Benteen didn’t attempt to separate the voices calling after each other as he slapped the horses with the reins and chirruped to the team. The jangle of trace chains, the pounding shuffle of digging hooves, and the rattle of the covered wagon combined to drown out the voices. Beside him, Lorna waved frantically, straining and twisting in the seat to keep her parents in sight as they drove down the street. The tears kept falling, and Benteen kept a tight-lipped silence, understanding yet feeling the anger of frustration, because there was nothing he could say or do. Her desolation was beyond comforting, so he didn’t try.
They were nearly out of town before her shoulders quit shaking with sobs, but the tears didn’t stop. Benteen slid a short glance at her pale, strained face, partially turned from him, and looked again to the front. With one hand he untied the kerchief knotted loosely around his throat and silently offered it to her.
She took it and wiped at her tear-drenched cheeks, while holding on to the sides of the wagon seat to keep from being bounced out by the rough road. When she had dried her face, she clutched the kerchief in her lap.
“I can’t help it.” Lorna defended her tears.
“I know.” His voice was tight. She dabbed again at her eyes, bowing her head and sniffling. Purposely or not, she was making him feel like a bastard for taking her away from her parents. It rankled him, because she was his wife. She belonged with him, not them. Benteen stifled it as best he could, but some of his agitation crept through. “Those tears aren’t going to make you feel any better.” He was conscious of her stiffening and cursed himself for not offering her some comfort.
When he tried to put his arm around her, Lorna pushed it away. “You don’t understand,” she accused, the tears building again in her eyes. “I’ll probably never see them again.”
In all likelihood, she was right, so Benteen didn’t attempt to argue the point. But her eyes were on him, waiting for him to deny it and allay her fears. Her chin started quivering at his silence.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.” He was honest as he could be with her, a grimness to his profiled features.
He expected her to burst into tears, but the outpouring of grief didn’t come. Tears continued to slide silently down her cheeks as Lorna stared at the road ahead. That was harder for him to endure than the wild weeping he had anticipated.
All was in readiness to take the trail when they reached the camp at nine that morning, three hours of sunlight gone. The horses were hitched to the chuck wagon; Ely Stanton’s wagon was ready to pull out; the wrangler had the horse remuda bunched; and all the cowboys were in the saddle, waiting for the word to move out.
Pulling in the team, Benteen set the brake and wrapped the reins around it. He cast a glance at Lorna, noting the tears frozen on her face. A heavy sigh broke from him as he swung down from the wagon seat to the ground. He walked to the rear of the wagon and untied his saddle horse.
Jessie Trumbo rode up as Benteen stepped into the saddle. “All set whenever you give the word,” he said, and received a short nod.
Benteen rode past without looking at Lorna and cantered his horse to the Stanton wagon. He touched his hat in a silent greeting to the plain woman sitting alone in the wagon seat, a bonnet covering her hair. She met his look squarely.
“I’d be obliged, Mrs. Stanton, if you would drive my wagon this morning,” he requested stiffly. “My wife would be grateful for your company. The wrangler’s helper will drive yours.”
“Of course, Mr. Calder,” Mary Stanton agreed, and gath
ered her long calico skirts to climb down from the seat.
Pivoting his horse, Benteen trotted it over to the chuck wagon, where Jessie was talking to the cook, Rusty. “Tell Joe Dollarhide he’ll be driving the Stanton wagon this morning.”
Both men had noticed the bride’s white, teary face, but both men knew better than to mention it to Benteen. With a nod, Jessie wheeled his horse away from the chuck wagon and galloped out to the remuda to fetch the young rider.
When Mary Stanton crawled onto the wagon seat beside Lorna, she felt a surge of pity for the young bride. “Your husband thought we could keep each other company this morning,” she explained with a quiet smile.
Lorna nodded stiffly but didn’t speak. Her fingers had wadded the kerchief into a tight ball on her lap. Across the way, Mary saw the cranky old cook preparing to start his team out, so she unwrapped the reins and adjusted them in her hands. The chuck wagon would lead the way to the day’s nooning, a little off the route the herd would take.
“We’ll be following the chuck wagon,” Mary said. Her glance rested on the sunbonnet hanging loosely down Lorna’s back. “You’d better tie that bonnet on your head,” she advised. “Else the sun’ll ruin your pretty skin.” In time, it would anyway, but she kept that knowledge to herself.
In her present state of anguish, Lorna didn’t particularly care, but she numbly pulled the bonnet onto her head and knotted the ties snugly under her chin. A young boy rode by and dismounted to climb aboard the second covered wagon after tying his horse behind. When the chuck wagon rattled into motion, Mary started their team of horses. Lorna grabbed hold of the wagon seat again as it lurched forward. She looked for Benteen, catching a glimpse of him just as he signaled to move the herd out.
“It’s hard leavin’ home that first time,” Mary remarked after they’d traveled a short distance. “Not knowing when you might see your family again.”
“Yes,” Lorna admitted, finally looking directly at the woman only a few years older than she was. She sensed that Mary Stanton actually understood what she was feeling. “Have … you seen your parents since you left home?”
“No,” Mary admitted. “My ma died last year. I’m hoping we can go to her grave when we get to Ioway.”
Her answer gave Lorna no reassurance that her fears were groundless. Yet the words were more bearable coming from Mary than from Benteen.
“A woman’s lot in this world is a lonely one,” Mary said. “You’ll find that out—and find a way to make the best of it.”
“I don’t feel so sure about that,” Lorna murmured.
“Right now, you’re thinking about what’s behind you, but when you get to your new home and there’s babies to raise, you’ll be looking ahead. Grief passes. That’s the way it is.”