Five Sisters 

 

            The season was almost too late for crossing into the Territories, but Mark McQuaid was built of sturdier stuff than most immigrants to this West of the United States. Winters in Scotland were naught to fear, and nothing could be more harrowing than a snowstorm in the highlands. He knew his hearty Scottish sheep would welcome the cold, which he fervently hoped would descend soon.

            Crossing the ocean with the few sheep he hoped to use to start his empire had been nothing short of a bother, so he had welcomed the travel across the rough land with his stocked wagon and substantial oxen. A Scotsman knew oxen, he was proud of saying, and he’d bought well. The sheep soon gained their land legs, and the wide expanse of unsettled land told him he’d made a wise choice. Of course, he’d never have left the highlands if his wife hadn’t died, young and so pretty his heart still ached at the memory of her sweet face. With neither child nor reason to stay, his four surviving sisters all married and scattered long ago, he’d sold the homestead and packed up what belongings he’d need, the spinning wheel and carder the women in his family had used for generations, and bought his ticket for America.

            All this passed through his mind as he checked his map and compass again, estimating the remaining time he’d spend on the trail. The wind picked up, the sheep lifted their heads to sniff, and he shivered just a hair under the woolen shirt his sisters had made for him for his wedding. He’d thought it would be a good luck gesture to wear it on this new adventure. But he’d been warned before he left the last town where he’d stocked up on supplies that he was getting into Indian raiding season, with the moon growing brighter and the horses feeling frisky. 

            The few Indians he’d met so far had seemed more sad than bloodthirsty. Sure, he wasn’t going to let his guard down, but he wasn’t going to delay claiming his land until next Spring, either. All the wagon trains had departed weeks earlier, so he’d had no choice but to go it alone. All in all, he thought he’d made the right choice. He could forge his own pace and path, and his sheep wouldn’t bother anyone else. He knew most farmers and cattlemen in this country disliked the creatures, but that didn’t bother him. He’d show them how to raise sheep the right way, so the grass didn’t die because of overgrazing. Once he had firm contracts to supply meat to the railroads to feed the men laying the tracks, he’d branch out into other endeavors. Like selling cleaned wool for spinning into cloth. His highland sheep possessed the warmest wool of all, and there was no reason he couldn’t show these Westerners how many ways they could use it.

            Just as he had about decided to stop for the night, whistling for the dogs to pull the sheep closer to the wagon so he could set up the temporary corral he’d designed and built to keep them close, he saw something tan flapping in the distance. Using his long view glass, he adjusted the eye piece until he saw a wagon with its cover torn loose. No horse, no oxen, no one moving came to his vision, despite the long hard look he gave the situation. Something was wrong, and aye, he knew instantly he’d have to find out what.

            Setting up the corral and ordering the dogs to keep the sheep within its confines, he decided he’d walk to the abandoned wagon. If he didn’t come back, the sheep would eventually break free and scatter, but the oxen would have to wait to be rescued if he didn’t unhitch them, so he did. They, too, he tied loosely to their stakes, knowing if they were hungry enough, they’d work themselves loose. Pulling the rifle from its hiding place under the wagon seat, he propped it over his shoulder and began the long march to heaven-knew-what.

            He’d heard tales, of course. Stories about the atrocities committed by the natives against the encroaching white men. Honestly, he couldn’t blame them. As a Scotsman, he still hated the presence of the English on Scottish land. The battle cries of Culloden would never be forgotten. Still, he’d be cautious in his approach – he’d been warned that the Indians were particularly good at traps. Having set some himself, he knew a bit about keeping out of them.

            The canvas cover wasn’t just loosed from its tie-downs. The fabric had been shredded, the wagon itself covered with arrows and some bullet holes. Running his hand along the wagon’s sides, he felt how loose the boards were and wondered if it was the result of a roll-over or just bad craftsmanship. He knew he was procrastinating. Whatever was in the wagon bed, it was attracting the carrion birds circling above, so it must have been a recent kill. The hairs along his arms curled, and the tingle down the back of his neck had him holding his breath as he shouldered the rifle. He only hoped whatever was in the wagon was already dead, so he didn’t have to fire a mercy bullet. Putting down a suffering animal was one thing, a human being, another.

            The red-haired woman lay prone, her nightgown rucked up, her swollen belly cut open. She must have been very pregnant. The man curled at her feet had lost the top of his head to a scalp knife and his throat to the same thing. The blood dripping through the bottom of the wagon made a faint splash as it struck the ground. Bile swirled in the back of his throat, and he had to fight the vomit that wanted to come up. He’d seen plenty of death, being raised on a farm. But nothing like this. He would never forget the woman’s face, the blankness in her eyes, her slack mouth silenced in mid-scream. 

            Crossing himself, Mark added a few curses to the short prayer he muttered for their poor souls. He’d have to make camp so he could bury the couple, and here he was, right in the open where he was a target should the Indians decide to make a return foray. 

            “Hellfire and damnation,” he almost shouted. But there was no avoiding it, he’d have to move his team and sheep closer. At least he had the dogs for a warning. 

            He was turning to retrieve his wagon when he heard a soft cry, like a tiny kitten. Wouldn’t it be like these dead souls to have a cat instead of a dog to give the hue and cry when danger lurked? 

            “Here, kitty, kitty,” he crooned, loathe to leave any living thing that had survived this brutal killing. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to the baby. It had probably ended up as dead as its parents, hopefully, quickly. 

            “Come out, kitty,” he soothed. “I won’t let the sheep eat ya.” Kneeling, he peeked under the wagon, hoping to un-see the dripping blood but knowing it was impossible.

            The next sound froze him in place. 

            “Mama,” came the soft cry. “Mama.”

            Holy mother of God, Mark prayed, let me be hearing things. This couldn’t be. Squinting, he pulled his hat from his head so he could wiggle farther under the wagon. “Anyone here?”

            He hoped he received no reply. “Anyone? Child, are ya hurt?”

            “Mama!” came the cry again, this time stronger. Reaching under the wagon bed, Mark inched his fingers around the area. The latch wasn’t far from the edge. A wooden peg, it slid into the bed until it was almost flush. A good way to hide valuables. Working it loose with his fingernails, he hit his head as the bottom dropped out with a child following after. A small, red-headed child with a white, tear-streaked face and a blood-soaked dress, she lay on the ground, so still he thought she must have died after her last breath calling for her mother.

            “Wee one,” he tried to sound gentle but the words came out as a growl. He knew how to handle a young child, his baby sister had been born when he was thirteen. “Child, do ya live?”

            Her eyes fluttered open, her mouth gasped for air, and she let loose with a wail that would have awakened the dead. “Mama! Want mama!”

            Scooping her into his arms, he gave up all noble ideas of burying the dead and reading from his Bible over them. He had to get out of there, and fast. If the Indians were anywhere close by, they’d hear her screams from this dreadful place to kingdom come. 

            “Hush!” he whispered in her ear, running as fast as he could for his wagon. His oxen weren’t swift, and there was no way he could outrun men on horses. But he could kill a few if he could get this child inside the wagon and quiet. Of course, he knew better. No toddler would stay quiet when she absolutely had to. He figured she’d been scared into silence by her parents’ screams, until he’d spoken aloud. Speed was his only recourse.

            Wrapping her in a quilt made by one of his five sisters, he settled her quickly in a corner of the wagon. Her big blue eyes followed his every move. He saw her throat working as she tried to swallow. From the look of the tears soaking her face and the top of her dress, she’d cried enough to wring every last drop of liquid out of her body. 

            “Here,” he offered his canteen, holding it to her baby lips. “Drink.” 

            She took a tiny bit, spit it out, and proceeded to wail as if he were hitting her.

            “Dogs!” He hadn’t time for this. She’d die if he couldn’t get them to safety. “Dogs, alert!” he commanded.

            Leaving the child, he dismantled the corral, grabbed the youngest ewes and tossed the into the wagon with the girl. Snapping the reins and the long whip he didn’t like to use, he roused the oxen to lumber faster than they liked. He wasn’t a man who hurried things, and they’d gotten accustomed to his fair and easy ways. Disliking this new driver, they snorted and stomped, but they picked up the pace.

            Far, too far, in the distance, Mark’s refuge beckoned. The mountains. He’d have a fair fight if he could reach the mountains. Having done it all his life, he understood how to use terrain to his advantage. The enemy was new, its ways brutal and incomprehensible to him, but he’d keep this child alive as long as he had breath in his body. With red hair like her mother’s, the little girl was born to be a fighter. That, he respected. Besides, his youngest sister, Ella, had had the same red hair.

            God had placed him here, at this place and at this time, to keep the child safe. Many years had passed since he was responsible for more than the barley crop and his sheep. Even his sisters didn’t need him any longer. Glancing in the wagon, he saw her face, wrapped in the quilt, marred with tears and dirt, slack in sleep. 

            Yes, he’d keep her. He’d raise her. He’d be her da. With five sisters, he knew a bit about raising a young girl child. As twilight fell and he had to stop the wagon, he was already planning on naming her Ella. Maybe Ruella, to keep her distinct from his sister. Ru because she might come to rue the day she was born. 

            Ella had. Not this Ella, though. If God had set her in his path, surely, He would guide her on a steady and worthy life. He figured he had about fifteen years to make sure.

            Mark McQuaid, middle aged sheep farmer from Scotland, a solitary man with few wants but big dreams, added one more item to his list and checked it off. This child gave him a reason to succeed. Someone to inherit what he was going to build for her future.

            Camp made, oatmeal cooking over the small flame, he fed the dogs and oxen, then shook the toddler awake. “Hungry?” he asked before he lifted her down to sit beside the fire. 

            She grabbed the porridge bowl from his hands and dug in with both fists, eating so quickly she spilled half down the quilt. Laughing, he sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens above. She’d live. One day, he’d tell her about her parents, but by then, she’d be more McQuaid than he was. He felt it in his bones.

            The dogs curled around her to sleep that night, sensing her need for both heat and protection. Leaning against a wheel, he cradled his rifle in his arms and listened in the blackness that was this strange and lonely land for an enemy he could not see. Stars crowded the sky as they did in the highlands. Glancing up, he wondered if this land would ever feel like home.

 Didn’t matter. For the third time in his life, he had someone else to protect, to live for, to succeed for. He hadn’t been able to save his sister or his wife, but by damned, he’d saved Ruella McQuaid.