Good morning, dear readers! You may remember recent guest, David Fitz-Gerald. He joins me again today with a lovely excerpt from his novel, Stay with the Wagons.
Welcome, David!
~ Samantha
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stay with the Wagons
Guest Post by David Fitz-Gerald
It’s so exciting to be on tour, supporting Stay with the Wagons, Book Three in the series Ghost Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. This installment features some of my favorite scenes and locations, including Independence Rock, Devil’s Gate, and the White Mountain Petroglyphs, in what is now Wyoming.
In August 2022, as I was working on my manuscript, I traveled to Fort Bridger. Before my characters visited the famous mountain man’s trading post, Dorcas Moon’s teenaged daughter went missing, disappearing into the wilderness.
For those of you who have read A Grave Every Mile and Lighten the Load, you know that this troubled teen disappears far too often. In Stay with the Wagons, she borrows a horse without permission and rides off alone in the middle of the night without a word to anyone.
It is as if a mystical power draws her to a sacred place where she meets Chief Washakie, his pregnant wife, and a blind seer. The sandstone hill features a cave, ancient carvings, and a large rock known as The Birthing Stone. Many of the petroglyphs depict animals within animals. Some portray the birthing process. This holy place is an ancient monument to womanhood and childbirth.
The day I visited, it was sunny and warm. I was glad to get there early before it got too hot outside. There wasn’t anyone else there and I was grateful for the solitude. Wyoming is known for being windy, but that morning was calmer than usual. It was so quiet and desolate, that time didn’t seem to matter.
It was a great day to contemplate the miracle of life and the balance between the past, present, and future. I didn’t want to leave, but as I drove away, I couldn’t wait to send my beloved characters on their own journey to this spiritual place.
Perhaps you know the feeling. Have you visited a place wrapped in a similar mystical allure? A place where the past and present merged and spoke directly to you?
Here’s an excerpt from June 28, 1850:
Our guides have let us sleep late this morning. When the trumpet sounds at dawn, I glance about and see that Rose is already up and gone. She often rises before Reveille, but I become concerned when Rose fails to materialize as the boys and I prepare for our morning departure.
After harnessing the oxen, I can no longer wait patiently for my daughter to appear. I hate asking for help, but when it comes to a child’s safety, one cannot be too proud. Our guides are finishing their breakfast at the wagon master’s camp when I sound the alarm. It’s rare to find Boss Wheel, Agapito, Arikta, and Dembi Koofai all in camp at the same time. I exclaim, “Rose is missing!”
I can’t bear to look at Boss Wheel. The gruff ramrod has made his feelings about Rose crystal clear. Agapito tells the scouts to fetch the horses as the wagon master cusses in French. Then, ever so briefly, Agapito places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
Dembi Koofai returns at a fast trot, with Arikta right behind him. The Shoshone says, “Rio is missing.” He says more with his hands than with the words he speaks. “I track.”
Agapito fills in the missing details, though I know enough of the hand talk to understand that Dembi Koofai thinks Rose is riding Rio. There are no other tracks, so whatever has happened, kidnapping and horse thievery are not suspected. It appears that Rose has ridden off on the assistant wagon master’s horse alone and on purpose.
Agapito tells Dembi Koofai and Arikta to follow the missing horse’s trail, but Boss Wheel interrupts him. “The wagons will continue. I’ll ride point, Arikta will ride drag, and you stay with the wagon. Dembi Koofai can go alone.”
I say, “I’m going with him.” Agapito’s brow furrows and he shakes his head slowly. He looks concerned but I can’t worry about that now.
Boss Wheel scowls at me. “I don’t recommend it. This is Shoshone country.” His scowl deepens into a sneer. “Dembi Koofai can move faster on his own without having to look out for you. He knows the country, and he is our best tracker.” Boss Wheel turns his back to me and tells his scout, “We will camp on the Big Sandy tonight and the Green River the next two nights.”
I don’t care what Boss Wheel says. I’m going with Dembi Koofai. I turn my back and run toward camp. After a few quick words with Stillman and the children, I saddle Blizzard, fill a canteen, and toss biscuits in my saddlebags. Andrew looks confused, Christopher appears jealous, and Dahlia Jane seems like she wants to cry. I try to reassure them. “Don’t worry, children, we’ll find your sister.”
Dahlia Jane says, “What if something happens to you, Mama?” The child bursts into tears, and I can’t imagine what tragedy she imagines. There isn’t time for more, so I hug her quickly and promise her that there is no need to worry. I can feel my face twitching as I say words to the child that I can’t possibly be sure of myself.
Dembi Koofai has a lead on me, but Blizzard catches up quickly. He rides along at a fast trot, eyes following a dusty trail that is so clear, even I could follow it.
I ask, “How do you know it’s Rio and Rose’s trail.”
“Ever’ horse is differen’. They don’ go fas’.”
“How old are the tracks?” If Rose rode off in the last hour or so, we should find her fast.
“Don’ know.” The mysterious scout doesn’t offer suspicions, voice concerns, or express worry. I imagine tracking takes concentration, so I fall back a little and let the man do his work.
Soon after, Dembi Koofai turns back to me and says, “They go fas’.” He turns back and follows the straight trail in a southeastern direction. I watch the constellations of spots strewn across his horse’s speckled haunches as the Shoshone rides at a spirited, mile-eating trot.
We maintain a steady pace without stopping to rest. My throat is parched, and I need a drink, but I appreciate the scout’s diligence. My daughter’s life could depend on finding her quickly. There is no time to stop. We shall tend to our thirst later.
After hours on the flat trail, we reach an area of rocky hills, and beyond them lies a ridge of mountains. Dembi Koofai doesn’t appear to be watching the ground as much. Instead, he looks toward the mountains in the distance as if hoping to see movement on the horizon. It’s been hours since he has spoken. Finally, he turns to me, points, and says, “I know where she goin’.”
Rose doesn’t ride horses that often, and I can’t remember her ever riding bareback. I don’t know why she would think she could take a horse that doesn’t belong to us. We’ve been trailing her all day. She must have ridden off in the middle of the night, or we would have caught up to her hours ago. What’s gotten into that child now?
An hour later, the Shoshone says, “Almos’ there.”
The distant gray mountains seem to have changed color now that we’re in them. An impressive rise of yellow and brown sandstone stands tall above us as we ride toward it. A trickle of smoke leads from somewhere on the other side of the prominence. Before we circle around the bluff, Dembi Koofai says, “We are not alone. Don’ worry.” He makes the sign for friends and then the sign for family. I can’t fathom how he could know. Perhaps he has seen more tracks or other evidence.
We continue at a slow walk. A couple of minutes later, the solemn scout coughs quietly at first and then louder. I’ve never heard the man make such a sound before. The horses take a couple more steps, and I see Rose seated beside a fire with a small group of Indians: two middle-aged men, a younger woman heavy with child, and a couple of children. I gasp at the sight of my missing daughter, surprised to see her sitting with strangers, and relieved that she appears unharmed.
I glance to the left and see Rio, the horse that Rose borrowed without permission, standing at rest in the shade of a steep rock wall. I squint and see crude pictures scratched into the brown sandstone. They are a curiosity. If only there were time to look at them.
In front of me, Dembi Koofai slides from Coffeepot’s back and approaches the fire. I also dismount.
The men rise, and Dembi Koofai greets the taller man. Instead of shaking hands, the men clasp each other’s forearms near the bend of their elbows. The shorter man has a hunched back and scary-looking, white eyes. After exchanging a few words with Dembi Koofai, the short man sits across from Rose and stares into her face.
I step toward Dembi Koofai and the taller man, and peek at Rose, who doesn’t acknowledge my arrival. She sits cross-legged and silently stares into the strange man’s haunting gaze.
Dembi Koofai turns halfway toward me, not turning his back toward the taller man. “This man Chief Washakie. Ver’ good friend.” Then Dembi Koofai walks backward toward the horses and crouches in the shade beside his Appaloosa.
I don’t know how to greet this man. Should I offer my hand or try to grasp his arm as Dembi Koofai did? Not knowing what else to do, I curtsy and admonish myself. Chief Washakie looks at my legs. He must have seen Larkin’s trousers. Then, he looks at my bosom, smiles, and looks into my eyes. By now, I should be accustomed to the way men’s eyes linger when they look at my chest. I know better than to wait for the scout to introduce me, especially given the fact that he has stepped away from Chief Washakie. My tongue trips as I try to speak, and I eventually spit my name into the air. The warm, friendly smile on the Chief’s round cheeks puts me at ease.
Washakie reaches his hand toward me like a southern gentleman. I extend my hand, and he takes it into his. He bows softly toward me, his straight black hair cascading over his shoulders.
“It is nice to meet you, Dorcas. Is this child your daughter? You must be very proud.”
I glance at Rose, who doesn’t seem to be listening to me and the chief. “Yes, Chief. Her name is Rose Moon. I’m so relieved that we found her. I was very worried.”
He looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “You need not worry about this one.” He sweeps an arm toward Rose as if casting a spell of invincibility upon her. “The ancient ones watch over her. But a mother always worries about her children.” He turns toward the woman who stands a short distance away and speaks to me. “Would you like to meet my wife?”
I’m distracted by the Indian’s words. What ancient ones? How could they watch over Rose? Sometimes it seems like the whole world is going mad. I say, “Yes, Chief. It would be an honor, your Highness.” I don’t know how to talk to an Indian chief, and I hope I’m doing so correctly.
“Please call me Washakie. Should I call you Mrs. Moon?”
“Thank you, Washakie. That is most kind. You may call me Dorcas.”
Washakie beckons the Indian woman with his hand, and she steps toward us. “This is Crimson Dawn, and these are our youngest children.”
I extend my hand. Forgetting to be ladylike, I realize that my grip is too firm. I relax my hand, and Crimson Dawn bows her head toward me as she brings her hand back to her side. I’m surprised when she says, “You are like the woman who left her handprints in stone.” She points at a nearby rock.
Washakie extends an arm toward the rock and suggests we take a closer look. “This is the Birthing Stone. Crimson Dawn hopes to have the baby here, but the little one doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.”
I can’t believe I’m in the presence of an Indian chief, let alone talking with him about childbirth. He seems to be at ease. I think of Boss Wheel and Captain Meadows, who are nothing like this man. Perhaps being away from the responsibility of leadership causes Washakie to be relaxed. The coming birth of a child doesn’t seem to unnerve him either. I wonder how many children he has fathered, and then I try to estimate his age.
As if reading my mind, the man looks at me and says, “You are trying to guess my age. The truth is, only the Great Spirit knows for sure. I was orphaned young, but I’ve seen at least forty winters. What about you, Dorcas?”
“A lady never reveals her true age.” I grin. “But I am happy to confide in you, Washakie. I am thirty-four.”
The chief leads us from the Birthing Stone to the wall that shades the horses. I think of the names, initials, and years carved into Independence Rock and other places along the dusty roadway we have traveled. The ancient drawings on these remote mountains make me think differently about leaving something for future people to wonder about.
One illustration features a long horse carrying a stick figure with an impressive array of feathers flowing down his back. The oversized spear with a point half as large as the rider seems to have an oval aura surrounding it. I try to imagine the warrior or hunter preserving his likeness in stone, patiently scratching away at the soft rock for hours. I think of Bacon and try to imagine an ancient Indian, eons ago, preserving a single moment in stone.
The wall features many pictures of buffalo. Some are more intricate than others and require an active imagination to see. Many images look like feet. From their shape, I don’t think they represent people. They look more like bear footprints to me.
The most curious images I see are of one animal drawn inside another. I look back at the Birthing Stone, standing in the bright afternoon sun a short distance away. Then, I look at an etching that appears to show an animal giving birth. I gasp at the next symbol I see. At the risk of sounding vulgar, the only way I can think to describe it is to say it looks like an unmentionable lady part. Despite the depiction of a hunter with a huge spear, this sacred landmark seems like a place dedicated to womanhood.
Next, Washakie leads us into the shade. He says, “This is a sacred place of life, fertility, and rebirth.” I wonder what he means by rebirth. Does he refer to a spiritual reawakening of some sort? There is a feeling of optimism that overwhelms me.
I look at the wise chief and say, “This is a very special place.”
“Would you spend the night as our guests, Dorcas?”
I look away for a moment. It took us so long to get here, there’s no chance of returning to The Oregon Trail tonight. I look back and say, “Thank you, Washakie. We’d be much obliged.”
When we return to the small fire, Crimson Dawn hands me a bowl of stew. Washakie’s friend sits like a statue and continues looking into Rose’s face, and she stares back with that same vacant expression that always scares me. I don’t know what to say about my daughter’s strange behavior. I want to jostle her and force her to acknowledge my presence, but experience has taught me not to disturb her during such moments. Instead, I say to Washakie. “Sometimes, my daughter seems asleep and awake at the same time.”
Washakie looks at me knowingly. He says, “Do not worry, Dorcas. I understand.” I scratch my chin as he speaks, and look at Rose. I wish I could say that I understand.
As I slowly chew the thick stew, Washakie tells me that his friend is known as Sees Through Clouds. I ask if the man is blind, and Washakie says his vision comes and goes. “Like many who lose their vision, Sees Through Clouds can see things that others cannot. His medicine is very strong.”
After a moment passes, I decide to ask a question. I understand why Washakie and his wife have come to this place. I’m surprised that another woman hasn’t come along to help Crimson Dawn during her confinement. But, I don’t understand the presence of the medicine man. Afraid of offending, I whisper to the chief, “Why is Sees Through Clouds here?”
Washakie seems to be surprised by my question. “Spirit people are always drawn to sacred places. You know that, Dorcas.”
I gulp, wanting to inquire further but unable to speak the words: Do I?
***
After a delicious meal and great conversation with the chief and his pleasant wife, I’m weary and ready to retire. Everyone is quiet, and I’m expecting Washakie to suggest that everyone go to bed.
Dembi Koofai sits beside me but slightly away from the fire. He’s been quiet as usual. Sometimes, I turn my head and glance at him just to see if he’s still here.
Since we arrived, Rose’s vacant fog lifted sufficiently to tend to basic biological necessities. I tried to speak to her when I led her away, but she neither acknowledged my presence nor indicated she knew I was speaking. When she ate, she chewed like she was matching the slow rhythm of native drums. The most unnerving thing to witness as her mother is the strange countenance of the man, Sees Through Clouds, who seems to be out of his head as much as she is. Over the past several months, Rose’s strange ways have become more and more concerning. Though I hate to admit it, I may have to accept that Rose will never be her old self again.
When Dembi Koofai suddenly bounds forward, chattering in his native language, I wince. He holds a scorpion in his hand. Over and over again, the rickety spider unfurls its curly tail and strikes his hand. Dembi Koofai giggles and laughs like someone is tickling him. The mysterious scout with the mystical countenance seems like a different person as he rejoices in being stung repeatedly by the devilish creature. When the scorpion’s energy wanes, Dembi Koofai holds the spider over his naked chest. The arachnid lashes out with its claws and grabs hold of Dembi Koofai’s skin, tightly clamping its tiny pincers into the Shoshone’s naked flesh.
The young man, who always looks like he wants to disappear, smiles proudly, thrusts his chest forward, boastfully and looks down at the insect that clings to him like an adornment. I’ve never witnessed anything like what just happened, and can’t stop looking at the young man’s chest. The scorpion looks like it clings to life as it clutches Dembi Koofai. Perhaps it perished after latching on. The scout speaks to Washakie. “I’ll stand watch.”
Our host says, “Wake me when you are tired.”
When Dembi Koofai is gone, I tell Washakie that the scout regards the scorpion as his spirit creature. If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget moments like this. My chest heaves with exhilaration. I’ve been told that scorpions aren’t lethal this far north, but something about watching the scout’s brave display seemed dangerous. A year ago, I never imagined that I’d be camping in a sacred location with scorpions and an Indian chief.
Washakie says, “Scorpions are masculine symbols of youthfulness, potency, and vigor. Their presence here, at this monument to womanhood, represents balance.”
Venture deep into the uncharted wilderness and crest the continental divide.
Stay with the Wagons is the enthralling third chapter in the Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail series. Dorcas Moon has discarded her mourning dress and yearns for freedom and independence amidst the vast frontier. But a perilous world and a commanding wagon master keep her tethered. Ultimately, it's a brutal bout of fever and ague that confine her to camp.
Relentless disasters and beguiling challenges unfold in this installment. A young man is crushed beneath a wagon wheel. Dorcas' son breaks an arm, a grizzly bear attacks the wagon train, and the looming threat of attacking outlaws whips the emigrants into a worried frenzy. How many must perish before they reach the end of the trail?
As chaos reigns, her troubled daughter, Rose, disappears once again, leading Dorcas on a perilous quest. Tracking Rose to a sacred site, they encounter a blind seer and a legendary leader, Chief Washakie. Rose's enchantment with Native American adornments sparks Dorcas' concern about an unexpected suitor and raises worries about Rose's age.
Stay with the Wagons is bursting with action, adventure, and survival. It is a story of resilience and empowerment on the Oregon Trail.
Claim your copy now and re-immerse yourself in a tale of high-stakes survival, unexpected alliances, and the indomitable spirit of Dorcas Moon.
David Fitz-Gerald writes westerns and historical fiction. He is the author of twelve books, including the brand-new series, Ghosts Along the Oregon Trail set in 1850. Dave is a multiple Laramie Award, first place, best in category winner; a Blue Ribbon Chanticleerian; a member of Western Writers of America; and a member of the Historical Novel Society.
Alpine landscapes and flashy horses always catch Dave’s eye and turn his head. He is also an Adirondack 46-er, which means that he has hiked to the summit of the range’s highest peaks. As a mountaineer, he’s happiest at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level.
Dave is a lifelong fan of western fiction, landscapes, movies, and music. It should be no surprise that Dave delights in placing memorable characters on treacherous trails, mountain tops, and on the backs of wild horses.
.jpg)