Sophie's Journey - Chapter 26
The Stranger's News
The camp was busy with morning chores. A single rider appeared on the horizon, gripping his saddle. He looked tired, his hands white on the leather.
Sophie looked up at the noise. It was not the usual talk. Voices were low and tense, drawing the Saints toward the center of camp.
The stranger’s name was Henry Bauichter, a soldier just released from Fort Laramie. He spoke quickly, out of breath, as if he had been running. The camp grew quiet.
“I left Fort Laramie on the 29th of last month, riding east on horseback. After about thirty miles, I came upon a wagon drawn by two mules, with two horses trailing—one of them an Indian horse with a distinct white face. Two men accompanied the rig: Thomas Margetts and James Cowdy. Margetts was traveling with his wife, and Cowdy had his wife and a young child. They told me they were making their way from Great Salt Lake City back to the States, so I joined company with them.”
He paused, breathing hard. The camp leaned in, waiting.
“On the afternoon of the 6th, around one or two o'clock, roughly seventy miles out near what I believe was North Bluff Creek, Margetts and I rode out into the hills to hunt buffalo. It wasn't long before I brought one down about a mile and a half over the bluff from where we had halted the wagon. Margetts rode back to the wagon to fetch some utensils so we could gather the meat and tallow, while I stayed behind to dress the carcass.
Margetts came back, filled the first container with tallow, and walked toward the wagon. I stayed with the buffalo, cut meat, and filled the second tin.
When I reached the ridge, I saw at once something was wrong. The wagon’s canvas was gone. The mules and horses had disappeared.
I found the bodies of Margetts, Cowdy, and Cowdy’s wife on the ground. The child was alive, crying, blood on his face. No one had been scalped. Cowdy had an arrow in his thigh. Mrs. Cowdy’s clothes were torn, her body left exposed on the dirt. Mrs. Margetts was missing.
The back of the wagon burned. Everything useful was gone. Feathers from a bed tick were scattered, but the tick itself was missing. I saw about a dozen riders far off, moving away. They looked like Indians. I had heard no gunfire while I worked on the buffalo.
I knew I could not stay. Everything I owned was in that wagon—my papers, my money, my watch. All of it burned. I got on my horse and rode for Fort Kearny.
I didn't pass a single soul until I reached this camp this morning, empty-bellied and nearly spent after fifty hours without food. If you can spare it, I need food, ammunition, and provisions enough to carry me on to Fort Kearny.”
The camp was silent. Safety was three hundred miles away. Danger waited seventy miles ahead, on the same trail.
There was no time to mourn. They had to keep moving.
Bauichter ate and took ammunition for his ride to Fort Kearny. The camp went back to work. They loaded forty sacks of flour, each a hundred pounds, onto the handcarts. The carts were almost too heavy to move. To keep the supply wagons going, the Saints hitched milk cows to the wagons. The cows were awkward and loud, not used to harnesses. Men shouted. Ropes pulled tight. Children ran from the hooves. For a while, the camp was mayhem. Still, the work got done.
By midday, the milk cows stood ready in their harnesses. The company started its march, mile after mile through the lowlands of the Platte. Heavy wooden wheels turned in wet, clinging sand. The cows pushed into their yokes and kept the carts moving. At dusk, they made camp by the river. They crossed to a small island to gather firewood for the night.
Sophie watched Marianne as she collected firewood, each heavy step dragging as if weighed down by the gruesome story they'd just heard. Catching up to her, Sophie was overcome with sadness and empathy at the sight of the tear trails cutting through the dirt on Marianne's face.
“The child,” Marianne whispered, her gaze fixed on the gray, silty water. “He said the child was still crying. How can the Lord allow a babe to cry in such a place?”
Marianne’s grief struck a raw, agonizing nerve in Sophie. A cold knot tightened in her chest—not just for the unknown child, but for her own little ones sleeping back at the camp. She swallowed down the sudden swell of panic, forcing her voice to stay grounded even as her mind reeled at the unbearable cruelty of it all. She kept piling wet driftwood. She could not forget the picture of that child. “The Lord allows many things, Marianne. He allowed the sea to take Thomas.”
Marianne shivered, though the air was damp, not cold. “They’re close, Sophie. Seventy miles. That’s three days of pulling, maybe four. What if they’re waiting for us?”
Sophie stood up, straightening her sore back, and looked toward camp, where Emma watched the younger children. “Don’t worry, Marianne. We will not fall behind, and we will not split up. One wagon alone is one thing. We have a large company. That is different.”
“Mrs. Cowdy...” Marianne’s voice failed, and the color drained from her face. “He said they left her exposed. Like she was nothing.”
Marianne bowed her head in shame. But Sophie would not let herself be shocked.
“We are not alone out here,” Sophie said. “We are a group, with many we can rely on. But I’ll tell you this: I am not leaving my children for anyone to find in the dirt. Even if the horses are gone, and the wagon is burning, I’ll keep moving toward the Valley.”
Marianne looked at her then, her eyes open and haunted. "You sound like Peder. So cold."
“I’m not cold, Marianne,” Sophie said. She lifted the bundle of wood against her hip. Wet bark soaked her dress. “I’m just awake. Now pick up your wood. The fire won’t light itself. The children are hungry.”
As they walked back to the children, Sophie did not look at the sky. She looked at the gloom where her children slept. Emma’s small hand curled near her face. Peter’s chest expanded and fell with the heavy rhythm of the exhausted. Otto and Anne snuggled together.
The stranger’s story crowded Sophie’s mind. She felt uneasy. She had tried to calm Marianne, but the fears were real.
It wasn't just the fear. It wasn't just hunger now. It was the image of the blood-smeared child crying in the grass. This fear was sharp and clear. Every crack in the dark, every shift of the wind, now meant something. Beyond the fire was an unknown tomorrow. Sinkholes and sands that bogged down the handcarts, and the constant hunger of half-rations waited for them in the morning —and perhaps the sharp, silent bite of the arrows the stranger had warned about.
Sophie leaned over her children and watched them sleep. She could not afford to break. She pushed away the horror of what she had heard and the fear of what might come. Apprehension was a luxury which she could not afford. She locked it away, leaving only the hard truth of survival.
There were only her children. Only the cart on the trail. Only the next step. She had to be ready.
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