Caroline: Little House, Revisited

A dollar a pound. It staggered the mind to think of anyone in these hay shanties paying that kind of money for such a small luxury. President Grant himself would have to come calling before she would put white sugar on her table at that price. And what of the things they did need—the brown sugar, cornmeal, and flour? The arithmetic was numbing, the swelling figures painful as bruises to contemplate. If all Wilson’s prices were so steep, by fall there would be nothing but green felt lining the fiddle box.

“A man can’t expect Mississippi River prices on the Verdigris,” Wilson’s voice went on. A flare of anger blurred Caroline’s mental arithmetic at that. Of course they had expected prices to rise as they approached the frontier, but three and four times more? That was something else altogether. From the way Wilson was talking now, Caroline could guess that Charles had reacted no better. The storekeeper’s voice sounded as though it were backing away from what he had just said. She slid across the spring seat to listen more closely.

“It’s not so much the goods as the hauling,” Wilson explained. “Look, the southern branch of the Union Pacific line runs only as near as the other side of Labette County. I’m paying them top dollar to get it that far, plus another $2.25 per hundredweight on overland freight to Independence. I promise you, these are the fairest rates I can afford. If you want anything like back East prices, you’re welcome to make the drive out to Oswego or Fontana yourself, and no hard feelings.”

The names of the towns were not familiar to her. Perhaps they were not on the map. How far, then? Caroline wondered. And how much cash did they have, how long would it last? Always the same questions, since she was a child: How much? How far? How long? The stack of bills had seemed almost too much when they left Pepin—enough to stock the wagon and secure just over one hundred acres besides. Still, she had never expected all of it to last as far as Kansas, not with paying upward of forty cents a bushel to keep Ben and Beth warm and hale until the snow broke. That constant nibbling had taken a greater toll than the bridges and ferries, Caroline realized. If only she’d paid more attention, kept better count.

Her mouth was open now, the breath coming in spurts. Silently, Caroline brought her lips together. She pulled an unbroken stream of air through her nose and held it. One small crack and the old fears came tumbling in. Quickly, methodically, she sealed off her mind with calm thoughts. They had made it safely to Montgomery County. Right this minute there was food and money in the wagon. She could go and touch the crates and sacks if she wanted to, slip her fingers under the lid of the fiddle box and feel the crisp edges of the bills. She had her seeds, and Charles his gun. They did not owe a cent to a soul in all the world, and the government would not require payment on a preemption for nearly three years. And there was Gustafson, she remembered. That was enough to let her breath out smooth and warm. The Swede owed five hundred and six dollars. The fiddle box had only to hold out until Gustafson’s next payment. There could be a letter waiting now.

Caroline half stood to peer through the doorway for any sign of a postal cabinet behind Wilson’s counter. Beneath her, Jack rumbled again. Another man, this one with a scythe, was approaching the store. Caroline sat down again and moved back to her side of the spring seat for good measure. The fellow skirted the wagon, too preoccupied by Jack to truly notice her, tipping his hat on the way past.

Inside, the men’s voices rose convivially in greeting and introduction. Caroline permitted herself the tiniest of sighs. Charles would be longer now, with men to talk to. For all that he loved to revel in the feel of open space around him, there was a part of him that came alive only in a crowd. As he cast about for land prospects, Caroline could make out that extra flourish of liveliness in his voice. She had not heard it once in all these weeks. It was good to hear.

“Is it true what the paper says about immigration? Twenty claims a day being filed?”

“Some days it sure feels like it,” the new voice said. “Other days Wilson and I could mow an acre of hay without missing a customer.”

“Figured I’d better check in at the land office, see where the most open country is. Which of these sheds is it?”

“There isn’t one.”

Charles’s voice spluttered, “No land office? I’ve got a handbill right here says Montgomery County.”

“That may be so, but there wasn’t any printing press in this town until just over a month ago. Any advertising you’ve seen’ll have come out of Oswego, same as any newspaper prior to March.”

Before Caroline had time to absorb this, the bulldog stalked out from under the wagon, pointed his face south, and growled. She had never heard such a growl from a tame creature. It was a low, savage sound that prickled all down the back of her neck. Gingerly, she leaned out around the canvas to see what had provoked him. Across the street, a trio of Indians were eyeing the mustangs from their own ponies. Long black scalp locks striped their heads and brushed the shoulders of their ribbon work vests. Tufts of hair trimmed the seams of their leggings.

Caroline flattened her back against the spring seat. Her skin felt strangely light, as though every hair on her body were lifting to reach out, whisker-like, in anticipation of danger. Something about them frightened her, something deeper than Jack’s ire. She did not want them to see her looking at them again, so she closed her eyes and waited for their image to flash against the darkness of her eyelids.

Three sleek black scalp locks glinted in her memory. That was all, and it was enough. She remembered now, and understood: in Wisconsin, the Potawatomis dressed their hair that way only in preparation for war.

“What’s Jack growling at?” Laura asked. She was starting to climb over the seat.

“Stay back, Laura.” There was no tone in her voice. Caroline did not hear how loudly or softly she spoke and did not care so long as Laura obeyed. Her ears had room only for her own racing thoughts.

How near to let them come before calling for Charles? If they meant no harm and she created a scene there would be trouble, worse trouble maybe than if they had some kind of malice in mind. It was broad daylight, in the center of town, such as it was. All they had done was turn their heads.

But those scalp locks. Everything in her told her not to ignore them as the sound of unshod hooves striking hard-packed dirt came steadily nearer.

Jack growled again, so long this time Caroline thought he must be scraping his lungs raw with the sound. Then he snorted and strutted back under the wagon. Caroline sat quite still a moment, then leaned out from under the canvas. On one side, the Indians were riding away up the street, and on the other was Charles, heading out of the store with Wilson just behind him.

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