to gain a response he began dressing the unresisting body."Come on sleepyhead" "Quickly - The surgeon needs to know. When was Claire's bairn due?" Stabbing the blackness, the name prised a verbal and physical response. "Claire? She's gone." Smoothing invisible creases from the dress, the smile spoke of a vacancy rather than amusement. "No they are back, that was the commotion." PL's face broke into a puzzled frown, as he continued to wrap the cloak around Dana's shoulders. "I thought you knew, otherwise ..." Stooping to retrieve the ruined shift, fingering the lace edges of Dana's former pride and joy, O'Hara allowed the material to slip through his fingers. Abruptly the wind ripped through the wagon from the unsecured doorway, scouring the canvas from the inside and the momentary thought followed in its wake. ---- 12.5.99 Disembodied Sinclair watched as surgical events progressed before him. Neither glints of scalpel nor hastily discarded bloody swab tossed at his feet seemed to penetrate beyond the pale blank expression. Small sobs emanated from a chair rocking back and forth under Dana’s direction. Surgeon Moore bent closer to his task. "A bit nearer with the light if you please soldier." O’Hara tilted the lantern, though his arm muscles screamed in protest. He longed to ask Sinclair to take the light, to be able to stride to the corner, halt the rumble of the wooden rocker and soothe the tears. Out of character for his friend to have been so venomous. How could you have led me to believe? A withering glance through narrowed eyes had accused them both. Dana defenceless had cowered a muffled apology. I’m so sorry Sinclair I didn’t know – really I did not. Then retreated to that chair. Clenching fists O'Hara wanted to abandon the lamp, take Sinclair by the shoulders and shake him to teeth rattling. Good God man - Claire is lying there and you bleat about a non-existent child. Don’t you care you could lose everything? O’Hara’s eyes darted between the corner and Sinclair. Almost expecting, such seemed the depth of Sinclair’s indifference, the man to turn on his heels and vanish back into the night from whence he came. Tense silence echoing so many private thoughts, until a floorboard creaked under PL's shifting weight and an exclaimation from the surgeon. "Got the varmit." Samuel T Moore dangling what appeared to be a small bleeding worm. Addressing the audience of four he announced "An appendix – you will not see one of these often." His theatrical flourish was brought to naught however, as Sinclair crashed to the ground. Out cold. --------- 20.5.99 O’Hara prodded the smoking kindling. Wet from the nights storms the fire singularly failed more than a curling wisp. Solitary, those around him recumbent in recovery, he pondered the eventful hours. O’Hara had staggered off with the unconscious Sinclair Bryant leaving the storekeeper temporarily training the light. Bryant an idiosyncratic concoction of frailties and strengths that never failed to surprise, once more the hero and villain. Failing to understand a person did not preclude an instinctive liking, and O’Hara usually saw in Sinclair a dashing, volatile alter ego, their paths irrevocably linked on the westward journey. However, PL felt their friendship threaten by the harsh words and Sinclair landed in his pallet none too gently. Back at the Store, Samuel Moore had beamed with professional pride as PL complimented his stitching. To Claire’s good fortune, such gifted hands had been wasting in the backwater of Fort Hall. PL took his cue from the surgeon’s optimism. But most of PL’s thoughts meandered round Dana. Sleep deprivation played mind games and his feeling were led a merry dance. Reserved and withdrawn, PL surmised she was over tired yet there was more. Had she really flinched at his touch? Turned from his helping hand into the wagon? O’Hara’s reverie lanced by an abrupt slurping noise. ---- 13.6.99
Wagon Master’s jaw tightened, annoyed his element of surprise squelched by the mud. "Rolling within the hour Mister O’Hara. Will you have any problem with that?" Tiny hairs raised at the back of O’Hara neck at the inflection in Jake Brooks' voice. Desire to reply with the negative gushed forth. Breathing deeply, shifting his footing to square up to a perceived opponent gave PL time to moderate his words. "We have been ready days, I hope you know the terrain well, we need to make good progress to Oregon before the month is out." Another voice joined the conversation. "And I have urgent business on the Coast. You can accommodate another Wagon I presume?" To PL's amusement, the Wagon Master tried to twist round to the newcomer, but his boots stuck firm. Sinclair Bryant appeared, fresh as the proverbial daisy, long bull whip in hand. Carelessly he let the whip snap gently. Fresh mud peppered the Wagon Master’s obviously clean trousers. "I’m so sorry, Still trying to get the knack with this thing." Battling to extract this boots, the Wagon Master allowed himself to be lulled by Sinclair’s disarming smile. Face twisting into a smirk. "Certainly, have the dues ready for my collection." Frozen at gestation a rejoinder choked in O'Hara's throat.
21.6.99 ---- Back on the Gold Rush Trail. Burning retribution. Demanding to be held in the eye the fireball cursed the earth on which they stood, angrily flooding the evening skies. Bound together by the deed no man could draw away, culpable as one. An embarrassed spurt of tobacco juice kicked up the dust, an uneasy boot drew lines, throats cleared, but all stood transfixed by the dark silhouetted figure bathed by the setting sun. "How did this happen?" Sinclair pulled at O'Hara's sleeve. "I mean I can see how, but why?" His tug became more urgent as O'Hara failed to respond. Forcing the whisper louder. "Did you know about this?" Yards separated them from the silent company, Sinclair's voice nothing but a night murmur in their ears. PL turned, "I should have ... but No." Brushing the urging hand away. "And would I have stopped them? You have been too busy, wrapped up, blind .." he paused "I don't blame you, Claire has needed the attention these past two weeks." Words seem to choke in his throat. "I have just cause to have acted with these men. Be thankful the Wagon Master never collected from you." "What are you saying PL?" Faces level, no place to hide. Detecting a watery glint, puzzled, perplexed Sinclair's agitation gave way to solace. "Tell me - What I am missing?" he prodded gently. Rising from the earth, as the sunset entered another unseen horizon, came the lonely cry. Not anguish but a prayer for the dead, a chant rising and falling in semitones rhythmic with the gibbet's swing, in a tongue that knew both worlds. 21.8.99 ------
"I'm going to cut him down." "Leave it be - this is not your responsibility." Too late. Striding forward, the gathering parting at his approach, Sinclair sliced through the inertia. No change registered in the hypnotic incantation. "Hold him." Pairs of hands willingly obeyed. Unsheathing a knife, sawing the rope until the not in substantial weight of Jake Brooks frayed the final cords, Sinclair took command. PL watched as the body spread on the ground, he presumed Sinclair checked for life but it seemed no time at all before the corpse was being rolled towards the bank of Snake River. Then was gone. O'Hara felt he could reach out and touch the tableaux, move the characters like paper figures if he so chose. A voice inside him queried if that was a Christian burial, but events numbed and the scene played out unquestioned before his eyes. Sinclair stood hands on hips and addressed the shocked group. Strength had come from rage and common purpose, bereft of both there were scared and worried men. "We can't go back now. Will be the noose for all." As Sinclair touched his neckerchief, the action percolated though his audience. "Has anyone made this journey before?" Feeling the bore of so many pairs of eyes the tall figure, cross-legged in the dust but a dozen yards away, jolted out of reverie in mid song. Running Bear heard the call of his ancestors. ------- 22.8.99
"Here stay in the shade and keep still." Dana stayed the fidget in Claire. "Sinclair will not forgive me if anything happens to you. He promised Dr Moore all sorts of things to get you on this Wagon Train." "Man with the silver tongue, he fusses too much." Waving the early evening mosquito from her face. "And so do you, I'm not going anywhere." "None of us are going anywhere. Perhaps we will have to turn back without a Wagon Master." Briefly looking back towards the small animated council by the fireside before turning over the sewing to examine the quilting effect. "Do you really think so? Brooks was a colourful character, so I’ve heard." "A nasty piece of work." Dana replied shortly, stabbing the material. "Did Sinclair say how the accident happened?" "Not really.That’s coming along nicely." Unrolling the furthest end of the needlework, Claire had followed the glance, heard the sharpness of reply and decided to change the subject. Whatever passed between the menfolk that evening, she would make it her business to know by the morning. "Hey-You are more liable to weedle information from PL, and here is your, or perhaps our, opportunity." Neither could resist a conspiratorial giggle. Ambling away from the core O'Hara, smacked the dust from his hat before heading into the ambush. ------ 25.8.99 Gingerly kneeling down beside the Indian dog, Claire ruffled the short brindled fur behind the sharp pointed ear. Piercing, dark rimmed pale eyes turned upwards as the animal searched for more attention, a long tongue twisted to rasp the outstretched hand. Information had been sparse, to the point of conspiratorial silence. Knowing few on this Wagon Train, her options were limited. None of the women seemed to have any idea of the current plans, Claire wondered if Dana had fared better with PL on her own than they had together. O’Hara was a man unable to conceal a troubled mind, banter failing to raise more than a weak smile. As for Sinclair, for once he proved the illusive half of their partnership. Suspecting another card school about to commence she had watched the closeted group of wagon owners. Serious faces like those of O’Hara arrived and departed, piquing her curiosity after an hour to almost breaking point. Sinclair had given her one of those looks as she sought to join the group, innocently enquiring as to the conclusion of their business. Now she was forced to fall back on guile. Running Bear watched in silence as she gave the dog all her attention. ------- 26.8.99 "I thought you were a coyote but that isn't true is it?" Addressing the dog as much as the man. "You howl just like the packs that have followed the wagon train .... but you are a shy thing. Cowering away like that whenever the Wagon Master hollered at you .." Claire continued the petting in the silence, gratified by the animal's responses. "We call them Song Dogs." It was a statement not conversation. Running Bear looked at the woman on her knees next to his heart. He had heard she was the sick wife of the tall gambler, but she didn't look sick to him. None had talked to him, much less given his dog such loving attention. His reply had not phased her at all yet he was certain few knew of his knowledge of the white mans languages. All that passed between himself and the Wagon Master had been in his dialect. What did she want of him? He willed her to turn to look up so he could read the usual white woman's disdain in her eyes. "You won't miss the Wagon Master will you?" Ambiguous question. The dog rolled to his back in complete submission. Submission. Running Bear sank down to her level, crouching on the opposite side of the prostrate form. Seconds passed before Claire turned her gaze on the Indian. ----- 27.8.99 Words came softly in answer. "They killed him." Following O'Hara's progress towards the disturbance, unwavering in his regard, no body movement betrayed that Running Bear had spoken. Claire heard, yet still nothing betrayed the conversation to unseen eyes. Her paralysis was shock. Imperceptably the automatic weave of her fingers, through the short turfs of fur below the song dog's large ear, slowed. "I heard it was an accident." "They hung him ...." Visual images of the Wagon Master, bloated face, rope creaking, swinging, body spiralling slowly round, assailed her mind. Grotesquely parodying the Indian windchime that had hung from his wagon. Bile rose in her throat, Claire fought not retch for her stomach muscles, unhealed, were tender at the merest cough. " ... and threw him to The Snake." Unemotional, matter of fact, Running Bear registered neither approval nor judgement of the deed. His aim had been to test the woman with brutal truth. Callous to her ear, she understood he meant the River. All feverish activity, the closing of male bastions, played out before them made perfect sense, except for the raisond'etre. How could Sinclair be party to such an act? Like the eel that feeds on a watery carcass, the Indian's words slithered into her consciousness, ate away at reason and fermented. -------- 5.9.99 Negotiations were not progressing as Sinclair expected. Priding himself on a flair for languages he had launched into the conversation using odd phrases of Cree. Twisting and turning his tongue round the unfamiliar vocal structures, sure that the Blackfoot would understand this dialect. Running Bear seemed to be listening intently, but not replying. He was quite glad Claire had returned to their wagon, and fellow travellers waited corralled out of earshot, his embarrassment less public. Debate had been heated. All hinged on Sinclair's ability to persuade Running Bear to accept him as Wagon Master and continue the alliance that had brought the wagon train deep into Oregon. Running his fingers through his hair, the repeated phrases were tinged with exasperation. Would the Indian co operate, or were they going to be forced back to Fort Hall? Finally the flow of words dried. They stood matching stares, unyielding, appraising. Shoving a hand deep into his pocket Sinclair extracted a wad of tobacco, broke it in two and proffered his hand. Running Bear's eyes flicked down to the hand and back. Momentarily Sinclair thought he had offended by his action. Until a brief flash of white teeth told otherwise. Running Bear reached out for the tobacco. "I understand you perfectly." ----------- 7.9.99 Fellow travellers melted in to the evening, a focused group buzzing with conversation replacing the sullen individuals who joined the meeting. Sinclair, a bounce to his stride, a spring to each step as the aphrodisiac of power fed through to his heels, returned to his wagon. Gathering pace he lengthened his stride the last few yards, voice ringing out at a dark figure bent awkwardly, stooping close to the oxen. Splashes of water curled away into the dark crumbly earth as the bucket hit the ground. "What did you do that for?" Claire demanded angrily. "The animals ..." She was upset and it had nothing to do with the stock. "Sometimes you are like a child, can I not leave you for one minute?" Sinclair sighed, righting the pail. A woman's mouth always recovered first. "Rest, no lifting or carrying, I want you ..." Close up, he was finding it hard to be more than exasperated, "....fit for the final part of the trail." There was something infectious in Sinclair's good humour. "Well Mister Wagon Master, the animals needed attention." Claire calmed, resolving to wait for explanations. "Which PL has already given them." Breaking in, plastering a hand to stop further back chat, Sinclair was in no mood to allow anything to dampen his exuberance. Sliding the other arm under the swathe of dress material, registering an unaccustomed lightness, he was pleased to feel her relax into the crook of his shoulder. "I do the only lifting and carrying around here." ------ 12.9.99 O'Hara tried again, refusing to believe the postured tautness. Inclining towards her, whispering. "Darlin' I know what happened. Don't push me away." Once more a small sob escaped, each shudder magnified a thousand times against his chest, wracking his frame. Body blows that tore at his heart. "It wasn't your -- " Trailing away realising clumsy words were negating his skilful fingers. Emotional wounds from a brutal husband had taken months to heal, Brooks had ripped that away in a few minutes collecting dues. O'Hara cursed the day he had ever suggested they leave the first wagon train. What Dana needed was his gentle loving again to restore her confidence. Smoothing the tops of her shoulders, PL let his hands explore, willing her body's compliance over the minds denial. ------- 13.9.99 Running Bear listened intently. Restless animals quietened, last murmur of conversations floated and a baby cried. Water of the Snake a lullaby. In a scene repeated in various forms over the camp in the twilight hour he watched the new Wagon Master striding away to repossess his wife. Absentmindedly the Indian's hand strayed to the dog's neck, the woman had known a song dog. Would that he could know that woman. Pulling the buffalo hide over his long frame he settled beside the animal. Of course he knew where he could find comfort, seen which wagon train widow entertained, but such thoughts were usually transitory in nature. Until this evening. ----- 14.9.99 Either the rattle of the pans at the wagon side or the brush of lips over her forehead
drew Claire back from sleep. It mattered not, for both had urgency in their call that she
heeded with a start. -------- "Why isn't PL doing this? Where is he?" Sinclair grabbed at the halter, bringing the animal closer to Dana's trailing rope. Clouds of dust stung and obscured. Dry brush tumbled between the loose wagon circle. Embers glowed through the ash as the gusts resuscitated the dying fire. Deftly she threaded. Together they secured the agitated horse. He bent to hear her reply. It pleased him not, for patting her shoulder Sinclair stalked off, hat brim down, neckerchief up, kicking recumbent bodies that had dared ignore his first rousing. What a night for O'Hara to take comfort in the bottle. He could probably sleep through a hurricane with one of those jars warming his belly, rotting his brain. Sinclair made a mental note to double check Dana's wagon. Strong as she was, some things were beyond her reach. ------- 20.9.99 Beyond her reach, beyond forgiveness. Clumsy fingered PL fought the buttons on his trousers. Somewhere was a shirt. He felt for boots at the bedside. Sick in body, grieved in heart, for this was not their cot, and that was not his woman. ------- 20.9.99 It was the last place she anticipated finding O’Hara, perched on the wagon’s roof, roping secure a flapping canvas. Concern for his safety obscured any worry over the newly blackened patch, an obvious burn hole. He was drunk. She knew it. When the figure, lamp in his teeth, suddenly slipped from view, Dana worst fears surfaced. A broken leg, concussion, he should never be up there. Blindly she crashed into Sinclair who caught her in a bear hug. "Steady on, or I should say *Where's the fire?* But it's nothing really, just some burning brush." The conversation was mouth to ear. "PL? Oh he's sleeping it off inside." He felt her relax and bent to listen further before releasing his hold to let out a huge guffaw. "And you thought I was O'Hara?" On impulse he kissed Dana's cheek "Go and administer to the poor man." Before turning away grim faced . And it's more than he deserves. He's a fool. -------- Running Bear discerned the wind swirling down from The Backbone of the World would vanish as quickly as it surprised. Quietly he observed, particularly the new Wagon Master. Shadowing, assessing for signs of strength and weakness, for it was good to know a man better than he knew you. Contradictory messages. Surprisingly fast with his fists, but with the compassion to transport his victim to a nearby wagon. A man at ease issuing orders, but equal to the tasks he expected of others, climbing to beat out a smoldering roof. The Indian had seen the care lavished by the gambler on his wife, yet watched him chase after the dark haired woman undercover of darkness. Happening upon them in embrace, he had ducked back behind the oxen. Betrayal. In recollection that most disturbed Running Bear's thoughts. -------- Standing, enveloped in the fine mist blooming from the depths, Sinclair tried to estimate the depth of fall. Rocks polished with water sheen, beautiful yet treacherous had drawn him to the brink. Roaring, raw power assaulted his senses. Nothing in his experience of wide, lazy, southern rivers compared to the rattle of the Snake. Ever deepening canyons, the river seemed to squeeze the Wagon Train, test its mettle with the roughest terrain. Sinclair shuddered at the memory of the slewed cart, a wheel bouncing slowly before helpless hands, over the 200 foot cliff. Majestic, beyond comprehension, living up to it's name American Falls Sinclair heard the sirens' call to take an extra step. Raising hands, as if drawing the power of the waters unto his spirit he bellowed defiance, releasing the tension of the past days toil. --------- 3.10.99 "A mighty force indeed, Sinclair says we are several days away from the Three Island crossing point, and that will not be soon enough for me. This river has bad memories, I will not be sad to leave it." Working together they continued companionable silence. Details of the Wagon Master's demised had been separately prised out of the menfolk by curious women, the more overt details common currency. It was not a subject on which Dana cared to dwell. "I see your shadow has returned" she began. Claire tossed a morsel for the dog and continued chopping. "I mean the human one, are you going to throw him a titbit too?" Claire felt her colour rise, her heart beat a little faster. Man and dog were seldom parted. Such attention was flattering but she was glad Sinclair was too preoccupied to notice. Depositing the peelings in the animal feed bucket she stood up. This was not the time for confidences, signalling with a small shake of her head the end of the current conversation. Dana stared after Claire clambering back up the hill towards the wagon, trickles of gravel in her wake. Rarely could an arrowed jest have hit its mark so cleanly. A parallel path, a dozen yards hence, the Indian's long strides ate the gradient with not a stone displaced. ---- 17.10.99 Thinner, yes. Older maybe. Strain etched new lines in Sinclair's physiognomy. Handing him the soup bowl Dana had a moment to study the change. Greedily he consumed the third helping, she gained a cooks satisfaction of food well prepared. Evening reconnoitring was a right Sinclair insisted upon despite the lure of the evening meal. She could see how tired he had become with these additional duties and had taken it upon herself to feed the man as O'Hara tended the animals. Absentmindly lifting the stetson hooked among the pails, she brush puffs into the air. Grime from the trail streaked with sweat gave the Wagon Master an unusually fearsome appearance. "Would you like more?" Sinclair held the palm of his hand in a gesture of sufficiency, before patting the seat beside him. "You will have me the size of PL in no time, with such excellent suppers." Stretching out replete he listened to the litany of the day and the assurances that Claire had been chivied into resting early as he had instructed. Mundane matters a comfort for worries he was unable to yet share with the group. -------- 19.10.99 Darkness kept them from prying eyes. Warmly wrapped in the buffalo hide Claire lay waiting, her ears straining for their footfalls, amid the sounds of laughter from the campfire chorus. In his woven bag slung at the shoulder would be berries, some sweet some bitter - serviceberry, chokeberry, huckleberry - delicacies for her pleasure. Wet nose and rasp of tongue heralded their arrival on the far side of the corralled wagon as it had done each evening. She patted the song dog settling across her legs. From the proffering of these gifts had come gradual conversation. Acknowledgement of thanks; a remark on the day; a prophecy of the coming weather, none lasting beyond a few minutes during which the Indian had crouched beyond the wheel spokes. Tonight she watched Running Bear seat himself, cross legged in one fluid movement, beside her before he lifted the bag free, as if ready to share some secret. Proximity seemed comfortable not threatening. -------- 20.10.99 He spoke of the Big Water where the Sun set, the Snake Indians - lean limbed and fleet of foot - identifiable by the jagged reptilian designs on their body, and the story of the "Devil Fish". Running Bear narrated the Snake Indians visit from over the Backbone of the World bringing skins to trade with the Blackfoot. Fur finer than beaver or martin, the Devil Fish pelts looked like a dog but with beavers feet and the tail of a fish. One skin traded for the equivalent of a horse or five buffalo robes. Such bounty induced one of the Blackfoot warriors to accompany the traders on their westward journey. The tale rolled through the warriors adventures trading with tribes along the Big River, who lived off the rivers fish as the Blackfoot did the buffalo, until he reached the edge of the Big Water. Swimming at a distance he saw the Devil Fish, they came to the shore waddled over the land and lay together barking like dogs. It was said they tasted good but as Blackfoot do not eat dog, the warrior refused. Frenzied fire crackling and voices raised in ribald tune indicated the final stoking of the evening. Pausing in his story, the Indian leaned across to stroke the song dog as they both digested the uncomfortable thought. Trading everything down to his own clothes and moccasins for their clothes, shells and as many Devil Fish skins as his last horse could carry, the Blackfoot warrior readied to return to his tribe. Two skins remained after the perilous return journey, one offered to the Sun for his safe return, the other ... Enthralled by the rich rising and falling of tone as the narration unfolded, drawn into the tale by the vibrant visual pictures, Claire waited the finale, the pause an exquisite ache. Running Bear unfastened the bag. Reaching towards her he slowly drew a hand wrapped in the whitest seal fur down her cheek, acknowledging the gasp of pleasure that was his due. ------- 11.11.99 Morning light found the pair scouting the days trek between the mesas. Smoke curled, barely visiable before fragmenting into the milky blue horizon. Tracing the wisp earthwards it was possible to discern the small darts around the source. Tepees scattered in a loose confederation. Running Bear stayed Sinclair's movement towards the rifle with a pausing palm, leading the pair in a slow ambling route towards the encampment. O'Hara put his fingers to his mouth and there issued a piercing shrill, sleep shattering, whistle. Chickens agitated squawking would no doubt send Dana into the flustered outrage of one too long abed, and he would be on hand with the soothing mug of hot tea. Shoving his hands nonchalantly into his pockets he observed the effect with barely supressed glee. Steaming on the wagon seat the tea awaited it's rescue mission. ----- 13.11.99 Passing the wide racks of drying fish, Sinclair kept one eye on Running Bear's progress while trying to absorb the surroundings. Nez Perce bands were well used to visitors, the Indian had explained, tribes from far to the east came to trade buffalo meat for dried fish and recently the white fur trappers passed this way. Those arrows to the sky he had seen were singular pole frameworks covered, he was surprised to see, by grass matting not the buffalo hides he expected. Some dwelling places appeared to be two tepees connected by long ridgepoles. Meeting each enquiring eye with a faint smile Sinclair followed Running Bear towards the largest of such lodges. It crossed Sinclair's' mind briefly that the council before them was as colourfully dressed with eagle feathers and cloth as the spotted Appaloosas that they sat astride. He waited for Running Bear's signal to dismount hoping that the hospitality would extend to a hearty breakfast. -------- 13.11.99 "You know I've been thinking." Sinclair stretched out half hidden in the long grass of the plateau. Looking at the healthy glow newly returned in past days, he began to test mettle of an erstwhile sparing partner. "I've been thinking, it wouldn't be such a bad life to be an Indian." Claire sat up. "So what impressed you so much this morning?" "Well there is the fishing, could spend all day fishing." He ripped the nearest stalk and began casting this way and that. "And the food was extraordinarily good." "Yes I noticed. Did they have to winch you off the saddle on your return?" came the dry retort. Sinclair was leading somewhere she didn't necessarily want to follow. Deliberately positioning the marker between the pages Claire snapped closed the book, waiting. "The women certainly know how to treat the menfolk well. Very deferential" He continued apparently still thinking aloud. "Running Bear says the powerful warriors have several wives." "Well Wagon Master I suggest you maintain what you have already." Sinclair snatch the edition just before it landed south of his midriff, smothering both flailing arms in his own. ----- 14.11.99 Stiff, white knuckled; leather rein bound so tightly the small hand hardly registered as a separate entity perched on the pommel. In truth, for all the feeling left in the extremity, Claire's fingers had not been attached for the past hour, but for the constant urging the horse through the Snake River, her legs would have followed the same path. Fearful memories, of grasping currents at the journies onset, were as responsible as the freezing waters for the paralysis. Where was Sinclair? One more Island to go.Through chattering teeth she forced a smile at PL's cheery greeting. Tirelessly he drove another herd of cattle through the well-trodden mire into the deceptively placid waters for the final crossing to the north bank. She suspected some sort of homing instinct for the lush grass on the banks ahead, as the river frothed with bobbing heads and plaintive groans of the ruminants. Wrinkling her nose, she could still smell last night's noxious odours of sealant laborously plastered over the wagon bodies as they rolled slowly past, waiting patiently for the signal to drive the final flood at Three Island Crossing. Twisting in the saddle she scanned for the familiar angular frame. It seemed hours since she had seen Sinclair, notes in hand, briefing the Wagon Train. He appeared to have covered most angles of this treacherous day, allowing for a pool of the strongest to wait at the edge of each crossing to force recalcitrant wagons over the pitted banks. But where was he now? Whispered promise, You will not have to cross alone, she had taken to mean his presence not that of twenty five head of cattle.
13.12.99 Splitting the air the bull whip crack snapped indecision, scattering watery demons in a bolt of anger. Hauled at the bridle, wheeling hard left, the horse slithered on the hocks before springing forward into the waters. Right Sinclair Bryant, I can do this alone. Reins twitched at each flank, spiking movements that satisfied the rider rather than drove the animal. Nipping and tucking, swirling and sucking the current wormed passed the living obstructions driving an opposing path. Fixing a distance point, Claire forced herself to ignore the grasping water intent on ripping her legs from the horse's flank, gripping the girth so hard her thighs ached. Toothless the cold waters numbed rather than bit. Skin tingled with the rubbing of the cloth creating imaginary warmth. While the muscular movement of the striding legs beating a constant stroke transmitted a comforting rhythm and illusion of safety. I can do this alone. Once more the river seethed and boiled as the bull whip urged another herd forward. Deep in the waters yet yards from the bank, shouts from the island were lost in the Snake's endless coil. ---- 28.12.99 Damn it. Why couldn't she wait? Scowling at the beasts tamping at the frothing water's edge, Sinclair hailed O'Hara to stop the herd. From his vantage the lone horse ploughing the Snake seemed in imminent danger of being jostled by these latest entrants. Smile exaggerated in it's whiteness against the mud caked spectre, PL hollered happily "Fine and dandy". Taking Sinclair's furious gestures as encouragement to give the whip another lazy revolution. There was no way round into the water. Digging his heels sharply, driving his mount into the cattle, he tried to force passage. Futile. Closing around the horse a hundredweight of ruminant denied accelerated access to the river. Sinclair began to flail with his reins, caught on land in precisely the manner he feared for Claire. ------ 1.1.2000 Stumbling the horse lost footing. Caused neither by the sweep of the river, nor bustling of fellow water borne companions but a sudden doubling of load. If the pommel had not driven speech with the last gasp of air slammed from her body Claire would have given Sinclair a few chosen words. Roughly of the order You left this a bit late. As the mount regained balance, she coughed. Trying to gradually draw breath without panic. Calmed by the reassuring presence snuggly sharing the saddle, reaching into the water to retrieve the training reins, prodding the nearest heifer to keep a safe distance Later she would assume that the cold had numbed more than extremities. Oblivious to the gloveless hands and the missing hide chaps, surely she ought to have noticed the broad shoulders enfolding her could hardly be those of Sinclair. But it was not so. The next few minutes passed in companionable silence of joint endeavour urging the horse through the last of the waters, steering upstream from the cattle exit towards the corral of newly crossed wagons already a hive of activity for the evening settlement. 23.1.00 ------ "Somehow I can't see you doing that." They watched Running Bear use the backs of the cattle to stepping stone across the water. "You can't even avoid trouble on dry land." PL used the whip length to nudge the last of the cattle away from Sinclair. "I'll dispute the dry aspect." Wincing as the Indian's final leap took the horse under water. "... But you are right, I couldn't have done that - not even for Claire." Sinclair wiped an even larger smudge across his forehead. He was talking to noone for PL had bounded off to the the latest wagon drawing up for the crossing. "Knew you could do it darlin'." Dana presumed the remark was for her, but where PL was concerned it could always have applied to his favourite lead oxen. Leastwise it was Daisy who got the smack on the rump. 23.1.00 Encampments, two bright eyes of the Snake split by the wide meandering body, settled for the night. As if linked to the light, voices grew quieter as darkness fell. Rattle of pans gave way to clink of final coffee mugs, cradled for warmth as the wagon owners sat within the steam of drying garments. Palpable relief at their safe crossing matched on the opposite bank by apprehension among those yet to make the journey. "Did you send Running Bear?" Claire unwrapped Sinclair's fingers from the mug and replaced it with her own. Gentle quizzing. It was hard not to hear the hisses of Brazen Hussy. The Indian, who had slid silently from their joint mount, fixed the source with a steely stare before melting away. He had understood. Sinclair did not and there was a quiet resentment of those he had lead who chose to attack his woman. "Does it matter? He acts for me - like a brother. How dare they." "Sticks and stones will break my bones.." Claire recited pushing the flop of hair away from the brooding face. But words can never hurt. Lies, they both knew, but it brought eye contact and the glimmer of a smile that she anticipated. 6.2.00 ------ Spewing venom, the serpent loosed pronged forks of flame. Momentarily, dancing as fireflies arcing towards the corral on the southern bank, the quiver of arrows held a deadly beauty. Fractious dreams. Consciousness played with Sinclair's brain. Desire failed to sweep away the evenings emotional debris as exhaustion refused to submerge bitterness. He looked back on their communion of bodies with a warmth that belied circumstances. Independance so many months away, yet their hands had declared the personal geography unchanged beyond a tighting of sinews and hardening of muscles. Within the skin of the of the buffalo they had become one. An intimacy of souls entwined to perfection Rolling over he tried to harmonise the crystallising of their breath together as she slept. Smelling the rose water, mixed with the light animal tang of grease, that had softened his palm giving the flexibility that so itched a card player's fingers. Dissecting dreams the eye turns inward, blind to the shooting stars mingled in the cool stream of exhalation. 17.5.00 ------- Toppling forward the porch rocker failed to sustain his weight, the glass lurched forward in his hands. Shards of colour burst into O'Hara's vision as he moved quickly to rebalance the pane. "Darlin' no more, I can't hold this one." "I'm not interested in your love life" hissed Sinclair, crouching to rattle PL by the shoulder through the wide spokes. "Pleeease. Owch!" Elongated the last syllable cut short as O'Hara sat bolt upright. "Get up. We have big trouble." Flapping a free arm in the direction of the River, he left PL dazed and bemused. Ghostly grey shadows, canvas over ribs, tightly circled wagons muted the distant flares, but high-pitched screams carried over the water in the stillness of the night. Standing on the riverbank, outwardly impassive, the Indian strained to number the riders and decipher the cries. Of victim and aggressor. "Only the stupid sleep under an axle" muttered Sinclair as he darted to the next wagon. 20.5.00 ----- Antlike the women harvested the skeleton. Stripping the base of the blacked shell for the last vestige of worth. O'Hara shouldered yet another wagon at the waters edge. Tearless the children stood clutching wildflowers. Warm dark mud peeled between his fingers. Sinclair mused as the tips ground the clod to dust. Good farming soil perhaps? Shaking his head to focus back on the problem, before attacking the dirt with renewed vigour, wondering vaguely if he could be happy on a homestead. A few words would be his responsibility as Wagon Master and the time was now. Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust No that couldn't be appropriate. Even though they had closed the eyes he felt the sightless fix him in their gaze beneath the shovelled layers. Four. They had lost four from the Wagon train. One graveless, devoured by the Snake in the blackness of the night crossing, two to the attackers and a third. Bile rose as Sinclair recollected his first sight of a partially burned body. Grotesque tortured features compared to gaping mouths frozen in surprise from the cleaved. Spitting away from the grave before stabbing the earth with a decisive finality, Sinclair thrust both fingers into his mouth for a piercing whistle. O'Hara, a good son of Rome, would know a few words from the Bible. 21.5.00 ------------ "The Lord is my shepherd, I'll not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside still waters…" Sinclair could not but run a finger loosening the stiff collar grasping at his throat. It was always the same. Those words raised spectres of the dead from the Three Rivers Island massacre and he was powerless as ever to stop the lump gathering in his gullet. He drew a deep breath and coughed. Feeling the touch on his arm, Sinclair turned to his companion and smiled. Acknowledging and deflating the concern he understood the brush on his sleeve to imply. Sun streamed through the windows of the whitewashed building, a particle halo rested but a yard from his feet. They were all blessed, every man woman and child to be standing on this spot after so many months of hardship on the Wagon Train. Sinclair beamed again, not the half smile that usually played at the corner of his lips as he surveyed the world through lazy lidded eyes, but the rarer facial explosion. This was not a time for morbid thoughts, they were here for celebration. Claire watched the change come over Sinclair, and fervently hoped he wasn't about to sing. 29.12.00 ------------- "Why are we here?" O'Hara swung a leg over the fence rail and stared morosely at the sea of swaying stalks. "That's a philosophical question. You mean apart from resupplying?" Sinclair feeling the conversation would progress better on a more equal footing, negotated the wooden rail and looked down over the lake. They surveyed the panorama in silence. Not the companionable serenity between friends shared at the campfire side in previous weeks, but a pause of such stillness, Sinclair felt he stood underneath a huge dam just waiting to burst. "Did you know Waiilatpu means the place of rye grass.?" Sinclair ventured. At PL's blank expression he continued. "The name of the Mission here .... Waiilatpu...." trailing away lamely. "Actually I think it should be called The Potato Mission " Sinclair tried again, responding to the brief glimmer of interest. "It's about the only abundant supply item here. Whitman must grow fields of the stuff." O'Hara faced Sinclair squarely."I was raised on a diet of praties and religion." The laugh was hollow, incredulous at the circle of events. "There's an Irish saying - Only two things in this world are too serious to be jested on, potatoes and matrimony." "In which case, do I deduce that your current diet is deficient in the religious aspect or the matrimonial?" Sinclair aimed the thrust, and the glint in O'Hara's eye told he had hit true. "There isn't a lot of call for confessional amongst the Methodists here is there?" 31.12.00 ------------ Water sloshed over the bucket as each giant tuber slithered from their hands. Unusually Claire was the most determined of the two women to finish the task. Words, for once, were failing her. Listening had its place but the verbal salve proved elusive. "One moment he will promise the world, the next ...." Dana half heartedly turned the knife on a second potato. "It pains me that I am the cause of his darkness. I cannot go on making him so unhappy." Lifting the smock corner, she dabbed her eyes, already red rimmed from too many tears. Seldom had O'Hara been so melancholy than the days since Three Rivers Island. Claire hoped Sinclair was proving equal to the task of confessor. Still wrestling with what to say she fired the remaining potato into the water, and stood up - the manual task accomplished. "Perhaps if we were apart, if I went away, things would be better for him?" Dana turned to Claire, almost a hint of desperation in the suggestion. Arms folded round her in comfort. "You are loved, and not going anywhere except to ask PL how we make this Boxty Potato bread stuff. I've not peeled this lot for nothing!" 2.1.01 ---------- Sinclair tilted his head in the sun, feeling a rivulet of sweat escape his hair and tickle the nape of his neck. The Idjit wished for his hat, knowing the flies would find their quarry if he sat there much longer. O'Hara seemed to be weighing up his words. Neither of them saw the timorous figure approach from the Mission side as they perused the landscape of tomorrow's journey back to the main trail route. "Sir .. Mr Wagon Master Sir." A small hand tugged at Sinclair's shirt. He turned and looked down kindly. Of course, he had forgotten, the meal must be ready. "I'm coming young man." Clapping O'Hara on the shoulder, he bounced off the fence. "Things always look brighter on a full stomach." The day's rest had been worthwhile. Flexing his fingers as he strode forward, Sinclair even allowed thoughts of an evening card school, but perhaps he ought to test the water first - one could never tell how these religious folk would take to the sin of gambling. These reveries lasted less than 20 seconds before O'Hara grabbed his arm. "Forget food Sinclair. The boy says their cattle are sick, frothing at the mouth and falling over." 4.1.01 -------
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