Brian’s Search

The solitary prairie schooner pulled by a yoke of oxen and yoke of cows rolled over the parched land following deep ruts worn by hundreds, maybe even thousands, of wagons before, winding westward along the Gila River. The air remained still, the sun scorching, the river only a trickle with its brackish water supporting scant vegetation along its alkaline banks. Brian Jamison, eighteen, and his father, Chris, trudged along on opposite sides of the oxen each clutching a long paloverde switch to urge and guide the lumbering beasts along with an occasional swat on the rump or tap on the neck. Each had a Henry .44-caliber, lever-action rifle cradled in the crook of his arm, and each packed an 1860 Colt Army .44-40-caliber pistol in the holster belted to his hip. Brian's mother, Beth, and his sixteen year old sister, Becky, rode side by side on the hard wagon seat while Brian's ten year old brother, Chad, napped in the rear of the wagon. Gnats buzzed about the travelers' sweaty faces, and the plodding animals kicked up alkaline dust that billowed back about them settling in their eyes, in their mouths, on their moist skin, in the folds of their clothing—everywhere. The heat sapped their strength, and they struggled to just keep going, to endure. As the bright sun finally dipped low into the Southwestern Arizona horizon, however, a soft cool breeze sprang to life. The temperature quickly moderated, and just as quickly the travelers felt revived. Brian’s father stepped in front of the oxen and raised his arms to stop them. “Brian, let’s call it a day.” Enjoying that transitional period between the unbearable heat of the day and the biting chill that settled over the desert at night, Brian and Chris quickly unhitched the draft animals and led them out along the river to stake them out. In the process Brian said, “Gee, Pa, this’s all turned out a lot harder than we expected, huh?” “Yeah, a lot harder and a lot longer, too. Ya know, Brian, Heavenly Father lets us make choices in our lives. And it ain’t long before we learn that our choices have consequences—some that’re unexpected and some that’re even dreadful. “Anyway . . .” He pointed a hand west. “I think we’re on the last leg of our journey. I’m sure we’re only a few days east of Yuma, and when we cross the Colorado River there we’ll be in California. So . . .” He shrugged. Brian’s mother unhitched the four month old heifer calf from the tailgate, led it to the front of the wagon, and tied it to a wheel. With help from Chad, Becky lowered the wagon's tailgate to a horizontal position to serve as a worktable while Brian pulled out an iron cooking pot and tripod and set them up near the rear of the wagon. Afterward, Chris carried a milk pail and their one-legged milking stool out to milk their one fresh cow, while Brian, Chad, and Becky wandered out to forage firewood—Brian and Chad upriver together and Becky to the north away from the river. It seemed a mystery to Brian how such a hostile land nearly void of life during the day could come so alive at night. Crickets chirped, nighthawks swooped overhead, and two ground squirrels chased each other about at river’s edge. A pair of Inca doves landed in a nearby mesquite, a desert cottontail hopped about in the sparse grass ahead, a Gambel’s quail called from across the river, and a great horned owl hooted from somewhere upriver. Shortly Brian and Chad veered away to the north away from the river, also. A little later as Brian picked up one last stick of wood to finish out his load he noticed that darkness had settled over the land and stars shone brightly in a clear sky. Yet he could still perceive his father heading back to camp carrying a pail of milk and the milking stool. Suddenly a chilling, high pitched scream shattered the night stillness and just as suddenly all went quiet. "Becky!" Brian whispered. Glancing toward his father, he saw that he had dropped the milk pail and stool and ran toward the wagon in a zigzag course. Brian remembered his father’s rifle lying on the wagon seat. Brian dropped the wood and grasped Chad’s shoulders and shoved him toward camp. “Quick, Chad, run straight to Pa!” Brian drew his pistol as he dove to the ground on his belly. Rising up on his elbows, he looked toward camp. He saw his father jump up onto the wagon tongue, snatch up his rifle, and drop back down just as Chad reached him. Nevertheless, before his father had taken more than a couple of steps toward his mother an arrow plunged into his father’s thigh, and his leg buckled. As he saw his father and Chad go down in a tangle Brian jumped back to his feet and yelled, "Pa!" Focusing on his mother, he saw that she already lay on the ground, an Indian bending over her. With a feeling of utter helplessness Brian turned back toward his father and Chad. As several Indians converged on them, he fired into the attackers as fast as he could thumb back the hammer and squeeze the trigger. At least two attackers went down under his fire before his pistol responded with only a click. Empty! He dropped back down on his belly and rolled onto his back. After prying the empty shell casings from the pistol's cylinder, he thumbed bullets from the loops in his gun belt and reloaded. Rolling back onto his stomach, he slowly rose to one knee with pistol ready. A hissing arrow struck him on the left side of his chest spinning him around. He fell sideways into a large organ pipe cactus, and careening off the cactus he went down in a sprawl. He lost the grip on his pistol, and it slid out of reach. Before he could recover, however, an Indian landed astraddle him from behind swinging a battle ax. A glancing blow caught Brian above his right ear, and his senses exploded.