Gone West (15 page)

“Do not succumb! Put off the flesh that ye may be purified! Co-mingling was meant for procreation alone, procreation among God-fearing, monogamous husband and wife!” His eyes again ran over the group before him, stopping on women’s faces, as if to point out further offenders.

“As for drunkards, the Bible tells us they become poor, become weighed down by their follies. They see not the shining brass and gold of the Promised Land, but are lain to waste by the lead of mere bullets.” His eyes left the crowd for a moment, resting on the grave dramatically.

“Brother Richman has been laid to rest by the spirit, indeed. But not by the Spirit of God, but the spirits of rum! He was begged by his good mother, pleaded with by his children, prayed over by myself. Did he reject that demon? No! He cradled it yet closer to his body, even as he lies cradling it beneath our feet today. And in choosing drunkenness, he chose Satan! He chose the path of least resistance. He chose the path which could have led all of us here today into death on this vast prairie by the hands of the very heathen I come to save. Brother Richman was nearly our undoing!” The Reverend Winslow paused yet again before making complete his transformation into an avenging prophet.

“But in his downfall is our survival. In his downfall is a message from God Himself! Make thy shoes as iron and brass to keep yourselves from all temptations of the flesh. Use this time of tribulation as we cross the wilderness~much as the ancient Israelites did~use this time as a time of penance. Cleanse yourselves now! Cleanse yourselves by prayer and meditation, by putting away your riotous living, that when we reach the Promised Land we may arrived purified in body and spirit!” His eyes lowered to the body again.

“As for Brother Richman, perhaps his Faith was greater than his weak spirit. Perhaps even now he may be with Almighty God in heaven.” Winslow inspected the mesmerized faces following his every word. His look suggested that his `perhaps’ was a mighty long shot.

“Let us pray that this may be so.”

The Reverend Winslow bowed his head and there was a long moment of silence. Then the preacher strode away from the grave, leaving lesser men to cover the body with dirt.

There was a communal sigh before Grandma began singing “Washed in the Waters”. Her voice rose high, with hardly a quaver, and slowly the others began taking it up, although one or two of the men muttered as how the words should have been
washed
in something a little stronger.

The grave was right in the middle of the trail, and after it was filled they ran a few wagons over Hal Richman, so the Indians wouldn’t find him and dig him up for his clothing.

Nearly a week later, making a doggedly steady ten or twelve miles a day, the Chandler party came into the Platte Basin. Its members finally laid eyes on the river they would follow for the next six hundred miles. The whole train was called to an unusual mid-afternoon halt while the emigrants gawked like pleasure travellers.

Johnny came back to stand by Maggie and the children.

“That’s it, then. We’ve made the first big piece~over three hundred miles.”

Maggie took in the broad, shallow river, broken with sandbanks, then moved her eyes over the treeless plains of green surrounding them as far as the eye could see.

“It has a certain beauty, Johnny, the grasses unbroken, unsoiled by any plow. It looks like it must have at the beginning of the world.”

The dust from the wagons had settled down and she took a deep breath. “And the air. It’s filled with the scent of blossoms. Millions of blossoms, Johnny.”

“Yes, `the bright consummate flower’.” He stooped to pick a sprig of blue and tucked it into her hair. His lips brushed her cheek.

“We will survive it, the next three hundred miles and beyond?”

“We’ll make it, love.”

Maggie gazed over the vast plains again. So much nothingness, yet so much fullness. “Will there be more left behind to pay our dues? More splintered wagons, more graves?”

“Only God can answer that. But He did bring us this far.”

They watched Jamie and the other children wandering over the knee-tall grass, gathering wildflowers. Jamie raced back at last to present a vibrant bouquet to his mother.

“They’re lovely, son. Bless you for the thought.”

He turned shy on her, rubbing one boot toe into the grass. “Ought to bring them for you more often, like Pa. You’re even prettier with flowers about you.”

Johnny was grinning as Maggie tipped up Jamie’s face to give him a kiss. “And you’re as handsome as your father when you bring them for me. There couldn’t be two handsomer or nicer men in the entire world!”

Chandler’s start up signal floated down the line of wagons to be registered by her beaming men. Maggie carefully tucked Jamie’s bouquet into her waistband. She picked up Charlotte and pulled a fistful of yellow dandelion flowers from her mouth.

“You’re a little young yet for bouquets, my girl.”

They began again.

Several days upon the Platte and no buffalo had yet been sighted. Meat supplies were growing low. Firewood stashed in great piles atop belongings in the wagons had dwindled to nothing. The buffalo were not to be seen, but remnants of their passing became more evident. Children were sent out to gather the chips~more delicately called
bois de vache~
and fires began to smell strongly, more richly than the peat to which the chips were compared.

Maggie was sweating over her noonday fire when Gwen walked up.

“Feeling like an Israelite yet, Maggie?”

Maggie smiled. For several days following Winslow’s vehement funeral address the emigrants had walked around in a near state of shock. Now the jokes were beginning to float through the wagons.

“Not quite. But I’m beginning to think like one.” She glanced pointedly at the pristinely blue sky. It had begun to get dry on the trail, very dry. “Does it look like any manna is about to appear from the heavens?”

Gwen followed her glance. “No. More’s the pity.” She pulled her skirts up a few inches and tried to separate the heavy cloth from her dripping body.

“Is the prophet of doom anywhere in sight? I’d dearly love to cool my legs without being accused of harlotry.”

Maggie let out a peel of laughter. “You’re progressing, Gwen. A few weeks back you would’ve denied that a lady’s appendages actually existed.”

Gwen squatted down next to Maggie. “I did mention my ankles in mixed company, you might recall.”

“Yes, with more than a few blushes.” Maggie grinned as she noted Gwen redden again. “Where is your stalwart suitor? Hasn’t he been sharing the noon meal with you and Irish lately?”

“He has at that. And he’s been growing bolder, too. He even suggested that we might complete the daily ritual properly by joining him for breakfast at his fire.”

“The man is smitten, indeed. Will you?”

“Will I what? Oh, the breakfast business. I’m not convinced I’ve progressed that far. A maiden lady requires
some
privacy. Besides, morning is not my best time. The little mirror I brought shows all sorts of insufficiencies in my visage in those early hours~lines and wrinkles I tend to forget with the sweat and dust of the day. But I daresay they’re still there.”

Gwen fanned at her face. “Dear me, but I wish for some of my old skin creams. What I wouldn’t do for the juice of a single cucumber! Even with a bonnet continually in place, my complexion looks closer to an Indian squaw’s!”

“Never mind,” grinned Maggie. “Sam doesn’t seem to care. At least you don’t sprout freckles like I do!”

Johnny walked up then, covered with a fine white dust, heading for the water bag.

“What’s this about freckles, ladies? It appears to me that a freckle would not stand a chance of being seen under all of this dust.” He doused his head thoroughly, then shook it in a close approximation to a wet Bacon. “I haven’t decided what’s worse yet, mud or dust. Notice how they both tend to cling, though? Just like a phrase you can’t get out of your mind, or an acquaintance you’d rather not meet.”

Maggie picked up on his thought. “Who’s been cornering you, Johnny?”

He sank down next to her and made a slight grimace at the frying pan.

“Pancakes again? And we’ve run out of molasses.”

“Honey, too. Not to mention bacon.”

Gwen’s expression turned guilty and she quickly rose. “We’ve some honey left, Maggie. And a slab of bacon, too. Irish and I are overdue on contributions.”

“Thanks, Gwen.” She turned her attention back to her husband. “What’s going on, Johnny? You know I haven’t time to gossip. It must come from you.”

“Jed Smith, Al Jarboe and Martin Simpson.”

She waited. Then, prodding him on, “Yes?”

“They’re giving Chandler a hard time. Questioning his captaincy. Pushing him to travel on the other side of the Platte.”

“Why, Johnny? It just means another dangerous fording. The Platte looks shallow, but I’ve been watching some vicious currents.”

“Maybe quicksand, too. But the grass always looks greener on the other side. I don’t think they’ll do it, Meg, but the dissension so early in the trip puts strains on the whole train.”

“What does Chandler say?”

“The novelty of his captaincy has begun to wear off. `Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown’, as Shakespeare put it. He just shrugs and says he can’t make anybody stay against their will.”

Maggie thought while she tended her dinner. “Has our progress been that slow? The oxen can only be pressed so far. As it is, they get unruly toward the end of the day. They just seem to know that they shouldn’t be pushed farther.”

“Mules and horses would have been faster, without our heavy possessions. We’d be at Fort Laramie already, another three hundred miles along.”

Maggie studied her husband. He was older from the month on the trail. The responsibilities were making him more of a realist, less of a dreamer. She’d never thought of him as a leader of men before. This was changing. The strong tan on his face, and the strengthened muscles were becoming, too. Would he arrive in the Territory a different man? Maybe they would all be different.

“We can’t worry about Simpson and Jarboe, Johnny. You know they’ll do what they decide to do, no matter what we say.”

“That’s the pity of it.”

He lay on his back and stared into the sky. “It will be clear again tonight. It’s time to start Jamie on astronomy lessons. Constellations, and the North Star.”

Maggie watched him lying there. “May I join the class, teacher, or am I too old?”

“You’re never too old to learn, Meg, love. Never even too old to change one’s ways if your mind is strong enough. Most folks just don’t want to, more’s the shame.” He watched her at her tasks, then beckoned her over.

“Then again, some things just get better with repetition. Like the noon greeting I almost forgot.”

He rose halfway to meet her lips and Maggie sank down to settle his head on her lap, accepting the rare moment of love.

The astronomy lessons did not begin that night. Instead, they had a social call from the Pawnees who had been following them. The band of horsemen began raising dust on the horizon just before sunset, and appeared at the camp entirely too soon thereafter. Their rifles were unraised, so the skittish camp had to assume that the visit was to be a peaceful one.

The women and children were ordered to the rear as usual~in this case one side of the circled corral of wagons~while the men hovered together protectively at the far side to meet the intruders.

Trust Jamie to sneak away from Maggie toward the action. He returned a few minutes later, all excitement.

“Ma! Ma! You’ll never guess!”

Maggie had that old strange tingle in her spine again, but tried to appear as calm as possible. “Jamie, you were told to stay with me!”

“Sorry, Ma, but you know what they want?” He could hardly contain his news.

“More food?”

“Their leader, the one all dressed up, his name is Red Eagle. He speaks English! He says he comes to see the strong woman whose hair is like the setting sun, and whose eyes flash like the lightning!”

Maggie felt her stomach sink with a thud. Hazel and Gwen gave her terrified looks.

“May the Lord have mercy. You’re the only one with red hair, Maggie.” Hazel stared at her with awe, fingering her own black bun with unbridled relief.

“Oh, no!” wailed Gwen. “They’re walking this way!”

Maggie tried to pull her eyes away from the stew pot, but the jackrabbit Sam had bagged for their dinner took on a sudden fascination. She stirred the cauldron with her wooden spoon several times, unnecessarily.

“They really are, Maggie!” Hazel backed away nervously, grabbing her children.