Wagon Train Reunion. Linda Ford

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      Not for the first time, Abigail wondered if this trip would destroy them. She shivered as she recalled Mother’s words. The death of them all. Then she prayed, Father God in heaven, guard and keep us.

      How many times had she prayed that on her own behalf when Frank scared her with his behavior? She wrapped her arms about herself and let the tears flow through her heart. Her eyes stayed dry. She wasn’t about to bemoan the consequences of a choice she’d made. Though she had no idea that a man could pretend such sweetness before marriage and reveal such cruelty afterwards.

      A walk would calm her. She hurried through the maze of wagons and tents and people to a place where no one was parked. Perhaps she could find a minute of peace.

      A glance about revealed there was no one who would recognize her and she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Anyone watching would assume she was peacefully enjoying the scenery.

      They would have been wrong.

      Slowly her emotions subsided. She rubbed at her breastbone, knowing the ache would ease but not disappear entirely.

       Oh, God, be Thou my strength. To Thee I flee for help.

Chapter Two

      The committeemen assembled to discuss the issue of the youths randomly firing their guns. Sam Weston the trail guide stood to one side. The tall, lean man stroked his bushy brown mustache as he observed the crowd with a steady gaze. He’d give his opinion if called for, but other than that he made it clear the emigrants would have to solve their own problems.

      Ben wondered what he saw. An unruly bunch without any sense of working together? An eager assortment of men and women and children willing to do anything to get to Oregon? Likely there was a little of both in each of them.

      Jed stood beside a gentle-looking man who seemed more fitted to tailoring suits than driving oxen across the country. No mistaking the father–son likeness.

      The other youths also stood by men Ben assumed were their fathers or guardians. Most family groups consisted of an assortment of people. Besides the teams of oxen, most wagons had a milk cow, a horse or two and various other animals in tow. Many families had offered to allow a single young man to accompany them, providing meals in exchange for help with the animals. Like the Morrisons who had young Clarence Pressman traveling with them. Few traveled alone. Miles Cavanaugh, one of the committeemen, was an exception. The journey would be more difficult for him with no one to help with the animals or spell the driver off or even cook meals while the other camp chores were taken care of.

      The Hewitt wagon consisted of himself and his two sisters.

      Mr. Cavanaugh chaired the meeting. “We are here to deal with the disagreement between Ben Hewitt and these young men. He says they were using their firearms carelessly which resulted in the injury of a child and he therefore confiscated their guns. Is that correct, Ben?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      The father of the rowdiest boy stepped forward. “He ain’t got no right. Why, he can’t even say for sure it was these boys was responsible.”

      “Did you see one of these boys actually shoot the child?” the chairman asked.

      “I didn’t but they’d been shooting and yelling wildly and there wasn’t anyone else nearby shooting off guns.” Let the truth speak for itself.

      “See,” shouted the belligerent man. “He’s just guessing it were my boy.”

      “I didn’t accuse your son,” Ben argued. “Only said the boys were being careless and the baby had been shot. I suggest the boys get their guns back when we are on the trail.” After a day or two, their high spirits would have subsided and they’d be less likely to shoot so carelessly.

      “No,” the angry youth yelled. “Ain’t no one taking my gun from me.”

      Ben tilted his head toward the firearms stacked on the table in front of Mr. Cavanaugh. Obviously someone had taken his from him.

      The boy tried to grab his gun. Someone pushed him aside and an uproar ensued.

      Mr. Cavanaugh pounded his fist on the table. “Seems to me you’re inclined to be a little hotheaded.”

      Ben would sure like to know that boy’s name for future reference.

      Apparently Mr. Cavanaugh did, too. “Son, what’s your name?”

      The boy hesitated. His father stepped forward. “This here is Arty Jones, my son. I’m his father, Ernie. I say without a reliable witness, it’s jest my word ’gainst his.” He jerked his thumb toward Ben.

      “I consider myself a reliable witness.”

      Ben jerked about to see who spoke. Mr. Bingham and beside him, Abigail.

      “Step forward.” Mr. Cavanaugh signaled them. “What did you see?”

      Mr. Bingham kept Abby at his side as he pushed through the crowd. “I saw these young youths shooting wildly, as did my daughter. A couple of times I noted how they didn’t always make sure the barrel pointed skyward before they fired. I was about to say something when the baby screamed. I saw him shot. As did my daughter.”

      Abigail nodded.

      Ben stared. In his wildest dreams he’d never expected a Bingham to stand up for him. Yes, this was for the safety of all concerned, but still.

      Mr. Cavanaugh turned to consult the other members of the committee, then nodded. “It is our decision that for the safety and peace of mind of all of us these pistols will be held in safekeeping until we are on the trail.” He gathered the guns, pushed to his feet and headed toward his wagon.

      “Thank you for speaking up.” Ben spoke to Mr. Bingham, but his gaze darted to Abigail. Had she meant to defend him or was she only doing her duty? As if he needed to ask.

      “It was clearly my duty,” Mr. Bingham said, and Abigail nodded answering his question.

      They left to return to their wagon and he did the same.

      Rachel and Emma jumped to their feet at his approach.

      “What did they decide?” Rachel asked.

      “There was some concern that I hadn’t actually seen the young fellas shoot the baby.”

      “They called you a liar?” Rachel rolled up her fists and looked ready to defend her brother’s honor.

      As usual, Ben found her attitude amusing and a little worrisome. He’d told her over and over that she must let him deal with his own problems. And warned her she shouldn’t be so ready to interfere in a situation.

      “Mr. Bingham stepped forward and said he’d seen the whole thing. They accepted his word.”

      Rachel’s mouth fell open. Emma stared. She was the first to recover her voice. “Mr. Bingham spoke up in your defense? What a surprise.”

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