The Death of Emil Schulman

Emil was the eight-year-old son of Leon and Hilda Schulman of Toledo. Two days before the train was scheduled to arrive at Fort Kearny Emil woke with fever, which grew worse during the day’s travel despite his mother’s efforts. By noon the boy was delirious. An hour before the train halted for the day the boy spoke his last intelligible words. His mother heard him ask, is Grösspapi coming to supper? By the time the wagons stopped, the boy was dead.

Hilda refused to allow anyone to move the boy until dawn, when she collapsed into the arms of her husband, who wrapped her in a quilt and held her in the bed of their wagon until she fell asleep. Abigail Miles and another woman bathed the boy’s body while Thomas and two other men dug a grave and fashioned a small coffin from several crates.

The train decided to suspend travel for two days.
Early in the morning of the third day Miles approached Cutter to ask a favor: Would Cutter and his friends look after the train’s stock while the families gathered for a short funeral service? The shallow grave was a quarter of a mile away from camp, on the crest of a saddle-shaped hill crowned with two small cedar trees. The service would last perhaps a half hour – prayers, a few hymns, a Bible reading. Then the train would hitch up and embark.
Of course, the outlaw said. We’ll be honored to do this for the poor lad’s family.

When the last of the emigrants had assembled on the hill Cutter and Wilson spent fifteen minutes tossing the wagons for clothing, weapons, cash and jewelry; the boy, Jumper and Cole saddled horses selected by Cutter and rounded up the cattle and mules. Before he mounted up Cutter tossed the boy a pepperbox pistol, two shirts, and a canvas satchel containing sugar, coffee and a small sack of beans. Watch and learn boy, he said.

The thieves took the herd and headed southwest, fording the river a mile from the train campsite. Two milk cows became mired in quicksand, but Cutter made no attempt to retrieve the animals; he shot them.

They pressed on through the afternoon and early evening, halting briefly to recruit the animals north of the Little Blue River. As Wilson and Cole watched the herd Cutter, the boy and Jumper ate a cold lunch of dried apples and jerky in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

When Cutter finished he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and smiled. Boys, he said, scratching his goatee, I believe we’ll find this country to our liking. These green sonsabitches trail out here with money and property fairly hanging from their pockets. They plead with us to relieve them of their burdens. ‘Will ye watch our stock?’ Hell yes, Reverend. We’ll watch your stock all the way to Santa Fe. He laughed and looked at the boy. What do ye think boy? Are ye ready to be rich?

The boy nodded his head. Ready as hell, he said.

They rode on through the night and all the next day, stopping briefly for water and to rest the animals. By the evening of the third day they could see trees lining the banks of the Republican River, which they would cross and follow west.

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It was a week before Miles and the other families would get their wagons hauled to Fort Kearny. The fort, established seven years earlier as an army post and resupply depot for wagon trains, was in turmoil; General William S. Harney was outfitting an expedition to punish the Sioux for the Grattan massacre at Laramie the previous year. The commander of Fort Kearny, Major Albermarle Cady, met with the heads of the train’s families and urged them to return to Nebraska City and wait there until the following spring.

The country between here and Laramie is overrun by bands of hostiles, he said, and if your thieves were headed west, more than likely their scalps and your stock belong to the Sioux by now. Your party is not equipped adequately to defend itself out there. The major rose from behind his desk and walked to the window of his sod headquarters building. He pointed at the supply wagons assembled on the fort’s parade ground. Within a fortnight, he continued, we shall load those wagons and embark against the savages. We will be in the field for at least a month, perhaps longer, and will be unable to render assistance to travelers should the need arise.

He turned around to face the room.
You have already suffered grievously, gentlemen. Don’t compound the damage. Your women and children will be at great risk if you proceed.
The words hung over the room like a pall.

That night after supper the emigrants held a meeting to decide a course of action. They built a large fire, and in the crackling yellow light each man gave his opinion. The majority favored a return to Nebraska City. Miles was the last to speak. He removed his hat.

We cannot pretend our situation is without hazard, he began. I have held counsel with my wife and daughter about it. And I know that for some, the difficulties will prevent further travel. I understand that. I sympathize. Were I and my family less committed to reaching our destination, we too might turn our wagon around. But for us, there will be no return. I do not say this to debate any decision to quit the trail; I say it so ye who wish to continue, but who may be doubtful of a shared commitment, will know that there are yet those who will pursue the accomplishment of our original purpose. I have discussed this matter with Mister Chambers, and have received his oath to continue to guide us. And it is with his help, and under the care of our Lord, and with his blessing, that we shall continue.

He stopped there, put on his hat, shook hands with the men standing on either side of him and walked out of the firelight. The result was that seven of the twelve families decided to continue. It took two more weeks to secure the supplies and animals they needed, but on August first they left Fort Kearny: eight wagons, 53 head of oxen, mules and horses, and 56 men, women and children.