Page 57 of My Darling Clementine

Kizzy was as good as her word, and the four wagons behind them followed at the same pace. Clem looked around as the other twenty-nine wagons tried to keep up, but untried drivers let their teams meander with loose reins, wagons tipped as they hit half-buried rocks alongside the trail, causing screams of alarm until they righted again. One idiot tried to drive his wagon around three slower ones, only to be chased down by Mr. Cushing and ushered back in line.

Pleased to be selected for her expertise, Clem led the train straight to the well-trampled campsite used by all wagon masters leaving Independence. But when she hopped down from the saddle, the abused muscles in her back, butt, and thighs couldn’t hold her; her legs buckled, and she dropped to her knees.

“Clem!” she heard Kizzy’s shout, just before landing face down in the dust. “Clem!” Hands grabbed her arms.

“Get me back up on the mule before the others catch up,” she said, voice urgent. “I can’t let them see me like this.”

Kizzy grabbed the molly’s mane and held her still, then offered a hand to help her up from her knees. She joined her hands together once Clem could stand, and helped lift her back into her saddle, adjusting her feet in the stirrups just as the second wagon approached.

“Good,” said Clem with relief, forcing herself to sit tall. “I’m sorry to do this to you at our first camp, but I’m going to ride up the creek a bit and find a place to recover in private. When I can walk easy, I’ll be back.” She leaned down from the saddle to kiss Kizzy on the forehead. “If you can’t unhitch the team, I’ll do it when I get back. Otherwise, water the other mules and hobble them to graze, then rest up. Because of the generosity of the Bates Hotel, we don’t have to prepare a meal tonight.” She turned back. “Oh, and don’t collect water from the creek. We have a full barrel on the leeside of the wagon.”

“I’ll be fine. Hurry back, husband,” Kizzy called after her as the third wagon pulled up down the line.

Once she rode out of sight, Clem dismounted with caution, being sure to keep hold of the molly’s reins. Hanging on to the saddle, she waited for the quivering in her thighs to end while rotating her ankles one at a time, willing the feeling to return to numb feet.

As the thirsty mule meandered to the creek to drink, Clem clung to her, stumbling, until she reached the bank of moving water. Then, with a sigh of relief, she sank into it and sat, pants and boots drenched, letting the coolness reduce the swelling of unseen bruises and ease her burning muscles.

She sat for a few minutes, then used the mule to help her rise. As her clothing dried, she first shuffled, then shambled, then ambled, and finished up walking by the time she made her way back to camp.

Her eight mules were all hobbled and dozing where they stood, having grazed until full. Hanging from the last wagon rib, one of the candle shades held a fresh candle, ready for lighting. The lowered chuck box, set like a table, held the picnic basket in its center. Each of their two chairs stood on either side.

“Kizzy,” she called, “I’m back.” From around the wagon strolled Mr. Cushing, her wife’s arm in his.

“About time, Dennison,” growled Cushing. “As you should remember, since you were one, most of these wagons hold single men lusting for gold.” He raised an eyebrow. “They’re only a day out from civilization, but I had to stop two from helping themselves to your wife and mules.”

Clem’s hands clenched into fists of rage. “Thank you for stepping in, Mr. Cushing. I won’t leave her unprotected again.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Cushing,” agreed Kizzy with a genuine smile, releasing his arm. She stepped to Clem’s side. “And for all your help until Clem returned, but I have a pistol which I will keep on me. As our fellow travelers get to know me, they’ll learn to respect my personal property, or they’ll wear a bullet to remind them.”

“You’re a feisty female, no denying it.” Mr. Cushing tipped his hat to her. “There’ll be a meeting around the campfire at six,” he said, walking away. “Enjoy your supper.”

“What happened?” Clem’s worry warred with her admiration of Kizzy’s response.

“Tell you as we eat. I’m starving, aren’t you?”

“I am,” admitted Clem. “It’s been a while since breakfast.” They sat down at the chuck box table and pulled off the cloth. Out came fried chicken, cornbread, butter, pickles, a fresh tomato, baked potato rounds, and a three-berry pie. They tucked in, grateful for their friends’ generosity.

“After you left,” Kizzy began her story as she finished a chicken leg, “I also had a little trouble moving around.” She rubbed her bottom. “It took me a few minutes, and by then a couple of men were standing by Henry and Curtis.”

“Who?” asked Clem, around a mouthful of buttered cornbread.

“That’s what I named the two lead mules,” Kizzy explained. “One of them said our mules are bigger than theirs, but our wagon is smaller, so we should trade. I pretended I didn’t hear, took hold of the traces, and said you’d be back soon if they wanted to see you about something. I hoped they’d go away. Instead, they saw I didn’t know how to undo the traces, and one of them reached over and took them right out of my hand. He said I didn’t deserve them.” Her lips tightened. “If I had my pistol, I’d have shot him.”

Clem raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?”

“I saw Mr. Cushing riding along the wagons, and I called his name, waving. The second man yanked my arm behind my back, slapped a hand over my mouth, and tried to pull me behind the wagon. I stomped on his foot, bit his hand, and yelled for all I was worth. Mr. Cushing was there before I realized it.”

This was getting interesting. Clem pushed back her plate to listen. “What’d he do?” She had a pretty good idea.

“Pulled a coiled whip from his saddle and lashed the one holding me across the face, just above my head. I ducked and ran as he screamed and covered his eyes. The second one looked up at Mr. Cushing, saw me now standing beside his horse, raised both his hands, and started backing away.” She imitated his mumble. “Didn’t mean nothing by it,”

Kizzy’s blue eyes were enormous with an admiration Clem wished she’d earned. “Mr. Cushing called him a liar and struck him lower, across his mouth and cheeks. When he yelled and started away, he called after him, so calm, ‘Don’t forget your brother, Abercrombie.’”

“I’ve seen that whip in action before.” Clem nodded. “He always hits his target.”

A metal triangle sounded. They looked over by the central campfire where many had cooked their dinners and now sat, chatting, and resting.

“That’s a whole lot of men,” noted Kizzy.