“It’s the minerals in the water that makes it taste funny. Some folks like it. They say it soothes the stomach.”
Four miles beyond the soda springs, the range of mountains directly before us ends in an abrupt and jagged point, and the Bear River we’ve been following for miles makes a sharp curve around it and heads back in the direction from whence it came. We’ve made Sheep Rock, where the trail splits again, another parting of ways. North to Fort Hall and the Oregon Trail, straight west to the old California road.
“It’s only noon, but let’s stop and make camp,” Abbott says. “We have a hundred thirty-two miles of dry, hard travel ahead of us, so we’ll take the rest of today to rest the teams and gird up. Plan on pulling out first thing in the morning.”
“We told Wyatt and John we would wait at Sheep Rock,” I protest, trying to maintain my composure.
“I told John we’d take the cutoff at Sheep Rock,” he says, his voice gentle. “But he knows we can’t wait.”
“What if we wait and he doesn’t come?” Mr. Caldwell chimes in. “Then we’ve waited for nothing.”
“He’ll come,” Abbott reassures me, patting my shoulders. “I have no doubt. You watch—he’ll pull in here before tomorrow morning, you mark my words.”
I mark his words, but John doesn’t come, and the train pulls out a few hours after dawn, our teams watered and fed, our barrels filled, and our path set. I leave a note and another strip of my yellow dress tied around a tree. I try not to doubt, but even Ma’s grown pensive.
“They’ll take care of each other,” she says, “just like they did before,” and I nod and try to breathe, doing my best to hold back the tears. We don’t discuss it; we don’t voice our fears or wonder out loud what’s holding them up, but I know Ma’s thoughts are churning too, and she’s saying her prayers, just like I am.
It doesn’t help that my menses have started, soaking my bloomers, chafing my legs, and making it hard to keep clean. I tell myself it’s good that John is gone. Maybe when he returns, my time will have passed, and I won’t have to worry about being close to him the way I want to.
We make ten miles over sage and lava rocks before Abbott blows his horn and veers away from the road, searching for a spring he’s certain isn’t far. We’ve just begun making our circle around a pathetic patch of green a couple of miles off the road when Pa’s wagon hits a rock and busts a wheel, and Elsie Bingham, sitting on the back of Tumble, tells us she’s through.
“I can’t go no farther,” she moans. “I gotta get down.” Her pains have started, and she’s afraid she’ll tumble from the mule. Ma and I help her slide from the saddle and support her as she steadies herself.
“It could be a while yet, Elsie,” Ma says. “It’s your first one, and you know all the stories. The best thing you can do is rest now, while the wagons are stopped and the pains are still far apart.”
“All right,” Elsie says, nodding. “But . . . if it doesn’t come tonight . . . will you stay with me in the morning? I know we gotta keep moving, but I don’t know if I can.”
“It’s gettin’ dark, and our wheel is broken,” Ma says, smiling a little. “So we’re not going anywhere.”
“Well, thank the Lord for broken wheels,” Elsie breathes.
“Ma and I will stay with you as long as you need,” I agree.
I just hope John and Wyatt don’t pass us by back on the road. They won’t know where we are.
JOHN
When the mules begin to prick their ears and lift their noses, I straighten on the torturous wooden seat and scan the horizon like I’ve been doing all day. We are heading west now, and the sun is high and the dust is thick, making the way before us hard to see. We should catch up to the train today, and the mules’ sudden interest has my heart quickening in anticipation. We passed Sheep Rock this morning, and I found Naomi’s yellow streamer and the note she nailed to a tree. She put a date at the top and the time they pulled out—yesterday morning—so they can’t be far now.
“You see something, John?” Wyatt asks, grimacing against the sun and gritting his teeth against the dust. He’s taken a position beside me on the seat, rifle in hand like we’re driving the stage.
“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t see anything. But I’m guessing the mules know Trick and Tumble are out there.”
“I thought we’d have caught up to them by now,” Wyatt says. “They got farther than I thought they would.”
We’re late. Days late. Jefferson Jones came through, but not before I almost killed him. He spent a day tinkering in his shop and another assembling the wagon, only to realize he was missing a part. We went back to the ravine, and he puttered around until he found what he wanted, losing half of another day. At the end of the fourth day, I told him I was leaving in the morning and taking my mules—all of them—with or without the wagon. He got angry, but then he got serious, and the wagon was ready to go at dawn, provisions loaded. I didn’t give him Samson. I gave him Gus, and he didn’t argue. I harnessed up the other six to share the load and tied Kettle to one side and the dun to the other.
We’ve been riding hard and fast, resting for the darkest hours of the night and rising well before dawn. The mules are holding up. The wagon is holding up, and Wyatt is downright cheerful. I am not holding up, and I am not remotely cheerful, and were it not for the notes and the strips of yellow in the trees telling me all is well, I would be a damn sight worse.
“They might still be a ways ahead,” I say. “Mules are sensitive. They usually know what’s coming a while before anyone else does. We’re getting close, running over miles where the train traveled not too long ago. That might be all it is.” But I let the mules lead, letting them set the pace. Their hooves begin to eat up the ground, their eager pursuit tightening my hands on the reins. When they start to slow of their own accord, chests heaving, a cloud of dust rising around us, and then come to a stop altogether, I let the dust settle and stay put. My eyes sweep the distance, scanning the brush and surveying the rocky outcroppings, looking for a line of white tops against the muted greens and browns of August. Heat and silence and a long stretch of no one greet my gaze.
“It’s hard to tell with all the dust, but doesn’t that look like smoke?” Wyatt asks, pointing at a grayish funnel rising off to our right. It’s far enough away that I can’t make out what’s on fire. “I think it is.” He sniffs at the air. “Smell that?”
I do. But that is not what has caught my eye. Directly in front of the column of smoke are two small figures, no bigger than the freckles on Naomi’s nose. I watch, not certain what I’m seeing. The sparse trees of the West have fooled more than one man into thinking he’s got company.
The mules have begun to stomp and shimmy, but the dun is perfectly still, his head high, his nose turned in the direction of my gaze.
“Whoa, mules. Whoa,” I reassure them. They have their ears pinned back like they’re sensing a watering hole being guarded by a wolf and aren’t sure whether they want to risk an approach.