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Beyond the Smoke

By Terry W. Burns

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Smoke arose in the distance.

Bryan Wheeler shaded his eyes as he stared at it. Something was not right, but there was no cause for concern.

Not yet.

He headed back that direction, saw tracks and knelt, fingered the tiny tracks, read them as an eastern boy would read a book. A rabbit for the pot.
At sixteen Bryan was already an accomplished hunter. His frame bordered on husky, solid and well muscled. His sandy blonde hair and green eyes worked with his ready grin to tell everyone at a glance that he was always ready to have fun.

Cowboys his age were common on western ranches as were young soldiers riding with the cavalry or the Pony Express. Girls even younger got married and started families. On the frontier young people grew up fast . . . or they didn’t grow up at all.

While his father handled the team or drove the wagon in the Oregon-bound wagon train, Bryan was expected to walk out and put meat on the table. It wasn’t a new thing. Back in Missouri he handled this chore while his father worked the fields, beginning when he was barely big enough to keep the muzzle of the big weapon out of the dirt.

His dad would give him a half a dozen bullets and expect an accounting for each and every one—something for the pot or a reason why a round was wasted. It was the way of the poor farmer. Scarce resources were not squandered.

Bryan stood and went in the direction of the tracks. Unable to see the ground he scanned the tall grass for the tiniest evidence of movement. He moved slowly, bringing his foot down toefirst, Indian style, to minimize noise. Spotting some movement, he took a line to head it off, then waited until the rabbit scurried across a small clearing.

The animal was in the open only a moment . . . but it was enough.

The shot came quick and clean. He scooped the rabbit up by the ears and smiled. A nice fat one! It’ll make a good stew, he thought.

He shaded his eyes to look off into the distance, wondered where the train was now. He knew it didn’t move very fast, but certainly could eat up ground while a guy’s attention was elsewhere. He was still puzzled by the smoke on the horizon. It was early to stop to cook.

He pushed it from his mind again. The wagon boss had probably found a really good campsite and decided to take advantage of it. That meant he had better hurry back with the rabbit, particularly if his mama already had the pot on.
He swung the rabbit in his left hand in order to keep his rifle at the ready in his right. As he moved out, his eyes constantly played across the ground to either side of his path. He wouldn’t say no to a little more meat to fatten that stew.

A short time later Bryan glanced back to check his direction. Hmm, he thought, the fires don’t seem to be grouped tightly the way they should be with the train in a circle for the night. They seem to be in a straight line, spread out. That’s strange!

He immediately gave up hunting to step out quickly. As the worry came, he put a hand to his chest, a new tightness there. He had difficulty swallowing, his mouth unexpectedly dry.

He reached the top of the rise and his concerns proved to be justified. Bryan caught his breath as he looked down on the train. The smoke wasn’t from cook fires, but from the smoldering ruins of several burned out wagons. Bodies lay everywhere.

He couldn’t help himself; he began to cry. It wasn’t the manly thing to do, but he didn’t feel very manly right now.

Bryan entered camp warily, rifle at the ready. He tried to not look at the bodies, but couldn’t help himself there either. Any other time it would have sickened him, but now it didn’t seem real. He moved as if in a dream, his head swimming. The bright splotches of red were everywhere as if splashed by a demented painter. The air was tainted with a sickly sweet smell, but he scarcely noticed it.

He made straight for his parents’ wagon, not wanting to see what he’d find there, but knowing he had to do it. He had to know.

Suddenly he stopped short. There they were . . . dead . . . no one alive in this whole train. He was alone. Bryan sat down hard on a stump, averting his eyes, staring off into space.

He had often been alone before. Alone hunting, alone for a walk, valued time off by himself. But it had always been a temporary thing, an enjoyable respite. This time he was ALONE! And he didn’t know what to do.

#

Bryan didn’t know how long he had sat there . . . or why, but at last some tiny part of the back of his brain began to nag at him. What if the raiders come back?

The thought chilled him like a blue norther. It shocked him back to reality. Whatever I do, I can’t just sit here.

His first thought was to bury them, of course. But then, he was just a boy, how much could he do?

I could dig what? One or two graves at most. I can’t bury them all. And if the savages do come back and find fresh graves, they’d know somebody was alive and come after me.


It was a shock for him to realize he couldn’t bury anybody.

Oh my! I have to go, and I have to go now, but where? And how? I wish it didn’t have to be on foot, but there ain’t any horses left. Reckon that was the main thing they were after. I know, first I have to see what I can find that might help me survive.

From their wagon he got his mother’s Bible, some pictures, and a couple of changes of clothes. His father’s handgun and rifle were gone. He knew the raiders had wanted guns and ammunition as badly as the horses. He took a little food and a pot big enough to cook in, but light enough to carry.

Then he steeled himself to do the hardest thing of all, he searched his father’s body. He searched for the money he knew his father carried and the pocket watch that had belonged to his grandfather. He could scarcely see through the tears, apologized the whole time, but he knew he’d need that money . . . and he surely wanted the watch.

The money caused him to think. He knew there would be more money, but it also meant he would have to do the search all over again on other people. The rest wouldn’t be as hard, but still mighty tough.

He felt like a sneak thief going from wagon to wagon searching for things he could use. He knew if any of these people could talk, they’d tell him he had to do it, but it didn’t help. He still couldn’t get over the feeling.
To make up for it, he gathered all of the letters and information he could find. He decided he would write each of their relations. They would want to know what happened, and he felt he owed it to them.

Suddenly he straightened up to look across the camp. Old Abe used to carry a little hideout gun tucked in his belt in the back. Bryan ran over to him and rolled him over. There it was, a little 32-caliber pocket gun, and it was loaded. Where are his saddlebags?

Finding them, Bryan took the old clothes out and wrapped inside them found a partial box of shells for the little gun, some beef jerky, and a small coffee pot with a parcel of coffee.

He could use the saddlebags to gather his gear in. He continued to search, particularly for blankets, but they seemed to have been prized by the raiders as well.

Ahh . . . here’s a couple of old ones, but they look good to me.

He found and filled a canteen from a water barrel, then sat on the tailgate of a wagon to pack the things he’d found. It included a surprising amount of money, but he wouldn’t stop to count it now. He was starting to feel the need to get out of there.

Reckon a Comanche ain’t got no use for cash.

He’d heard the wagon boss comment about Comanche sign and felt pretty sure that was who had made the attack. There were no raiders left, so the attack had either been alarmingly successful, or they had carried off their dead.

He found a cash box in the Jorgenson wagon that had a sizable sum. He had known where they kept it. The box was too bulky, so he discarded it and put the money in his blanket roll. Bryan stood up. It seemed all he could do, and he had all the help these people had to give.

I’d like to hug my family goodbye, he thought, but couldn’t bring himself to do it, not the way they looked. This is not my family any more. I know that. They’ve gone on . . . gone to a better world.

He got out his mother’s Bible to read over them—over the entire train.
I owe them that much at least.

He opened the Bible, a familiar task as he had learned to read from its pages, read it each night before going to bed. Still, he was unsure where to turn, where would he find the verses he needed? The parson that was with them had read over graves on the trip. But he used a little book that was for weddings and funerals.

Bryan shook his head, he didn’t have time to go look for that book. He knew comfort was in the Bible and felt ashamed that he didn’t know where it was. He closed his eyes and asked for help. It was a brief, but heartfelt, earnest
prayer. He opened the back cover of the Bible without looking.
He looked down, blinking to clear his vision, his eye settled on 2 Corinthians, chapter five. His mother had a passage underlined, verse 8, and he read it aloud, “We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent with the body, and to be present with the Lord.”

Yes, he thought, they aren’t here any more. They are already with God.
She had a notation written in the margin referencing John 14. He turned to it, and again found underlining at verse 26 and 27. Again he read aloud, “But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”
He had read that before, but never had it spoken to his heart as it did now. Funny how you could read something in the Bible many times but find new meaning in it when your needs were different. He smiled. It was if the finger of his mother had pointed to these verses, as if she had told him they were all right and told him the comforter would now be with him. The sadness was still a heavy weight on his chest, but he didn’t feel as alone.

Then with tears again streaming down his face he closed the Bible, tucked it into his saddlebags, and said his last goodbye.

Bryan turned and looked out over the empty prairie. I don’t know what’s out there . . . Who is out there . . . and I don’t know which way to go. My first decision as a man on my own. and I don’t have the slightest idea of a direction to take.

He voiced his concern out loud, “I have to find someplace that’s safe before they return and find me. I need some kind of cover, and I need it mighty bad.” He wiped his tear-stained face.

“But right now, I’d settle for sundown.”

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