Lonesome Wake

By J.R. Evers

Darkness had completely surrounded me by the time I pulled my body onto the top of that ridge. A cold rain began to fall. I brought myself up onto my right knee. It was empty. There was no wagon. There was no Sarah. With both of my fists clenched tight, I let out a hurling cry that silenced every sound of the night. Even the rain stopped, briefly. I cried right then. Like a baby starving for his mother's bosom, I cried.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outlaws Publishing LLC
• Release date: May 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227406224

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

June 1894

I, Trevor Carson, knew that I was laying on the ground, but I had no idea how I had gotten there, or how long I had been there. The pressure of the ground against the side of my face felt as though the ground was pushing upward ... and pushing up hard.

I managed to get my hands beneath me, and it was all I could do just to roll myself over. The sky was scattered with clouds and it was cold.

I brought my right hand up to my head. Touching it, I felt the gash on my scalp and the crusting of dry blood. 

All I wanted to do was lay right there and die. There was no strength in me to do anything else. I must have passed out again because when I awoke, the sun was high in the sky.

Lifting my head, I could see the tips of my boots and they were covered with blood, as were my clothes and knife, which still hung in its leather sheath on my hip. To my right I could see a rugged incline. I remembered falling, then. I had fallen down that incline. I had been standing on the top and then I had fallen. 

Sarah had been with me up there on the top of that ridge. Where was Sarah, my wife?

A very bad feeling came over me. I had been laying there on the ground for hours. If Sarah was in any way able to, she would have come to my help before now.

Bringing my head and shoulders upwards as far as I possibly could, I managed to get my left elbow beneath me and then my hand. I pushed myself into a sitting position. 

Rocks lay scattered about me. Wagon tracks were within several feet of where I lay. I could hear the rippling sound of water. 

My head was spinning and my tongue was dry. I needed water, and I needed it badly. I managed to get my right leg bent at the knee and brought my boot up close. Then, with my right hand, I tried to lift myself. I could not. My left leg was swollen tight against the pants that I wore and I was unable to bend it at the knee.

Rolling myself back over onto my stomach, I began to drag my body. The sound of the water rippling grew louder, so I kept pulling myself along until I reached the water’s edge. It was a small, narrow stream.

Cupping my hand, I dipped it into the water and brought it up to my mouth. It was starkly cold. I drank and drank of the water, until I was full and felt I could hold no more. Pushing myself back away from the water, I laid my head back down on the ground. As much as I wanted to jump to my feet and rush back up to the top of the ridge, I just lay there. I was completely exhausted. 

The sound of the water circling around the small rocks brought me back to a conscious state of mind. I brought both of my hands to underneath me again and pushed upward. It felt as though I was attempting to push the weight of the world off my chest rather than simply trying to lift myself. I kept pushing against the ground until I had lifted myself high enough to bring my right knee forward and underneath me. I was on one knee with my left leg outstretched.

My head was pounding. I tried to make sense of it all. Sarah and I had been in our wagon on the top of that ridge shortly after breaking camp this morning. I had gotten out of the wagon and walked over to the ridge. I was scouting it to try and find a way to bring our wagon down to the main trail. That was the last thing I could remember.

Everything we owned was in that wagon. We had come from Sidney, Nebraska, and we had been on our way to Laramie, Wyoming. Intent on purchasing some land with the money that we had saved and building a new church. I was a preaching man.

I unbuttoned my shirt and peeled it from my shoulders, then dropped it into the water. I soaked the shirt, then brought it up and placed it to the side of my scalp. The water seemed to melt the dry blood, and there was plenty of it. It was matted all through my hair, down the side of my face, and under my chin. 

The wound on my head was about three inches long and more than a quarter of an inch deep. I had little doubt that a bullet had struck my head.

Dipping the shirt back into the water a couple of times, I squeezed out the excess water—shook it out as best I could, and then slid my arms back into the sleeves. 

I reached for the limb of a tree, and taking hold of it, I pulled myself upward. I stood there, leaning against the tree for a long while. 

I had to get back to the top of that ridge. I had to check on Sarah. The wagon. Looking up at the rugged incline, I knew I would have to find another way. I would have to go around and find a gradual incline.