A Cry in the Wilderness
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 9
April 2nd, 1860
Independence, Missouri
The pre-dawn air carried the sounds of a town preparing for exodus. Wagon wheels creaked, oxen lowed, and voices called out in a dozen languages as nearly two hundred emigrants made final preparations for the journey west. The McLaughlin party had been in Independence for five days, resting their animals and gathering supplies alongside families from across the nation.
Will stood beside their lead wagon, checking the harnesses one final time. The weeks since his mother’s death had aged him beyond his twenty years, but they had also forged him into someone capable of leading when leadership was needed.
“Pa, you ready?” he called to Angus, who sat on the wagon tongue staring blankly at the horizon.
“Sarah always loved sunrise,” Angus murmured, not seeming to hear the question. “Said it reminded her of God’s mercy, how He gives us a fresh start ever’ day.”
Will exchanged a worried glance with Sam. His father’s condition had been unpredictable since the funeral - sometimes sharp and decisive, other times lost in memories that seemed more real to him than the present moment.
“Mr. McLaughlin!” A booming voice cut through the morning bustle. “Time to move ‘em out!”
John McMasters strode toward them, a man whose very presence commanded attention. Tall and weathered, with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing, he had been guiding wagon trains across the plains for fifteen years. Beside him walked a man who moved with the fluid grace of someone equally at home in civilization or wilderness - Sam Running Bear, their Sioux scout.
“Mornin’, Mr. McMasters,” Will replied, stepping forward. “We’s ready to go.”
McMasters studied the McLaughlin wagons with an experienced eye, noting the quality of their equipment and the condition of their livestock. “You boys did good preparin’. These here Spencer rifles gonna serve ya well on the trail.” He paused, looking at Angus with understanding. “Heard about your loss, Mr. McLaughlin. Trail’s hard enough without carryin’ that kind of burden. You gonna be alright to lead your party?”
Angus looked up, and for a moment his eyes cleared. “My boy Will’s doin’ most of the leadin’ these days. I trust him completely.”
“Good enough.” McMasters turned to address the gathering crowd of emigrants. “Listen up, folks! We got two hundred and thirty-seven souls in forty-three wagons headin’ west today. Most of ya bound for Oregon, some fer California. Don’t matter where ya end up - for the next four months, we’s all family.”
He gestured to the Sioux scout beside him. “This here’s Sam Running Bear. He’s been ridin’ these trails since before most of ya was born. When he talks, ya listen. Might save yur life.”
Sam Running Bear stepped forward, his weathered face serious. “The plains ahead test every man, woman, and child. River crossings, storms, sickness - these are yur real enemies. Not the Indian tribes ya heard stories about.”
McMasters nodded and continued. “Now for the rules, and they ain’t suggestions. First - no man travels alone, ever. Second - trading with Indians is allowed, but any man caught tradin’ weapons gets his wagon yoke broke and gets left behind. Same punishment for stealin’ from another family’s wagon.” His voice carried the weight of absolute authority. “Third - my word is law on this trail. I ain’t interested in democracy when lives are at stake.”
He pulled out a worn ledger. “I’ll be takin’ down every family’s name and wagon number. Ya’ll know yur place in the line by tomorrow evening. We pull out at sunup day after tomorrow - April 4th. Anyone not ready gets left behind.”
— ∞ —
April 4th dawned clear and cool. The great wagon train stretched nearly a mile as it began its slow procession westward from Independence. The McLaughlin party found themselves positioned in the middle section - experienced enough to avoid the dust of the rear, but not seasoned enough for the honor of leading.
“Feels different than travelin’ by ourselves,” Tessa observed as she and Rebekah walked alongside their wagon. The two girls had become inseparable during their stay in Independence, sensing that their time together was limited.
“Safer, though,” Rebekah replied. “All them rifles and men. Ain’t no bandits gonna tackle a train this size.”
Behind them, Elijah Hall drove his wagon with careful attention to maintaining proper spacing. The past weeks had transformed the mild-mannered teacher into a competent teamster, though he still looked uncertain about the journey ahead.
“Mildred,” he called to his wife, “how ya holdin’ up?”
“Doin’ fine,” she replied, though her voice carried undertones of worry. “Just thinkin’ about what we’s leavin’ behind.”
“An’ what we’s headin’ toward,” he reminded her. “Free land in Oregon, good soil, fresh starts.”
Angus drove the lead McLaughlin wagon with mechanical competence, his mind clearly elsewhere. Will stayed close, ready to take over if his father’s attention wandered too far from the immediate task.
The first day covered barely twelve miles, but McMasters seemed satisfied with the progress. “Always slow the first week,” he explained to Will during the evening halt. “Folks gotta learn to work together, animals gotta get used to the routine. We’ll be doin’ twenty miles a day ‘fore long.”
— ∞ —
The fourth day out from Independence brought their first encounter with the native inhabitants of the plains. Sam Running Bear rode back from his morning scout with news.
“Pawnee village about two miles ahead,” he reported to McMasters. “Chief wants to trade.”
McMasters called a halt and addressed the emigrants. “Some of ya never seen Indians before. These here Pawnee are friendly to white travelers, but they ain’t pets. Show respect, don’t act afraid, and remember - no weapons in the trade.”
The Pawnee village consisted of earth lodges arranged along a creek bottom. About thirty warriors rode out to meet the wagon train, their horses dancing with nervous energy. Their leader, a man of perhaps forty years with intricate tattoos covering his chest, raised his hand in greeting.
“I am Chief Blue Wolf,” he said in accented but clear English. “Your people trade with my people?”
McMasters dismounted and walked forward. “We trade. What you got?”
“Blankets. Good horses. Meat.” Blue Wolf gestured toward his warriors, who displayed buffalo robes, beadwork, and strips of dried meat.
Will watched with fascination as the trading began. The Pawnee wanted metal goods - pots, knives, cloth - in exchange for their wares. The negotiation was conducted with elaborate courtesy, each side testing the other’s patience and resolve.
“Will,” Angus said suddenly, his voice sharp and present. “Take some of them extra blankets your ma packed. See what they’ll trade fer ‘em.”
It was the first time since Sarah’s death that his father had shown interest in anything beyond basic survival. Will quickly gathered several woolen blankets and approached the trading area.
A young Pawnee warrior, perhaps Will’s age, examined the blankets carefully before offering a beautifully beaded belt and a small pouch of dried berries. The trade completed with nods and hand gestures, both young men seeming pleased with the exchange.
“Good trade,” Sam Running Bear observed quietly. “They respect you now. You showed no fear, offered fair value.”
The encounter lasted two hours, and when it ended, both sides seemed satisfied. The Pawnee rode back toward their village while the wagon train resumed its westward progress.
“That weren’t so scary,” Tessa said to Rebekah as they walked beside their wagon. “They seemed ... normal.”
“Just folks tryin’ to make a livin’, like us,” Rebekah agreed. “Wonder why people back east tell such scary stories about ‘em.”
— ∞ —
Fort Kearny appeared on the horizon like a promise of civilization in an ocean of grass. The military post, established twelve years earlier, represented the first major waystation on the Oregon Trail and the last outpost of federal authority until Fort Laramie.
“Thank the Lord,” sighed Mrs. Wilkerson, a middle-aged woman traveling with her husband and three children. “Feels good ta see the American flag again.”
The fort was bustling with activity. Several wagon trains were encamped nearby, some preparing to continue west, others resting and making repairs. The post sutler’s store did a brisk business in overpriced goods, but the emigrants were grateful for any opportunity to replenish their supplies.
Will and Sam took advantage of the stop to hunt in the surrounding prairie. The Spencer rifles proved their worth, bringing down two pronghorn antelope that provided fresh meat for several families in their section of the train.
“Boy’s got a steady hand,” Sam Running Bear observed, watching Will field-dress one of the animals. “Rifle’s only as good as the man behind it.”
“Ma always said Will had the steadiest nerves in the family,” Tessa said proudly. “Even when he was little, he could thread a needle faster than anybody.”
But the peaceful interlude at Fort Kearny was shattered by tragedy. The Henderson family, traveling two wagons behind the McLaughlins, had been struggling with illness since leaving Independence. What began as mild stomach upset had progressed to violent dysentery.
“Lost little Martha last night,” Mr. Henderson told McMasters with hollow eyes. “She just ... couldn’t fight no more.”
The four-year-old girl was buried in the fort’s cemetery, her small grave marked with a wooden cross bearing her name. It was the first death on the trail, but everyone knew it wouldn’t be the last.
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