Free Trail Angel by Derek Catron Page A

fair light cast by the silver half moon and millions of twinkling stars reassured her. Two nights earlier a storm as ferocious as any hurricane she had seen tore at their campsite. Great billows of dark clouds rolled in. Lightning played over them like holiday fireworks. The breeze whipped into a gust, washing over them the fresh smell of rain. The skies darkened as a moonless night, and the rain came as the men unhitched the teams.
    They scrambled to secure the oxen and cows. A couple of the miners had set up a tent, and it blew over despite extra lines meant to hold it in place. Her father and uncle drove stakes into the ground to anchor the family’s wagons while she and her mother took shelter within. Even with the anchors, the wagons rocked like wave-tossed boats. Rain blew sideways into the openings in the canvas, soaking nearly everything.
    Few slept that night. They rose to a dreary morning, their camp practically in ruins. They might have lost all the stock but for a cow that wandered into camp to be milked. The scouts followed its tracks to find the rest of the herd.
    Thick mud made the road nearly impassable, sucking at the hooves of the oxen. Damp seeped into everything. At the midday break, Annabelle and her mother spread out their bedding to dry in the sun. They wiped down everything inside the wagon with a water and vinegar mix to prevent the spread of mildew. They hung sodden clothes from the wagon’s canvas to dry in the wind.
    Two days later, it was so dry wagon drivers raced to move out first and avoid swallowing the dust of the wagons in front. The emigrants prayed for a light rain to tamp the trail and break the midday heat, but it seemed nothing came in half measure in these western lands.
    Except for sleep. Annabelle believed a good night’s sleep was a palliative for nearly any adversity, and she remained confident she soon would adjust to her new environment. Hoping the cool air would aid in recapturing sleep without any cursed dreams, she carried her blanket, pillow and an old quilt to spread on the ground. Her eyes sharpened by the darkness, she maneuvered easily in the night. As she sought a soft spot near the wagons, the discreet rumble of a man clearing his throat startled her.
    â€œIf you’re going to sleep outside, lie under the wagon. It’s safer.”
    The Colonel reclined on the ground beside the orange glow of the cook fire. Annabelle wasn’t sure whether she recognized him by his lean form or the harshness of his Yankee accent. She shuffled forward, wrapping herself more tightly in the blanket and quilt.
    He must have registered her confusion as she considered the unseen danger his advice implied. “The stock.” He nodded in the direction of the animals. “If anything should startle them into a stampede, you’ll be safer under a wagon.”
    â€œWonderful. Another worry to keep me awake. The wolves and rain storms weren’t enough.”
    He tipped his hat. “All part of the service, ma’am.”
    â€œAt least it’s a lovely night.” She found a spot near the fire to lay her quilt.
    â€œYou’ve had trouble sleeping?” The Colonel lit his pipe, his face hidden behind the flare of the match.
    â€œI don’t think we slept a wink the first night. Father discovered an ax next to Mother’s side of the bed. She is terrified of an Indian attack. Father was more afraid of Mother waking from a wolf or coyote howl in such a state that she might dismember a limb—his or hers—before she knew what she was doing.”
    The Colonel stifled his laughter to keep from waking the others, his amusement prompting a hoarse cough.
    â€œWhy aren’t you sleeping?” she asked. “I can’t believe you’re unaccustomed to sleeping outdoors.”
    â€œOld men like me don’t need to sleep much.” In the glow of his pipe she saw his mustache rise into a smile. “Which is a good thing given