A Woman Named Damaris (7 page)
The captain’s rule was that no one was to stray from the camp, by night or by day. But if they were close to a town, Damaris reasoned, there should be no danger. Besides, she would not go far.
She crept past the other wagons and followed the small stream for a short distance. Then she sat down on a large rock by its shore and sighed, taking a deep breath of the clear night air.
In just three more days she would be out West. She would be free to settle in a new town, forget her short but troubled past, and make a new life for herself.
Her thoughts turned homeward. Instead of pushing them aside, she let them linger on her mama. For a moment Damaris had a difficult time recalling the well-loved face, and it frightened her. But soon the features came clearly to view and tears began to trickle down the girl’s cheeks—the first tears she had allowed herself.
She wished there were some way to let her mama know she was doing just fine. More than that, she wished her mama was with her. She hoped with all of her heart that her mama was well.
Suddenly Damaris felt her chest tighten with fright. What if her going had caused Pa to beat Mama? What if she’d—? A deep sense of guilt seized Damaris. If Mama was in trouble it would be her fault. Her pa always became even more angry if his daughter wasn’t there when he called. She had been selfish! She had been wrong to leave with no consideration for the only person who had ever loved her.
Now the tears fell freely. Damaris wiped them with her shawl and lifted her head to look toward the east. There was no way back. Perhaps there were wagons that traveled that way, but she had never heard of one. It would take her years and years to save enough money for train fare. By then her mama could be dead. She cried some more. And with her fright and guilt came a terrible wave of lonesomeness. Damaris would have given anything to be back home in her saggy cot in the small loft, listening to the snoring and groaning of her drunken father as the sounds ascended from below.
Finally Damaris got her tears under control but the ache within her did not go away. She watched the silent water ripple in the moonlight. The night was quiet and clear. Countless stars were visible overhead.
The sound of a step behind her brought her head up with a jerk.
Indians!
was her first thought, and her whole body prepared itself to flee.
Damaris turned quickly to view the intruder and saw the wagon master standing a scant five feet behind her. She caught her breath, knowing she had broken the rule—the one, unchanging, indisputable order of the captain. She had left the train. Alone.
She was sure he would sentence her to immediate and terrible consequences. Should she dart and run or sit meekly and face his wrath? The latter had always worked best in the past. Only once had she tried to dodge under her pa’s arm and avoid the punishment he had in mind. The beating she received that time was the worst one of her entire life. She had never tried it again.
Now she sat silently, appearing calm, but quivering inside.
The man moved closer and Damaris steeled herself for the blow that was to come. To her surprise his hand did not raise to strike her. Instead, he lowered himself to a rock a short distance away. Damaris heard his heavy sigh of contentment—or tiredness—she wasn’t sure which. Still she did not move or speak.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” he said after some moments of silence.
Damaris finally dared look at him.
He was taking in the expanse of sparkling night sky, looking quite relaxed, sharing her stream and her moonlight.
“Ya been pretty busy on this trip,” he observed.
Damaris hadn’t been aware that he had even noticed her.
After a few more minutes of silence he chuckled.
She lifted her head, still not sure if the man was being friendly or cruelly prolonging her agony.
“Thet there little fella sure don’t let ya outta his sight, does he? Hangs on like you was a dog an’ he was a flea.” He laughed, and Damaris felt a smile curling the ends of her own mouth.
“Ya enjoy yer night walks, don’t ya?”
Damaris quickly lost her smile and caught her breath. Now the punishment was coming.
“Well, I guess they haven’t hurt nothin’. You’ve never strayed too far afield and with thet young’un hangin’ on to you all the time—guess I don’t blame ya none.”
Damaris let out her breath. Not only had he discovered her tonight but apparently had observed her walks in the past. Why hadn’t he said something before?
“ ’Sides,” he went on with a glance toward Damaris, “I had my eye on ya.”
Damaris gathered the shawl more closely about her. It offered little protection from a beating but it was all she had.
“I decided right from the start thet as long as you stayed close an’ caused no harm, I’d allow ya those little pieces of alone time. Couldn’t bear to be so shut in like you been all the time. Couldn’t bear it.”
Damaris could not believe her ears. Did she understand him correctly? Was there to be no punishment? Had he actually allowed her to break his one steadfast rule? Before she had a chance to sort it all out, he changed the subject.
“We get to Poplar Creek in about three days,” he said. “Is thet where yer aimin’ for?”
Damaris nodded her head, hoping he could see her clearly enough in the moonlight to receive her answer.
“Not a bad little town—as western towns go. Quite small. Not too much work there fer a young girl, I expect, but ya might find somethin’.”
Damaris listened closely.
“Don’t s’pose ya want to go on workin’ fer yer board and room carin’ fer those Brown youngsters.”
“No,” said Damaris shaking her head. It was the first word she had spoken, and its forcefulness startled her.
He chuckled again and this time Damaris enjoyed the sound.
“Don’t blame ya none,” he said. “What kind of work are ya looking fer?” he asked.
Damaris hadn’t given it much thought.
“I—I don’t really know. ’Bout anything—for now. Later—later I’d like to do something—well, something like sewin’ or—teachin’ or something.”
He nodded.
“Well, I know a few folks in town—not many, ’cause I never stop there fer long—but I might put in a word fer ya here or there. Not many girls yer age could outwork ya—I’ve seen thet firsthand.”
Damaris knew she had been paid tribute. She lowered her head in embarrassment. She was not used to receiving compliments for completing assigned tasks.
He stood then and stretched his arms as though to work some kinks from his body.
“Well,” he said, “guess it’s ’bout time we both get back to our wagons. Sun’s gonna be up before we know it.”
Damaris rose from the rock on which she had been sitting. Her own body felt the need to stretch, but instead she pulled the shawl closer about her shoulders and gave the man a polite nod. She wanted to assure him that she would obey his order immediately.
Without another word she started down the trail that led back to the wagons. He did not walk with her, but when she had taken a few steps she heard his soft call, “G’night.”
She turned then. He was still standing where she had left him. She lifted her hand, still clutching one corner of her shawl, and gave a bit of a wave. “G’night,” she called back. Then she turned and ran down the trail to the waiting wagons.
“Captain has ridden on ahead to make some arrangements in town,” said the tall man with the yellowish straggly hair. Not knowing his real name, she always thought of him as Yellow-hair. Damaris knew he was second-in-command, but she did not know another thing about him. She had always avoided him, not liking his dirty, rumpled clothing or his shifty eyes. Yellow-hair was certainly a contrast to the captain. He was tall and reed thin, while the captain was broad and stocky. Yellow-hair appeared unkempt and careless, while the captain, in spite of the long, dusty days on the trail and the intense heat, turned up each morning in a clean shirt and neatly shaven. He always found a river somewhere in which to bathe and wash his clothes.
“We should reach Poplar Crick ’long about sundown. Captain says to camp as usual. He’ll meet us there on the crick bank. No one is to go into town tonight. Them’s my orders. Now break camp.”
He let his shifty eyes slide over the gathered throng and then wheeled his horse and left them.
Excitement filled Damaris’s whole being. She shifted Edgar to her other hip and licked her dry lips. She could almost taste her freedom.
Then she suddenly realized that she was still standing dreaming while the others were busy scurrying around to break camp as they had been told. Damaris hastened to her own wagon to carry out the orders.
The girls were already there—fighting over the coveted seat again. Damaris paid them no mind and set Edgar on the ground so she could pack the last of the dishes.
It had been two days since the captain had surprised her on the bank of the small stream. She had avoided him since, thinking that he still might have some punishment in mind for her waywardness.
Damaris had her wagon loaded even before the others were ready to go. She would have gone to help Mrs. Brown, but she knew the woman had nothing much to see to. All of the camp dishes and water buckets were in the wagon that Damaris occupied. Damaris stood fidgeting, anxious to get on the trail. Surely she could endure one last day on the dusty road.
Edgar pulled at her skirt and began to whine. “Up,” he cried. “Up.”
Damaris bent to lift him. His arms encircled her neck and he clung closely to her.
“You know, Edgar—this is the last day I will be totin’ you everywhere I go,” said Damaris, sure that she would find great relief in the fact. But surprisingly, she found her own arms tightening around the small boy. A lump came into her throat and she had to swallow quickly. Edgar was a burden—but he loved her.
For the rest of the day, Damaris carried Edgar willingly. Even when she walked, trailing the wagon, she held the small boy. She did not even put him down when they finally came in sight of the town just on the other side of the small stream or when she had to begin the usual camping chores. She carried him when she went for wood. She carried him when she went to the river for water, making two trips necessary instead of the one.
It was after supper before the captain made his appearance. Damaris shrank back into the shadows of the wagon and strained to hear what he had to say to the travelers.
“Here we split,” he began. “Those going to Talbert and all points south, stay on with me. Those going to Dixen and points north, stay here until Captain Trayne meets you in the mornin’. You’ll git yer orders from ’im. Those stayin’ on in Poplar Creek—you’re home.”
A cheer followed the words and the captain grinned.
“Plenty of time fer the rest of ya to git home before winter as well,” the captain went on. “Tomorra is September sixteenth. Three days earlier than I had told ya I’d have ya here.”
Another cheer.
But Damaris found her head spinning. It was already the fifteenth of September. She’d had no idea they had spent so many days on the trail. Along the way her fifteenth birthday had come and gone. She had no idea which day it had been in the long line of monotonous days.
The captain was speaking again.
“I need to see Willis, Rogers, and Tremount. To the rest of you—my kindest regards. May you find the West as good to you as ya expected it to be. Thank ya kindly—an’ may the rest of yer trip go well.”
A prolonged cheer followed those words. The captain turned to go and then turned back to the group to lift his weather-beaten hat in one last salute.
Damaris turned back to the wagon. Tomorrow they would cross to Poplar Creek.
She had sent the three girls to bed and was bending down to put away the last of the dishes when a shadow fell across her. She looked up quickly and saw the captain standing there, his worn hat held firmly in one hand.
“Miss?” he said, “may I have a moment?”
Damaris recalled the beginning of the trip when she had asked him the same question. She nodded and stood up. Edgar grabbed for her, and, without thought, she lifted the small boy into her arms.
“I went on into town today,” the captain said. “Made a few inquiries. Widder woman there runs the mercantile. Says she could use some help.”
Damaris didn’t understand the meaning of his words. She stood silently, looking at him with a puzzled expression in her large brown eyes.
“Says you can have the job—iffen ya’d like,” the captain went on.
Damaris understood then, but her heart was too full to make any answer. She nodded again, closing her eyes briefly to hide the depths of her feelings.
“Not much fer a wage,” the man went on, “but ya do git room and board, an’ the room’s clean an’ the food good.”
He seemed to be apologizing. Damaris nodded again, clutching Edgar so closely that he squirmed.
“H—how do I find her?” Damaris managed at last.
“In the mornin’ just pack up yer things and walk the road thet leads to town. She’s on the left—the only mercantile in the town. Ya can’t miss it.”
Damaris nodded again. Her mouth felt dry. She tried to swallow.
“Name is Collins. Elsa Collins—but most everyone calls her Widder Collins.”
Damaris still could not speak.
“She carries ’most every necessary in her store. Even yard goods. An’ she has her own machine. Maybe she’ll even let ya do some of thet sewin’ ya said you’d like to do.”
Damaris could not believe that her dream was really about to come true.
“Well, guess thet’s about it,” the captain said. He placed his hat back on his head, and Damaris knew he would be leaving her.
“By the way,” he said, turning after he had taken a step, “I wouldn’t walk tonight. Too close to town. Seems strange—but we were safer out in the wilderness. Sometimes prowlers come in to—”
He must have seen the fear flash in her eyes.
“Oh, it’s fine. Harvey and I will be on guard all night—but out there—” he nodded his head toward the darkness and did not finish the statement.
Damaris found her tongue. “I’ll stay” was all she managed.
He nodded, turned, and moved away.