Eighteen wagons in our train peel off, headed by a man named Clare McCray, who they’ve all elected to be captain. There are tears, knowing the likelihood of ever seeing each other again is slim. We all knew we would part ways eventually, but it doesn’t make it any easier for those who have become close in these months of toil.
Then we are moving on, twenty-two wagons and half a herd, our eyes cast southward toward the rest of our journey. But I’m not thinking about California or the miles ahead. I’m not thinking about land or valleys of green or even the day it’ll all be over. My thoughts are centered on Fort Bridger.
12
THE GREEN
NAOMI
We travel seven more miles to finish out the day, camping near the Big Sandy River, our circle feeling small and oddly quiet. The water is muddy but swift moving, and Abbott says it’s safe to drink, though it tastes unpleasant, especially after the cold, sweet water of the springs we’ve left behind. We fill our canteens with the water left in the barrels before filling them to the top with the swill from the Big Sandy. We have thirty miles skirting the edge of the desert, and water will be hard to come by, especially in late July.
No trains nip at our heels. The only trains behind us are likely Mormons who will end their journey in the Salt Lake Valley, only another hundred miles west of Fort Bridger.
The distance worries everyone and has Mr. Caldwell and others grumbling in Abbott’s ear almost every day. The men sit in council at night, excluding the women, only to go back to their own camps and seek their wives’ opinions. Or maybe that’s just Pa.
Ma’s got a bad cough. She tries to hold it back, but it escapes sometimes and rattles her thin chest. She says she just sounds bad but doesn’t feel bad. The dry desert air makes it worse, along with the dust, and she rides with Wolfe in the wagon all day, the canvas pulled tight, but we can still hear her. She says she needs to alter my green dress.
“You can’t wear it if it doesn’t fit,” she says, but it’s just an excuse to make us all feel better about her shutting herself away. We feed Wolfe with a spoon, dipping it into a cup of goat’s milk and dribbling it into his little mouth, one drop at a time. It’s time consuming and tedious, but more and more, Ma’s milk just isn’t enough.
I haven’t told her that John says he’s buying me something new. It isn’t important. She’s happy for me and happy for him, and she’s glad we’ve decided not to wait.
John joins us for meals, sitting beside me on the ground, his back to his saddle, which he carries to and from our fire every night. Just like before, we do not touch unless we are alone, but the word has spread through the camp that a wedding will take place at Fort Bridger. It’s most likely Webb who has spilled the beans. He’s told anyone who will listen that John is going to be his new brother, and they are going to go into business together when we reach California.
“I been thinkin’ on a name, John,” he says. “Lowry May Mules. And this can be our brand.” He takes a stick and draws a connected M and L in the dirt.
“There’s an idea,” John says, nodding. “I like it.”
“You can be a partner too, Will,” Webb says, not wanting to leave Will out.
“I don’t want to breed mules,” Will says. “I just want to hunt all day. I want to be a trapper like Daniel Boone.” Will doesn’t ever set the bow and arrow down. He shoots all day long at everything he sees. Webb wheedles him daily for a “turn,” but in truth, Webb is more happy herding mules than doing endless target practice. Webb has a lariat that he swings over his head while he rides. Trick and Tumble have grown accustomed to his constant motion in the saddle, and poor Gert has been noosed several times a day since joining the train.
“Nothin’ in the whole world is better than mules, right, John?” Webb asks, dismissing Will’s ambitions.
“Oh, I don’t know, Webb. There might be a few,” John says. He glances at me, and Webb wrinkles his nose.
“I can’t think of any.” Webb pouts. “Not a single thing.”
“What about Ma’s songs and blueberry biscuits and Naomi’s pictures?” Will says, ever the peacemaker.
“I do like those things,” Webb admits. “I wish I had a blueberry biscuit right now. What are your favorite things, John?”
John shifts, not liking the personal nature of the question. “I’d have to think on it,” he says. Ma jumps in to save him.
“My favorite things are buttermilk pie, robin’s-egg blue, Webb’s laughter, Will’s prayers, Wyatt’s courage, Naomi’s sass, Pa’s love, Wolfie’s snores, and Elmeda’s friendship.” Ma smiles at Elmeda, including her in the conversation. The Caldwells, the Binghams, and Abbott have joined us around our fire for coffee and a little conversation. We’ve all been feeling lonelier since the train split in two, and folks have begun to seek each other out at bedtime, almost like we did in the beginning.
“I also love Warren’s stories, Elsie’s good humor, and John’s patience,” Ma adds, pinning John with a rueful grin. It’s true. John has the patience of Job when it comes to Webb.
“What do you love, Pa?” Webb asks, making a game of it.
Pa rattles off a few things—fresh meat, sleep, clean water, a smooth road. All things we haven’t seen much of. Everyone takes a turn until the exercise is exhausted, and we’re all feeling a little forlorn and hungry, reminded of apple tarts and feather beds and warm baths in the kitchen. Elsie Bingham has fallen asleep on her side, her head in her husband’s lap, her arms resting on her belly.
“Will you sing us a song, Ma?” Webb asks when we all fall silent. We’re tired, yet none of us have the energy to ready ourselves for bed.
“I can’t sing tonight, Webb. It tickles my throat. I’ll sing tomorrow when my cough goes away,” Ma says.
“Well, Warren’s on watch, so he can’t tell us a story.” Webb sighs. “Do you know any stories, John?”
A dozen pairs of eyes swing John’s way. We’ve all heard Abbott’s stories more times than we care to, and Pa can’t tell a story to save his soul.
John sets down his cup and straightens, like he’s about to bolt.
“I guess I do,” he says, so quiet that everyone bends their heads toward him to better hear. “I don’t know if this is a true story. Or an old story, or a new story. It’s just something my grandmother told me once, the last time I saw her. It is a story of Hawk, a young Pawnee. Pawnee is what my mother was, what I am too, I suppose—”
“I want to be Pawnee,” Webb interrupts. “How do ya get to be one of those?”
“Well . . . this story is about how Hawk became a Comanche—”
“What’s a Comanche?” Webb asks.
“Webb!” Wyatt growls. “Would ya listen, please? You’re gonna scare John away, and then the rest of us won’t get to hear his story.”
“A Comanche is another tribe. They were the great enemies of the Pawnee. They loved to make war on the Pawnee, and the Pawnee loved to make war on them and steal their horses. One night, Hawk—Kut-a’wi-kutz—who had many horses and was very good at stealing them from the Comanche, sneaked into a Comanche camp. He saw many beautiful horses outside a big lodge.”