A Love So Bold
by Anon Allsop

I will try to upload a Chapter a week. The story is complete but very large - thus the reason to release it in smaller chapters. It was originally intended to be a novel, but I don't have the desire to pursue publishing. I want to thank my most trusted Editor, J.P. for all of his help on making this story be all it can be, without him, in my opinion - this story wouldn't be half as good. Hope you enjoy!

Preface: Origins of the Amulet of Asclepius

The amulet was a thin medal of hammered silver, an ancient necklace which dated back to before the time of Christ. It first came to knowledge with the early Greeks, said to have been imbued with great mystical powers, forged directly by the hands of the gods. On one side of the amulet was a clear, blue sapphire teardrop that appeared to have a sunburst deeply etched within the backside of the beautiful stone. On the reverse side was an engraving that looked somewhat similar to the Rod of Asclepius, a snake wrapped around a staff. It was believed to have been suspended on a thin but unbreakable chain, thought to have been made from woven strands of Zeus' own silver hair.

If touched to a person, the amulet was thought to cure the individual of any injury or illness. Should the amulet be touched to a person who was recently deceased, and if that dead had young and dependent offspring, there was a possibility of the amulet transforming the holder inadvertently, just to save the life of the orphan, especially if the child had no way of fending for itself.

It was created to be used only as a last resort to save a life, and only a chosen few caretakers knew its true origin. Over time, several who held onto it for safekeeping began to use it on themselves so they could experience unheard of life spans. Their addiction to the power left them feeling as though they too were immortal. They had begun comparing their own lives upon equal footing with the gods! Upon hearing of this, it was said that Zeus became furious at their blasphemy; he took it from them and threw it into a far distant land where it became lost to the ages ever since...

-One-

With a failed farm behind them, Ezrah Garrett and his family set out one early April morning in 1860. Frost hung thick on the bushes and grassy low areas, almost looking as though it were snow. They only had their courage, a solid wagon, two good oxen, an old milk cow, and his father's prize possession: a thoroughbred race horse.

Ezrah had grown up along the banks of the Wabash, near the small town of Delphi, Indiana. Ezrah and his parents began their trek into the west, following the dream of good land for the taking in the far off Oregon territory.

The Garrett family was no different from many families who set out for the west. Illness, lack of water, too much water, intense cold, sweltering heat, and Indians all impacted them along their way. While this writing includes his trip into the west, it is about a more personal journey young Ezrah took in getting from there, to Oregon.

Tired of the constant pitching of their wagon, Ezrah eventually begged his father to allow him a chance to ride the great black horse. His father relented and pulled his wagon out of the line and quickly showed him how to saddle the sleek black thoroughbred, aptly named Blackie.

Under his father’s watchful eye, Ezrah rode the horse slowly alongside the wagon, ever careful to not do something that would have this honored privilege revoked.

"Keep it slow, boy," his father would say. "Don't want him to stumble and break a leg. That's good, son, don't ride too close to our wheel."

"Are you sure he'll be okay on Blackie? It is a powerful horse and he is a young boy." Mother worried as she watched Ezrah sitting confidently upon the back of the big horse.

"He’s nearly a man honey; only three months shy of his eighteenth birthday! You mother the lad too much - besides we don't want Blackie to turn green from the lack of riding, the lad is doing the horse good...and I'm pretty sure that Blackie is helping the boy as well."

Ezrah could barely hear his parents discussing him in the background, because their conversation was nearly overwhelmed by the continual squeaking of their wagon's wheels. He pulled his kerchief over his face for the dust being stirred up from the leading wagons made the air incredibly hard to breathe.

"Don’t go too far out, Ezrah," his mother shouted.

"I'm okay, Mother; I am only as far up as our oxen. I think they like me walking beside them," the youth replied, then quickly drew his kerchief back over his nose for the dust that the wagon train was kicking up.

His father looked skyward, pursed his lips and called out, "Going to be raining soon, keep him close."

They rolled along for a few miles; the terrain always looked the same as what they left behind. In the distance, the sky was streaked with rain falling from a far off cloud. A worried glance that was exchanged from wife to husband spoke volumes, so his father finally called Ezrah in.

The wagon was slowed and Ezrah slid to the ground and quickly tied the horse alongside their milk cow. They only stopped long enough for the youth to remove the small racing saddle and were quickly on their way, once again in their place within line.

He settled in beside his father upon the hard seat, and his mother now behind them inside the wagon. The cool storm wind had intensified and was too much for her delicate condition. She was pregnant, nearly four months along.

They knew of the dangers of trying to give birth along the way, but it could not be helped. Just beginning to show, the young mother prayed that they would be able to get close to their destination before their baby was born. After Ezrah, she gave birth to two who died very young; one was stillborn, the other from illness. This child would be her third and final try to get the young girl she coveted.

Thunder rumbled long and low and lightning flashed across the sky. Ezrah studied his father for signs of concern but he found none. The man hid his worry well. "Just a lightning storm is all, Ezrah. We'll be fine."

"Will it rain?"

"It may." His father glanced back toward the horse tied behind their wagon. "I'm more worried that Blackie will get spooked. He doesn't care for storms much."

"I don't care for storms either," snapped a voice from deep within the wagon.

Both father and son glanced back into the wagon, turned and shared a knowing glance and smiled.

"Pa, do you think we'll see any Indians?" Ezrah asked with a slight amount of trepidation.

His father shrugged, "Not sure, son, but I hope we don't." He again scanned the sky and the deepening clouds, "Ever since that fool soldier, Lieutenant Grattan, stirred up the Indians back in 1858, there's been hell to pay trying to head west."

“Do tell, Pa,” he asked softly, the wonderment evident in his voice.

Always eager to hear about battles, Ezrah perked up and turned his head toward his father as he continued. "Seems an old cow wandered away from a wagon train and this tribe of Indians found it. You see, son, they were hungry and thought it was a gift from the Great Spirit and... Well they ate it. When the Lieutenant found out he had a parlay with them Indians and was told that it had been eaten."

"What happened next? Was that what caused the battle?" Ezrah asked.

"Well those Indians were saddened that they ate someone's cow and offered to give a horse in trade but the Lieutenant Grattan wouldn't hear of it. He had his solders fire on the tribe and killed and wounded many of them Indians."

"So then it was over?" the youth asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Oh no, you see the chief wouldn't let his braves fire back at them soldiers… that made Grattan powerful angry and he had his men fire at the Indians again and they killed that peace-loving chief. After that, all hell has broken loose and hasn't let up since." He turned back toward the oxen and watched a small patch of sunlight race across the land toward them.

"I guess that would make them angry at us," Ezrah reasoned.

"Like hitting a hornets’ nest with a stick." He sighed and looked at his son with a smile, “The lesson there would be?”

Ezrah grinned, “Don’t be hitting no hornets’ nest with a stick.” This made his father laugh out loud; he shook his head and nickered to his oxen. It began to rain but it was short lived, a swift storm that was soon pushed beyond them. More of the little patches of sun racing across the prairie could be seen, and eventually the sun returned and the air grew still and dry.

"Can I ride Blackie again?" Ezrah looked toward his father hopefully.

"Not today, Ezrah, maybe you can ride him tomorrow sometime." He noted the disappointment on his son's face so he continued, "I'm figuring that it's going to be a long haul, so it would just make more sense right now that you learn how to drive the wagon."

"Are you sure, John? He is just a lad," chimed the worried female from behind.

He looked at his mother in frustration; at nearly eighteen many young men his age were married by now with families of their own. He was growing tired of her smothering him, wanting a chance to make decisions on his own.

Ignoring her concern, he placed the reins in Ezrah's hands. "We'll have you spelling me in no time." His wife sighed and he spoke with his head turned so she could hear, "It'll be good, I may want to sleep or walk... he can give me a break from time to time."

"Am I doing alright?" Ezrah asked.

"You're doing just fine, son." He leaned back, propped his feet on the front of the wagon, pushed his hat back and folded his arms against his chest. "Wake me when we get to Oregon."

The comment caused Ezrah to smile; he enjoyed helping his parents out on such a long journey. His father was right - it was time that he learned to pull his own weight on the trail, and he knew there would be plenty enough of chances to prove himself along the way.

-Two-

The wagons continued to roll westward, as days piled upon days. The constant groan of the wagons and lowing of the oxen seemed to make the days drag on. The dust was unbearable; it made Ezrah itch and nearly long for a stream to bathe in. His mother was now showing signs of the baby. Ezrah knew they hoped for a girl but inwardly, he felt a boy would be much better suited for this land.

At nightfall, the wagon train circled up for the evening. His father always pointed their wagon's tongue toward the North Star so when they woke up, they knew exactly which way to head out.

Ezrah noticed the men exchanging odd glances that evening. There was concern in their expressions. Even though the lad was inexperienced to the ways of the west, he knew they were in Indian country, and all of them would have to be ever vigilant. Their very lives depended upon it.

Morning broke, and found the little family two days west of Fort Laramie. The wagon train rolled slowly along, Ezrah was riding about a hundred feet to the right of his own wagon. His father allowed his son a bit of freedom to go out and come back, showing his trust he had in him. While the father was quite sure of his son skill, Ezrah's mother was constantly on pins and needles with worry.

Ezrah rode Blackie up a few wagons, but still within sight of his father. He wanted to show off to his friend the big black thoroughbred he had been bragging about the night before. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead, for the day was hot and very dry. Far off to their right, dust was hanging high in the air. It was evident to the boy that a dust storm was approaching.

Wheeling Blackie around, he trotted back to his father. "Pa, looks like a dust storm is fixing to blow over us." He pointed as the horse pranced, causing him to continually adjust the direction he had been pointing.

His father rose up in the wagon, studying the area his son indicated. "Not sure if that's a storm, son - I'll keep an eye on it though."

As Ezrah rode back up to his friend’s wagon, another rider approached his father, "What do you make of that, Lem?"

"Ezrah just showed me the same thing; he thought it was a dust storm but I'm not sure." He pulled the cork on his canteen and took a quick swallow.

"You don't suppose it’s Indians, do you?" the mounted rider worried.

"It's probably just buffalo. They can move in a herd large enough to kick up a big cloud of dust." He again glanced in the direction of the great cloud and looked over at the mounted man, "Probably should let the Wagon Master know, just in case."

As he began to ride off, Ezrah's father called out to the other man, "I wouldn't say anything to anyone else; you don't want to spook the whole train if there isn't anything to it."

The man slowly nodded and then quickly moved off to find the Wagon Master. As he rode past Ezrah, the lad trotted the big black thoroughbred over to the side of the wagon. "Keep within eyesight, Ezrah."

"Okay Pa," the boy replied, and then looked again toward the advancing cloud, "What did the man think it was?"

"Probably nothing... thought it might just be a big herd of buffalo." He forced a smile to his son and continued to study the dust as it approached.

"Maybe it's soldiers from Fort Laramie?" Ezrah offered.

His father nodded, "That's a good suggestion, son. I hadn't thought of that."

Ezrah turned the big horse, moving slightly away from the wagon. He wanted to see what a column of cavalry soldiers might look like, two or four abreast with their grand pennant flying overhead, wearing their smart blue uniforms. Perhaps it just may be a great migrating herd of bison, as vast as his eye could see. One thing was for certain, the dust cloud was getting closer.

The teen hesitantly glanced toward his wagon, and saw that his father was preoccupied trying to turn the wagon and avoid hitting a large rock. Ezrah slipped the big stallion behind an outcropping of rock and worked his way toward the dust cloud. As he broke out around a boulder, he knew that he was almost on top of whatever was creating the dust. From where he currently was, he could tell that it was not a storm.

From his left and in the distance, he heard a rifle shot and then another. The horse stepped into the open and he felt his stomach take a sudden fall into the pit of his belly. Hundreds of Indians were swarming the few wagons already attempting to form a circle.

As the Indians hit the wagons hard, shots rang out sounding more like a battle than anything that Ezrah had ever heard. "Pa... Ma!" he cried as he wheeled his father's horse back up the trail.

He stood up in the saddle, tears running down his cheeks, trying to figure a way to get back with his parents. Just as his father had implied, the Indians were swarming the train like angry hornets, racing completely around and between them. They had hit the train so quickly that the lead wagons weren't able to turn into the circle for protection.

He sought out his parents; he could only see dust and Indians, each one with their voices raised and whooping their call of victory. Ezrah covered his ears and cried. Eventually as the maelstrom before him subsided, the shooting became less frequent until there was a deafening silence that enveloped all.

Ezrah stayed concealed until the Indians finally left, taking anything worthwhile with them as plunder. By then it was well past dark. Slowly he walked the big black horse down into the scene of the massacre; everywhere he looked lay men, women and a few of the older children. Wagons were burning, and smoke drifted across the lonesome prairie. In the matter of what had been minutes, everything was gone.

He was trembling. “Ma…Pa!” he shouted as he walked Blackie among the burned out wagons.

He found his parents’ wagon; one of the oxen had been killed, and it lay where it had fallen. The wagon was on its side, his father lay beneath it. Ezrah raced to him and dug at the ground beside his father until he could pull his body from under the long wooden bows that made up the frame for the canvas cover. He had three arrows deeply imbedded in his chest, these he removed, crying all the while he was doing it. Tears coursed down his cheeks as he tugged and pulled him away from the wagon, until he was a safe distance from the burning flames.

He looked back and raced to locate his mother, being a smaller woman he was able to carry her much more easily to where his father lay. As he knelt beside them crying he felt a touch upon his arm. His eyes followed to where he felt the touch, it was his father's hand.

"Pa? You're alive!" he quickly wiped the tears away and hugged him.

His father grasped his arm and held him tightly, "Leave us. There is nothing you can do for us now. Ma is gone...I'll soon follow."

"No, Pa, I'm not going to leave you!" Ezrah again began to cry; his father slowly lifted his hand and touched his son's cheek.

He swallowed hard, looking up at his son with tears in his eyes. He licked his lips, “In the wagon…in the bottom drawer, there’s a tin.” He winced and coughed, “That tin has all the money left from the sale of our farm and what we could save, if it ain’t burnt, get it.” He motioned for Ezrah to go, and within moments he had returned holding the blackened tin.

“Open it…” His father wheezed. “There’s $954.00 in there…take it, build the horse ranch I dreamed of.” He arched his neck in pain, and then coughed up blood.

"Get back on Blackie; put as much distance as you can from here. I'll die well knowing you are still alive." Tears began to form in his father's eyes as he gently reached out and took his wife's hand. "Go on, son; don’t worry about us... leave before they come back."

Ezrah slowly stood and wiped his tears; his father turned his face toward his wife and gradually closed his eyes in death's eternal sleep. Tears flowing and barely able to see, Ezrah sought out Blackie and fell against the saddle. When he was able to compose himself, he hesitantly climbed atop the horse. He sat quietly for a moment looking upon his parents for what he knew would be the last time, angry at himself for riding out on his own, but knowing that if he hadn't he would most likely be dead as well.