Where the Trail Ends: American Tapestries by Melanie Dobson Page B

sopping and water trickling down her ears and cheeks.
    At first, Samantha watched Mrs. Kneedler in horror, waiting for the woman to scold her. Instead, Mrs. Kneedler lowered her pail to the water and reciprocated with her own blast.
    In seconds, the entire party of women and children was splashing under the hot sun, Boaz weaving in between the arcs of water. Leave it to Boaz to begin a water fight, injecting a shot of life into their tired party.
    A gun blasted from the wagons behind them, and the laughter stopped.
    Women and children alike turned back toward the wagons now positioned in a perfect circle, with each tailboard butted against the front of the neighboring wagon to create a fence for the livestock as well as a makeshift fortress. It wasn’t anywhere near as secure as the wooden forts they’d passed on the trail, but it was the best they could create.
    The dogs they’d left behind began to bark, and Samantha shaded her eyes against the sunlight to see if something was threatening their wagons. But she couldn’t see either people or animals. Perhaps the men had spotted a herd of antelope or even bison coming to the stream to drink.
    She hated the thought of killing any animal, but her stomach rumbled at the thought of fresh meat for supper. It had been weeks since they’d eaten good meat—a buffalo that Jack shot near Fort Laramie.
    When another shot rang out near the wagons, Samantha stepped out of the stream.
    “Will you watch Micah for me?” she asked Lucille.
    Lucille glanced over at the wagons and then back at Samantha. “Where are you going?”
    “To find out what is happening.”
    “There’s nothing you can do—”
    “I’ll be right back.”
    “Do be careful, Samantha.”
    She picked up her torn hem and hurried toward the wagons with Boaz at her side. Smoke from a campfire drifted up from the center of the circle, but no one was inside the enclosure. She didn’t see any of the men out chasing a deer or buffalo, either.
    Where had everyone gone?
    She rushed toward the camp to retrieve her rifle from their wagon in case Indians were threatening them.
    She stopped when she reached her wagon. The men were standing outside the circle, huddled together as if trying to decide what to do with a buck they’d killed. Quickly she threw open the back of their wagon’s canopy to retrieve her rifle, but she jumped back at what she saw. Her father was inside the packed wagon, sitting amid their goods on Mama’s prized rosewood chest. His face was the same ashen color as the trees that guarded the stream.
    Her stomach seemed to plummet to her toes. Papa never missed the evening meetings.
    “What is it?” she whispered.
    Papa shook his head, looking down at Boaz with a sadness she didn’t understand. “There’s been a vote.”
    Her eyes widened. “What sort of vote?”
    “The captain—he doesn’t think it’s safe for us to continue with the dogs.”
    “Not safe?” Her voice began to escalate. “What do you mean, it’s not safe?”
    He shook his head again.
    Her voice quivered. “It’s not safe to finish this journey without our dogs.”
    “Last night—” he began, but she interrupted him.
    “Last night was an anomaly, Papa, you know that. The dogs hardly ever bark like that.”
    He brushed his hands on his dusty trousers and stood up, hopping over the tailboard and landing on the ground beside her. “It’s not about last night. It’s about the stampede at the Snake. Those dogs could have killed all of us.”
    She leaned against the wagon, trying to make sense of what Papa was saying. They needed their dogs. They didn’t bring harm to the camp—they protected them from harm.
    Another shot blasted, and she slowly turned toward the men who’d edged into a half circle. The terrible realization, the truth of what they were doing, plunged into her gut and burned like a raging fire. She didn’t want to ask Papa what was happening, didn’t dare believe it possible. Her voice trembled