the offensive goo from her lips with the back of her hand.
She handed the mud pie back to him, as though gracefully refusing. “The Lord will provide,” she stated again, though with less certainty than before.
Micah heard his father calling for him to come and pitch in with the work, so he smiled and jokingly made a curtsey to her, before running upstream to help.
It took a while, and it meant destroying one of their four remaining wagons to make a bridge strong enough for the oxen to cross, but eventually they managed it. After everything had been taken across, they loaded the remnants of the deconstructed wagon, in case they should need to use it again.
The children climbed up into the second wagon together, bellies full, quickly quieting down and falling asleep as they started forward once again, the adults happy to have respite from their grumbles, as they chased the sun on its journey west across the plain.
Lemuel sat perched atop the front of the lead wagon, resolute in his rightness. Even still, he seemed to froth to the very rim with a zealous fervor, which stewed inside him like a violent rage. He claimed that the purpose for his westward quest had been delivered to him straight from God, and so far neither Micah’s father nor the wives had dared to challenge him about it.
Micah’s father Samuel dutifully followed Lemuel in his wagon, his wife Rachel seated resolutely beside him, silent in rebuke, despite knowing they had long ago lost their way.
Micah brought up the rear of their tiny train, his wagon loaded with supplies, pulled by the slower but stronger oxen.
As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, a dramatic shift in the formation of the landscape presented itself in the distance ahead. The heat shimmered above the dry, stony ground, making it difficult to see clearly. However, one spot stood out strongly from the background of uniformity surrounding them in every direction, drawing them instinctively onward.
They approached the formation, a singular long rolling ridge dropped several hundred feet or so down a cliff they could not yet see. It appeared as though the ridge curved around into the distance for a mile or so, before dropping into the unending flatness of the prairie beyond, but distance was hard to gauge in the wide open spaces. As they travelled closer to the ridgeline, the ground began to slope slightly upward.
Micah heard Lemuel call the caravan to halt. He strained to see into the distance, the brilliance of the sun blinding him as he looked ahead.
Atop the edge of the ridge stood several indistinct figures, silhouetted against the sky. It was as though they had materialized out of the haze and now stood, unmoving, directly in their path.
Lemuel leapt down from the wagon. He had recently taken to wearing a long black coat, and it flowed behind him like a priest’s vestal garments as he boldly strode towards the figures, his M1812 flintlock musket clamped in his hand. Micah saw his father checking the ammunition in his rifle as well, motioning to Rachel to stay put as he hurried to catch up with his trusted, lifelong friend.
Micah jumped down, bringing his own rifle along, and came to stand by the wagon where his mother stood watch with the children. He had a better view of the figures in their path now: four Indian warriors, one old and three young, with bright feathers in their headbands and war paint streaked across their faces. Micah was surprised to see them; the last of the savage native hordes had been relocated to the western reservations several years earlier, after the agreement of the tribes.
In the midst of the four warriors stood a totem of some kind, built of long upright wooden beams. Some sort of rope, dyed the color of fresh blood, was strung across the beams like a gigantic red spider web. A single human skull perched atop the construct. From a distance, it resembled a giant flaming sword.
Along the edge of the ridge, three large flat stones had been
She handed the mud pie back to him, as though gracefully refusing. “The Lord will provide,” she stated again, though with less certainty than before.
Micah heard his father calling for him to come and pitch in with the work, so he smiled and jokingly made a curtsey to her, before running upstream to help.
It took a while, and it meant destroying one of their four remaining wagons to make a bridge strong enough for the oxen to cross, but eventually they managed it. After everything had been taken across, they loaded the remnants of the deconstructed wagon, in case they should need to use it again.
The children climbed up into the second wagon together, bellies full, quickly quieting down and falling asleep as they started forward once again, the adults happy to have respite from their grumbles, as they chased the sun on its journey west across the plain.
Lemuel sat perched atop the front of the lead wagon, resolute in his rightness. Even still, he seemed to froth to the very rim with a zealous fervor, which stewed inside him like a violent rage. He claimed that the purpose for his westward quest had been delivered to him straight from God, and so far neither Micah’s father nor the wives had dared to challenge him about it.
Micah’s father Samuel dutifully followed Lemuel in his wagon, his wife Rachel seated resolutely beside him, silent in rebuke, despite knowing they had long ago lost their way.
Micah brought up the rear of their tiny train, his wagon loaded with supplies, pulled by the slower but stronger oxen.
As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, a dramatic shift in the formation of the landscape presented itself in the distance ahead. The heat shimmered above the dry, stony ground, making it difficult to see clearly. However, one spot stood out strongly from the background of uniformity surrounding them in every direction, drawing them instinctively onward.
They approached the formation, a singular long rolling ridge dropped several hundred feet or so down a cliff they could not yet see. It appeared as though the ridge curved around into the distance for a mile or so, before dropping into the unending flatness of the prairie beyond, but distance was hard to gauge in the wide open spaces. As they travelled closer to the ridgeline, the ground began to slope slightly upward.
Micah heard Lemuel call the caravan to halt. He strained to see into the distance, the brilliance of the sun blinding him as he looked ahead.
Atop the edge of the ridge stood several indistinct figures, silhouetted against the sky. It was as though they had materialized out of the haze and now stood, unmoving, directly in their path.
Lemuel leapt down from the wagon. He had recently taken to wearing a long black coat, and it flowed behind him like a priest’s vestal garments as he boldly strode towards the figures, his M1812 flintlock musket clamped in his hand. Micah saw his father checking the ammunition in his rifle as well, motioning to Rachel to stay put as he hurried to catch up with his trusted, lifelong friend.
Micah jumped down, bringing his own rifle along, and came to stand by the wagon where his mother stood watch with the children. He had a better view of the figures in their path now: four Indian warriors, one old and three young, with bright feathers in their headbands and war paint streaked across their faces. Micah was surprised to see them; the last of the savage native hordes had been relocated to the western reservations several years earlier, after the agreement of the tribes.
In the midst of the four warriors stood a totem of some kind, built of long upright wooden beams. Some sort of rope, dyed the color of fresh blood, was strung across the beams like a gigantic red spider web. A single human skull perched atop the construct. From a distance, it resembled a giant flaming sword.
Along the edge of the ridge, three large flat stones had been
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