All Together in One Place (14 page)

“Maybe, maybe.” He drew his hand along the square line of her jaw. “Maybe they just wanted to be sure the folks they loved were all together in one place. Might have been willing to sacrifice what they had for that. You're climbing mountains of your own making, Tipton.”

“When we get to the turnoff to California, what will you do? Go with the Bacons as you've contracted or with us to California?”

“I keep my word, Tipton.”

He hadn't said to whom.

Tipton felt her fingers tingle. Tyrell bent to kiss her cheek. “I'll see you later. I've got work to do.”

Her arm was numb by the time he was out of her sight.

She stood now, churning the Bacons’ cream. She lifted and dropped the paddle, plunging the cream into butter, wondering when he'd be back. The rhythm of lifting and plunging, lifting and plunging, soothed her.

Matt Schmidtke interrupted the cadence. He rode beneath the fluff of cottonwood seeds drifting from the trees. Tipton watched the boy with that odd white streak in his hair ride over on a big sorrel horse, lean his arms across the pommel, and tip his hat to her.

“Guess you heard that this group of wagons won't be crossing until at least Thursday. Someone tried to cross on their own hook and failed. Caused some animals to bolt on the ferry. Now a wagon's hung up halfway on and halfway off, twisting around with the animals all unhashed. Quite a mess. But you girls'll have a few more days for churning and washing and such if the weather holds.”

“And what will you boys be doing?”

“Tending stock's what I do, and well.” He touched his finger to his hat and left.

He stopped at the Wilson wagon, and Tipton saw her mother stick her head out the oval puckered canvas. Adora nodded as she twisted a single long braid over her shoulder. Spying Tipton, she shouted, “I'll join you, baby.”

“No need to hurry, Mother,” Tipton sighed, her eyes still seeking Tyrell.

Mazy found Jeremy cleaning his Pennsylvania rifle not far from the river. He had a view of the Missouri, of water and wagons and scud clouds and sand. She thought he'd be with the others, helping push wheels at the ferry crossings, using what he saw and what others said as a way of gauging how many more days it would take for them to cross. But he had chosen a solitary spot, and she took it as God's working.

“You're not going to start up with me, are you?” he asked. His blue-striped shirt had smudges of mud on it, as did the cuffs of his yellowed pants.

“I came to see if you had things you wanted me to wash,” Mazy said.

“Did you?” He gazed at her and she dropped her eyes.

“No, I didn't.” She took a deep breath and sat beside him on the log, settling the wide skirts of her wrapper in a clump of cloth she stuffed down between her legs. Pig sniffed around at squirrels holding themselves still, then shifting their
eyes
in that quick way they had “I came to talk, Jeremy.”

“Lately, that means arguing.”

She nodded in agreement. “What's happened between us…leaves more distance than I'm wanting.” He turned his head to her but didn't stop the rifle barrel moving in the cloth he held in his hand. “Mostly my fault,” she said. “I was just feeling so…betrayed.”

“We've discussed this, Maze,” Jeremy said. His voice held warning.

“I know, but not to decidedness. At least not to mine. I left so much behind.”

“Took essentials with you. All one needs.”

“Not the same. I have to grieve what isn't, before I can accept what is What isn't anymore for me is having what we had before. We don't have the farm or furniture. But most of all, we don't have each other. It's the friendship and comfort I miss more than the bluffs, more than anything, I'd say. And I wonder if you miss it too?”

He continued to rub, pushing his fingers into a circle now, against the bluing. She could smell the oil of the cloth.

“You don't have to be afraid to say one way or the other. I just need to know, to help me decide how to make this work or not.”

“We haven't been beyond this much,” he said.

“I know.” She waited, wondering, aware of the throbbing in her throat, the breeze off the bluffs washing down on them. A red-tailed hawk cried in the distance.

Jeremy laid the gun down, braced it barrel up against the tree stump. He lifted her hand, kissed the palm. “I miss you,” he said. “I'd give most anything to burn the thorns between us, but I won't change my mind about going. I don't want to talk further if that's where this is leaning.”

“I've come to a conclusion,” she said, “that if I'm ever to live again in some pleasant place, then being there with you would make it more so than lakes or trees or bluffs. I'd want my friends there. You're my best friend, Jeremy, or always were.”

“You'll be able to go on without, holding the hammer over my head?”

“I believe I'm ready. I won't be all agreeable about the decisions we have to make along the way, but I've committed to the most important one and that's to be with you in a way that's…good. I could have stayed and I didn't. Maybe gotten a job as a day lady or something.” He raised an eyebrow. “I could have. And I could turn back now, but I won't. I felt like a ¨casualty, until I realized that what mattered was you and being with you.”

The dog stopped sniffing, turned to the shouts at the river some distance beyond. His ears pricked forward, and he barked once, low and short

“I want that too,” Jeremy said. He laid the rag down and pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head as his hand rubbed her shoulder. They stared out at the scene before them, of lives in a whirl as much as the water, of hopes borne on wheels so easily shattered. “A little less warring, a little more balance. I'd like that.”

They sat there a long time, staring out at the river and the far side of the island, where the second ferry ventured out. Pig barked low again then stood and faced the Missouri.

“They haven't moved many wagons while IVe been watching,” Jeremy said, his
eyes
following the dogs stare.

“Maybe some sort of congestion.”

Pig barked, a more insistent sound, his tail straight up and still.

“They'll work it out,” Jeremy said and lifted her chin to him and kissed her, a warm and welcoming touch. More than the kiss of a friend.

Pig deserted them. He pushed past Mazy, knocking her over. “Hey!” she said as she caught herself, her fingers sinking into the dirt behind her. Pig barked a warning as his black paws grabbed at the hoof-hardened earth. He headed toward the river.

“What's startled him?” Jeremy said, helping Mazy up. “Must have gotten the scent of a rabbit or something.”

“He's so purposeful,” Mazy said. She watched the dog plunge into the swirling river, the brown wash bobbing him like a cottonwood branch. “Oh, Jeremy, he'll drown!”

“Not likely. Strong as an ox, that dog. Current's swift though. He'll end up at the low end of the island.”

The dog's dark head bobbed like a burl before making its way toward the strip of land that sliced the river. Once there, a dash Mazy recognized as Pig sped toward the first ferry, weaving through the legs of oxen and horses and the arc of wagon wheels before disappearing into willows.

6
the pace of progress

Jeremy shaded his eyes. “Makes no sense, him rushing off like that.” He reached a hand for Mazy, his rifle gripped in the other. “Crazy dog. Hope he doesn't frighten someone's team now.” He shook his head. “More trouble than he's worth.”

“Don't ever say that, not even in funning,” Mazy said. People had gathered along the banks, pointing and stretching their necks to see through distant trees.

“Some wagon groups have a rule about dogs, that they be put down, so they don't alert Indians or upset the stock.” Jeremy blew his nose.

“I've seen a greyhound and one of those pug dogs around. We'd leave any train that makes that rule,” Mazy said. “Wouldn't you?

“Faster than a ferret,” Jeremy said.

“I do believe that is the nicest thing you've ever said about Pig. It's reassuring to know you'd never let them vote that way.”

“Maybe I should encourage it,” Jeremy said. He held her elbow now, to steady her as they moved toward the commotion along the bank. “That way we'd end up alone on the trail at last, just our wagons and Pig, and I could blame it on the dog.”

Mazy looked at him from the side of her eye, wishing she could be more certain of when he jested.

Suzanne lived inside uncertainty. If someone touched her elbow, she startled. If she heard a swishing, she assessed: animal scratching or a man breathing? The wind sighing or water rushing? A dozen questions for every scent or touch or taste or sound. The effort fatigued her, and yet she needed the sounds, to tell her where she was. Now here she sat on a hard wagon seat, her son, Clayton, bouncing beside her, his soft fingers clinging to her neck. She could smell his diaper. It needed changing. Bryce stood below her. She could hear him talking to the ferryman, hear the rush of water splash against the logs that carried them farther and farther into uncertainty, deeper into her darkness. She had no “sentinel” as Cicero called them, no eyes to be her guide.

The cracking sound broke into her mind, then the shouts. “Hold it! Hold ‘er back, man! Check the chock!”

It wasn't Bryce's voice. Her skin charged the silky hair on her arms as though she stood in a field during a lightning storm. Her husband's voice, raised to the oxen—she heard that next, then felt the vibration of the wagon moving and shifting. She grabbed for the sideboard, clutched for Clayton, his chubby knees poking her side with each half squat he made.

“Bryce? What's happening?” She started to stand.

“Oh, Lord,” she heard him say, away, near the lead team. “Whoa, Breeze! What now, what now. My wife, Clayton! Someone, get them off there!”

She felt vibration, pitch, and yaw, someone wrenching Clayton from her side. She heard the child wail, smelled tobacco on whoever grabbed him, felt the weight of the wheels and wagon shift. “Clayton?” Strong fingers reaching for her, her dress tearing; then the splintering of wood, the heave of the wagon, shouts and cries and animals baying, her own body sliding and the smell of wetness and the flap of wind against canvas, her hands wet and slippery, and the putrid, cold water sucking, pulling her deeper into darkness.

Mazy and Jeremy counted. Their wagon was number eleven to roll onto the ferry the following Sunday morning, May 23. A makeshift rail had been pounded onto the side by the Mormon operator to repair the damage done when the load had shifted the day before. It was the Cullver wagon that had gone through and hung up, causing more delay.

Mazy shivered at the sight of the splintered section. The ferryman watched her and spoke out loud. “Their oxen startled and rolled right through it,” he said. “That the dog, then? He's yours?”

“He is.” The dog panted, sitting beside her, staring out at the water, turning to look up at her when she talked. Mazy scratched at Pigs ears.

“Headed from so far out. Think he heard that woman? Thought the whole ferry'd go. Her husband almost had her in, but the wagon went and threw her like a stone Who'd a thought a dog could have dragged her?”

“Drowning people often bring their rescuers down, I've heard.”

“Panic,” the ferryman said, nodding his head. “Kills the same as a lead sinker.”

“Pig's a strong swimmer,” Mazy said.

“Don't envy any that'll be traveling with that man and his wife,” the ferryman said. “Greenhorns. Oxen just two-year-olds. Shouldn't think about making this crossing with animals less than five. Too unruly.” He slapped at a horsefly biting on his thigh. “Guess they got money to replace it, though a good hand with an ox'd be worth more.” He held the rudder of the ferry against a blast of wind, settled it, then said, “Woman like that, pitiful. And her with a babe at her side. Bad omen, you ask me.”

“Nonsense,” Mazy told him. She pulled at the short jacket covering her bloomer costume. The wind whipped at the full pant legs that made her think of pictures she'd seen of Persians. “That's pure superstition. The woman has enough to worry over without carrying a belief that she's cursed in some way.”