Light On A Distant Hill

By B J Scott

Salina, Kansas, 1874:

A young girl stands at her window.She is fourteen, on the edge of womanhood. Looking out across the vast sea  of grass that is the Great Plains, she dreams of the day when she might set sail on it. Two years later, she does, venturing into that vast unknown from which she will emerge older and wiser than her years, having been shaped and burnished in one of the great tragedies in American history.

This is her story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amazon KDP
• Release date: Jul 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201224745

Book preview

LIGHT

ON A

DISTANT HILL

(MANAKWA NOOVIGADED PA'A TAVIDUAGA)

A NOVEL OF THE INDIAN WEST

BY

B  J  SCOTT

FOREWORD

When the true horrors of Nazi atrocities were revealed after the close of World War Two, a burden of guilt settled upon the German people.  It is accurate to say that there is no counterpart to this guilt in America regarding the equally murderous tragedy visited on Native Americans during westward expansion. 

Americans still react with outrage, more than half a century afterward, at mention of the merciless cruelty of Japanese soldiers during the Bataan Death March in World War Two.  Yet two other marches—the relentless extinction of over 5,000 Cherokee during the Trail of Tears in 1838-1839, and the flight of 800 Nez Perce from pursuing U. S. Cavalry during the late 1800s—draw no similar outcry, no feeling of remorse.  Manifest Destiny—the notion that it was Divine Will that mandated the sweeping away of Native American cultures—still holds sway in America. 

In memory of the original Ellen O’Hara, my great-grandmother,

January 3, 1834—May 3, 1888

and

For the Peoples who were once widespread across this land, mostly

forgotten now, memorialized too often in such things as children’s writing

tablets, chewing tobacco, automobile names, and team mascots. 

SALINA, KANSAS, 1874:  A young girl stands at her window.  She is fourteen, on the edge of womanhood.  Looking out across the vast sea of grass that is the Great Plains, she dreams of the day when she might set sail upon it.

Two years later she does, venturing forth into that vast unknown, from which she will emerge later, older than her years and wiser than her age, having been shaped and burnished in one of the great tragedies of American history.  This is her story.   

LIGHT

ON A

DISTANT HILL

1

1930

ON THE PACIFIC COAST NEAR CAPE MEARES, OREGON

Robbie McIntire wrestled with the steering wheel of the battered Chevrolet panel truck as it bounced over the rutted dirt road through the forest, ever higher into the coastal hills of Oregon.  And with every jarring twist in the road, he cursed the day he had accepted his new assignment.

But as a rookie reporter for the Portland Oregonian, fresh out of journalism school, he had been in no position to turn it down.  Still, he had been taken aback when his boss, crusty city editor Seamus O'Flynn, had dumped it on him. 

"You want to write for the Oregonian, you take the job, boy, the bushy-browed old inkslinger told him in a gravelly voice.  Seeing Robbie's discomfort at the prospect, O'Flynn jabbed a finger in his direction.  When I was new on the job, I would have begged for an assignment like this.  He stood up and came around his big wooden desk.  Now, I've got a nose for a good story.  I was reading about this old woman in a rest home over by Cape Meares.  They say she's chock full of tales about the Old West, that she was witness to some amazing things.  Our readers could do with something to take their minds off the Depression.  Now, it won't be easy.  I got the impression she’s a bit of a recluse.  Guess no reporter's been down there in years.  He clapped a big hand on Robbie's shoulder.  Go to it, my boy.  Bring back something worth reading."

Robbie knew the moment he was handed the pitiful advance that it would be gone before he could complete the assignment.  Nevertheless, he packed a bag and caught a rattletrap old bus to Cape Meares.  There, he managed to talk the owner of a local garage into renting him the old panel truck. 

Now, as he jounced over the rugged road, grinding gears, posterior aching and kidneys beginning to float, he cursed his lack of intestinal fortitude once again.  He should have had the guts to turn the job down.  Just when he thought he must have taken a wrong turn and was ready to go back, a dusty wooden sign came into view ahead.

MOUNTAIN MEADOW REST HOME

Set on a rise in a clearing, surrounded on three sides by pine and fir trees, the dusty building was long and relatively narrow, with wood clapboard siding, fading paint, and a porch that ran the length of the front.  It was topped by a clay tile roof that looked out of place among the mountain setting. 

With a sigh, he turned into the driveway, the old panel whining in protest as it climbed the slope up to the entrance. He hit the brakes and the truck jerked to a halt in a bare area in front of the building.  Weary but grateful to be there at last, he turned off the ignition.  The panel coughed a few times in protest, then finally fell silent.  Robbie opened the door, put his left hand on the top of the door frame, and levered himself out to a standing position.  He stretched his aching back, looking back the way he had come.  Now he knew why the home was located at this spot.  An opening in the trees provided a view into the distance, all the way to the ocean.  He could see sunlight playing off the water.  A tall promontory stood on the coast, punctuating the otherwise low coastline.  It  looked like a loaf of French bread stood on end.  It must have been hundreds of feet high, and looked to be right on the surf line.  The top of the promontory was mostly open ground, with scattered tall trees dotting a lush meadow.  A patch of sunlight fell on the meadow and seemed to make it glow a vibrant green. 

He was still admiring the view when the sound of a screen door creaking open and then banging against a door frame behind him spurred him to turn around.  He found himself facing a stout middle-aged woman in a print dress covered partly by an apron.  She had short curly brown hair held in place here and there with bobby pins.  She frowned at him.

Reckon you're the reporter fella that big-city paper called about couple of days ago, she said sternly.  You must be him; no one else would bother to come up.

Yes ma'am, Robbie said. He stepped forward, hat in hand.  "I'm Robbie—ah, Robert McIntire from the Oregonian."

The woman snorted.  "Hmph.  You're a young 'un, aintcha.  Fresh out of college, I reckon.  Come up here to make a name for yourself, interviewing her.  She almost spat out the last word.  Well, no sense in standin' out here jawin'.  Come on in.  She turned back to the house and went inside, leaving Robbie to catch up to her.  Mind you, she don't cotton to visitors much, she said.  No one ever comes to visit anymore 'cept her daughter.  She turned back to look at him.  Maybe you'll get lucky and catch her in a good mood.  She turned away again.  Hah!" she snorted, walking away from him into her kitchen. 

Robbie trailed hesitantly behind, fearful of committing a breach of etiquette.

The ladies are having lunch on the back patio, she said.  There'll be no visiting until they're finished.  She opened an icebox and withdrew a large pitcher of amber liquid.  Iced tea? she said, holding it out toward him. 

Yes ma'am, that surely sounds good about now, but—

Down the hall, second door on your left, she said, understanding the meaning of his hesitation.  She chuckled as he scuttled off.  That road'll do it every time.

Robbie was back from the bathroom in minutes.  The woman was standing by the front screen door, holding two glasses of tea.  Come on out, she said.  We'll sit a spell.

They settled into padded chairs on the porch.  Only then did the woman finally introduce herself.  Edie Maitland, she said, extending a broad hand and shaking his firmly.  Don't get much traffic up here, she continued, looking out into the distance.  I get a hankerin' to talk to someone else now and then, besides the residents.

Robbie took a sip of his iced tea.  It was wonderful, like he had tasted rarely, if ever.  He decided to start the conversation with something that had nagged at him all the way up the long dusty road.  Mrs. Maitland, he ventured, this place is half an hour out of town, up a long bad road.  Why are these residents of yours—these women—way up here?

Edie was silent for long seconds, the quiet punctuated only by the buzz of insects.  Then she spoke, still looking off into the distance.  Waiting to die, most of 'em, she said softly.  "Most got no family left, leastways none that care to visit much.  So they come up here to commiserate—and wait.  'Cept the one you came to see, Ellen O'Hara.  Her, I don't know what she's waitin' for.  She turned and looked at him.  Maybe it's you.  She drained her glass and set it down with a thunk on a small table, then laboriously stood up.  They should be about done now.  I'll let her know you're here.

She went back in the house, the screen door slamming shut behind her.  She was back in under two minutes.  She says you're to wait for her in her room, and she'll be in shortly.  Come on, I'll show you the way.

Edie led him down a dim hallway past the bathroom, all the way to the end.  She opened the door of the last room on the left.  Go on in, and wait here, she said.  She turned to go, then paused.  Try not to get her wound up with those nosy questions about the Old West.  She gets on a roll, we won't hear the end of it for days.  None of us believe that fantastical stuff she goes on about anyway.  Mostly we just humor her until she winds down.  She turned down the hallway.  Good luck, she called out to him as she walked off.

Robbie looked around nervously.  He had no idea what to expect.  The room was comfortable in a homey way, with country-style furnishings.  A patterned quilt was spread over the queen bed.  Drapes with a subtle farm-scene design flanked the large window, which afforded the same fine view of the ocean he had seen from the front yard.  An oval area rug was spread over the polished wooden floor between the bed and two chairs near the window.  There was a dresser to one side.  Two items on top of the dresser caught his eye.  They looked out of place compared to the rest of the furnishings.  Curious, he moved closer.  One item was what appeared to be a thick notebook in a leather case.  It looked well-traveled and worn, and when he bent over close to it, it smelled faintly of sage and woodsmoke.  The other object was a gray rock about the size of his fist.  One side was ground flat, and polished to a high shine.  He realized it was a thunder egg.  Looking closer, he could see something was inscribed into the smooth surface.  Unable to make out whether it was a pattern or lettering, he picked it up and held it in the window light for a better look.  He was peering at the it closely when a stern voice from behind made him jump. 

Put that down.

Startled, Robbie nearly dropped the rock.  He put it back on the dresser top and turned around to see who had spoken.  Ma'am, I'm so terribly sorry— he began.  My, ah, my manners surely slipped. 

A slender woman of medium height stood before him.  One wrinkled hand rested on a cane.  She had long white hair that flowed past her shoulders.  Her features were well defined, almost delicate.  Age had left its mark on her tanned and lined face, but it would take little effort to realize that she had once been a beautiful young woman.  Her eyes were clear and an arresting golden-brown.  She looked at Robbie with a gaze so unflinching it almost made him shiver.

Ma'am, I'm really sorry to be so thoughtless, Robbie said, desperately trying to make up for his faux pas.  I'm afraid I'm not off to a very good start.

Hmph, she said, walked slowly across the room, and lowered herself into one of the chairs by the window.  She looked up at him, frowning, one hand still on her cane as if she had a mind to whack him with it.  Well, sit down, young man, unless you want to do this standing up.

Robbie sat quickly.  No ma'am, he said, setting his shoulder bag on the floor. 

They told me you were coming, she said, fixing him with a penetrating stare.  What do you want?

Haltingly, nervous to his core, Robbie briefly told her what his boss had told him, and what he hoped to bring back from the assignment.  Ma'am, I read what I could find about you on the way down here, he said.  They say there are few people left who saw the Old West the way you did.  They say you were there when the West was alive.  Are they right? 

Ellen O'Hara turned her head and looked out the window at the coastline for long seconds.  Then she turned back to him.  I was there. 

The heaviness, the sadness in her voice as she said the words left Robbie bereft of any response.  Desperate for something to break the mood, he reached down into his shoulder bag and pulled out his notebook.  Well, can you tell me something about your time in the Old West? he ventured tentatively.

She tilted her head and looked at him, as if studying something caught under a microscope, trying to focus on its true nature.  Tell me, young man, are you here for yourself or because your boss sent you?

Robbie bit his lip.  He knew there was no chance of misleading this woman.  She would see right through any falsehood he concocted, he was sure.  Well, ma'am, he said, taking a deep breath, the truth is, at first I didn't want to come.  It's a far piece from Portland, and it didn't sound all that interesting.

You mean visiting some crotchety old woman in a rest home out in the middle of nowhere, who'd spin tales that may or may not be true, and probably fall asleep halfway through?

Robbie hung his head.  This interview might be over before it started.  Yes ma'am, he said softly.  Something like that.

But you're here anyway, she said.

Yes, I am.  Because the more I read about you, the more I felt there might be a great story here.  I'd be pleased to stay as long as you'll let me.  I'll write faithfully what you tell me.

Ellen looked down at the thick notebook in his lap.  Is that all you brought? she said.

Well, yes, Robbie said, somewhat startled.  Do you think I'll need more?

Ellen leaned forward slightly and fixed her golden-brown eyes on him.  Young man, if you're serious about your purpose here, you'll need a lot more than that.  You can get more in town when that one's full up.

She moved her body around in her chair, achieving a more comfortable position, glancing once more out the window.  You asked me a few minutes ago if I was there when the West was alive.  I was.  She turned back to look at him.  And I was there when it died.  Her expression took on a new intensity, eyes seemingly focused on some faraway place and time.  Open up your notebook, young man.

Robbie did so, pen poised, relieved he she was going to talk to him after all.

We'll start at the beginning, she said.

2

"My convictions upon this subject have been confirmed.  That those tribes cannot exist

surrounded by our settlements . . . is certain.  They have neither the intelligence, the

industry, the moral habits, nor the desire of improvement which are essential to any

change in their condition.  Established in the midst of . . . a superior race . . . they must

necessarily yield to the force of circumstances and ere long disappear."

—President Andrew Jackson before Congress, 1833 

SALINA, KANSAS

1876

April 23, 1876—Salina

Hello to my beautiful new diary!  How exciting it is to fill your pristine pages with the prospect of our journey.  For we are to depart at last this very day!  Nettie, Liza, Clarence and I will travel by buggy and steamboat to Omaha, where I shall board the train and begin the journey westward to Sacramento, and thence northward to Washington Territory.  What took months only a few years ago can now be done in just days.  And can you imagine—I am to be a bride! Captain Morrow's reply to my acceptance of his proposal of marriage arrived just last month.  I am sure he is as handsome as his photograph!  He has sent me one hundred dollars toward my passage on the railroad.  As he is a U. S. Cavalry officer, I hope that was not too great a strain on his account.  Nettie nags that it is high time I showed an interest in marriage, but she is such—

Ellie!  Ellen O'Hara!

The young girl's reverie was shattered by the shrill voice of her aunt calling from outside the house.

Ellen O'Hara, you put that diary away and get out here this very minute!  The buggy is loaded and ready to go.

—an old busybody, Ellen continued.  I try not to take her seriously, she concluded in deliberate fashion, then quickly closed the cover on her diary, a going-away gift from her Aunt Liza, leaped up from the desk, and bolted out into the packed dirt yard.   

A red-wheeled buggy, hitched to two horses, stood at the ready.  In the back of the buggy were three leather traveling bags.  Ellen's Uncle Clarence was in the driver's seat, holding the slack reins.  Ellen's Aunt Liza, Clarence's wife, stood beside the buggy, next to Ellen's other aunt, Nettie. 

Nettie was plain, and at thirty-three, resigned to spinsterhood.  With the end of the Civil War only a few years distant, there was still a tragic shortage of young men of marrying age in the area.  Many of them had gone off to fight—and had not come back.  It was all the more reason Nettie was determined that her little niece, Ellen, would not suffer the grueling burden of life on the plains as a spinster herself.  Attractive though Ellen was, Nettie fussed that the girl's outspokenness and independent nature would drive off what few would-be suitors might find their way to their neck of the woods—or plains, as it were. 

Well, come on, Nettie said impatiently, waving her over to the buggy.  Have done with that fool diary for a while and hop on in, she said as Ellie did so.  Land O' Goshen, child, if you ain't a bothersome little bug.  Ever since your mama died o' grief when your papa didn't come back from that accursed war, I've had to take you in tow, and t'aint been easy.

Ellen's father had gone off in 1864 to supply horses to the Union troops.  He was not a soldier and did not expect to encounter the dangers of battle.  Even so, he was caught in a Confederate ambush at the October 23rd Battle of Westport, Missouri, and killed.  His body was brought home to Kansas by family friends.  Barely a week after he was laid to rest on the farm, between the house and the barn, Ellen's mother, who had barely spoken since her husband's body came home, wandered off late one night onto the plains.  They found her the next day, dead.  There were no marks on her body.  It was the plains that killed her in the end, Uncle Clarence had told Ellen.  She'd been on the edge for a long time.  Too many tornadoes, too many long winters, too many grasshopper plagues, too little rain, too many failed harvests—your father's death just pushed her over. 

You have the money that Captain sent you tucked away, I hope?  Nettie's sharp voice brought Ellen back to the present.

Ellen rolled her eyes and nodded.  She knew her aunt's lament all too well; she'd heard it enough.  She also knew there was more to come.

You're a lucky girl, you know, Nettie went on.  If that captain was here to know you better, why, he might not be so eager.  This might be the only proposal you'll get.  You're just a little tomboy, stubborn in your ways and far too outspoken for your own good.  You'll have to put all that away if you intend to be a military wife.

Ellen bit her lip to keep from sassing her aunt, and settled into a gloomy silence as Clarence clucked the horses into motion and the buggy pulled away down the path through the tall prairie grass that stretched away as far as eye could see.  She looked back only once, feeling a sharp pang of loss, then steeled herself to look forward, as the only home she had ever know receded into the distance.

It would take longer to reach Omaha—about 10 days—than it would to cross the whole distance west to Sacramento.  What had once taken six months could now be accomplished in less than a week.  But before Ellen could board the train, the party would have to head east to Kansas City and catch a riverboat north up the Missouri River to Omaha. 

The money that Captain Morrow had sent her after she accepted his proposal of marriage would enable her to travel first class on the train.  She would have a plush seat that could be converted at night to a snug sleeping berth.  She would also have steam heat and fancy furnishings.  For meals, though, Ellen would have to eat on the run at whatever stops the train might make along the way.  Meals on board would have cost an extra $4 per day. 

They reached Kansas City in five days, and there boarded a northbound steamboat.  The voyage was uneventful, and Ellen, impatient and nervous, whiled away the time sitting near the bow, watching the steamboat push the placid water away and to the side.  The boat was bustling with river men, gamblers, families, and people whose livelihood she couldn't guess.  The rear deck of the boat was piled high with cargo—boxes, barrels, bales of hay, implements she couldn't identify, and more.

As the boat pushed northward, stopping all too often for her taste, Ellen would time and again pull from inside her diary a well-worn envelope and open it up in her lap.  There was a photograph, a yellowed newspaper clipping, and a packet of letters written in a neat hand.  The photograph showed a handsome young cavalry officer in uniform, posed in a studio looking very solemn, captain's insignia on his shoulders.  He had dark wavy hair, cut short, and a well-trimmed mustache.  Ellen had tried time and again to read gentleness and compassion into his expression, but she was only guessing.  When she tired of looking at the photograph, she would carefully hold the newspaper clipping in her hands.  It was an advertisement her Aunt Nettie had seen in the Kansas City Times, and it had started everything she was now caught up in.

Cavalry officer seeks woman of marrying age

for matrimony.  Will pay passage west.  Can provide

a stable household.  Have a promising career, and a

good income.  Will consider children. References can be

provided.  Reply via telegram or letter to Capt. E. Morrow at

Fort Walla Walla, Washington Territory 

Ellen had shown no interest at first, but Nettie's insistence had gradually won her over to at least writing to the man.  She knew that Nettie, overbearing and fussy as she could often be, had her best interests at heart.  She also knew she was not looking forward to aging into spinsterhood like Nettie.  Not to mention that with her parents both gone, there was no one to run the small farm she grew up on.  Her two aunts and Clarence were all she had left, and the loneliness of the long prairie days could be unbearable.

So as a bit of a lark, she had written in reply.  To her amazement, she had received a response in just under two weeks.  She had opened the letter, heart pounding.  More letters between her and the  Captain followed over several months, the gentlemanly tone of his writing slowly sparking her interest.  She had gone to the lone photography studio in Salina to get her photograph taken to send him.  Three weeks after she had sent it, a reply came.  It was a proposal of marriage.  She was speechless for a while; not having expected it would really come to that, and uncertain how she should reply.  She had written more out of boredom than anything, entranced with the notion of communicating with someone out on the frontier.

Nettie had no such ambivalence.  You don't have to love him, child, she had said, sitting with Ellen one evening on the porch of the small farmhouse, watching the light fade over the prairie.  You can't live on just love, after all.  He's young, handsome, well-employed.  There's nothing for you here.  Your Aunt Liza and Clarence and I are leaving too, you know.  We can't manage the farm by ourselves.  Now with the railroad done, we can endure the trip.  We'll sell the farm and use the money to go west.  I've got a powerful desire to see Oregon.

Ellen had had a feeling that news was coming.  She had risen from the porch swing, gone to her room, and flung herself down onto her bed, tears coming fast.  At sixteen, she didn't feel up to such change.  But before long, she had written Captain Morrow back and accepted.  The money for her trip had come swiftly.

The riverboat reached Omaha late on the third day.  They stepped ashore, Ellen amazed at the bustle of the docks.  She had never seen a city so big.  Nettie wasted no time in getting her to the train station and seeing to it she purchased the proper ticket.  Then they sent a telegram to Captain Morrow announcing that Ellen was to depart the next day.

The Pacific Express departed daily, bound for Sacramento.  The day following their arrival in Omaha, Ellen stood on the train station platform in the morning light, trying hard to keep tears from falling.

Nettie put both hands on her shoulders, smiling broadly, her own eyes moist.  Look at you in that new travelin' dress, she said, softening from her usual stern demeanor.  She suddenly put her hands to her face, stifling a sob.  She saw before her a pretty girl, slender, of medium height, with long wavy light brown hair shot through with golden highlights brought forth by the sunlight.  She had a beautifully shaped mouth, and refined features with a smooth pale complexion.  Her most arresting feature, though, was the golden-brown color of her eyes. 

Child, you're the spittin' image of your mama, God rest her soul.  You'll be a woman soon, sure enough.  Nettie put a hand under her chin as she saw Ellen's lower lip trembling.  Now, you be the young lady your mother meant for you to be, she said.  "A bright future is waiting out west for you.  I think this Captain Morrow will be a fine husband.  And if he doesn't treat you right, he'll have me to answer to!  I'll come all the way to Washington Territory to set him straight, you may be sure of that!"

Ellen managed a small smile and hugged Nettie tightly.  Then she did the same with Liza and Clarence. 

We'll be along to Oregon as soon as we can get the farm sold, Liza said.  Then we'll come for a visit.  Now, young lady, you write to us regular, you hear?  Send a telegram if you can, when the train stops at a station.

I will, I promise, Ellen said, face contorted with sorrow.

The boarding whistle sounded.  Uncle Clarence picked up her bag and carried it for her to the passenger car entry.  Ellen took it from him reluctantly and stepped up into the waiting car.  She walked down the aisle and took a seat at the window.  Within minutes Ellen heard two long blasts on the whistle.  The American Standard 4-4-0 locomotive gave a roar, spun its big drive wheels briefly, and began to move out of the station.  Ellen waved to her family until they were out of sight.  Then she sat back in the seat and broke into heavy sobs.  The tears would be denied no longer.

The locomotive sped westward, a smoking arrow shot across the endless sea of grass.

Ellen cried softly for a long time, unable to cope with saying goodbye to all the family she had left, and to all the world she had ever known—the vast plains that had made her what she was, for better or worse.  All to marry a man I've never met, she thought.  I so hope he is kind.  If he is cruel, I shall run away.  She looked out at the featureless plains rolling by the window.  But to where?  I am too young for this.

She was drying the last of her tears on the sleeve of her new dress when a soft voice interrupted her. 

You look like you could use a friend.

Ellen looked up to see a girl about her own age, or perhaps a bit older, standing in the aisle next to her.  She had short blond hair that covered her head in a mass of tight curls, and blue eyes.  She was smiling broadly.

Ellen put a hand to her face, embarrassed.  Oh! No, I'm—I'm all right, I—

Nonsense, the girl said, taking a seat next to her.  You most certainly are not.  You've been crying since the train left the station.  She extended a hand.  I'm Rachel.

Ellen wiped her cheeks and took the girl's hand briefly.  Ellen.  You can call me Ellie.

Done, Rachel said firmly.  Now, it's not right for girls our age to be alone on this contraption.  I must sit with you a while.  She looked closely at Ellen.  You must be missing someone terribly.

It's—it's more than that, Ellen replied.  I'm a bit scared.

Rachel waved a hand in dismissal.  Well, who wouldn't be?  The west is still quite wild.  I hope we shall not encounter any red Indians on this trip.  But they say we should be safe on the train.

It's not that, so much.  You see, I am to be wed.  I'm going to meet my husband-to-be.

Rachel looked taken aback.  You're going to marry a man you haven't met?

Ellen blushed.  "Well, the truth is—I'm a