The Way West (36 page)

   Mountains walled on either side, mountains hanging over, mountains bare and mountains treed, their rims high-dizzy in the blue of sky. The broad-beamed river, salted from the touch of ocean, barely flowing in between. Waterfalls along the southern wall like frills of snowy ribbon. Moisture in the air, the damp outbreath of sea.
   Time running slowly with the slow-borne boats. Shadowed morning, glinty noon, shadowed afternoon. Nights broody with the feel of mountains, broody with the sense of loss, the campfire sparking small against the greatness of the dark. Rice. Bread. More fish. Sleep. The lap of water on the narrow shore.
   And wind. Wind out of the west, sea wind, fighting oar and current. Wind that guarded Oregon. The Cape Horn wind that drove the boats to shore. Wind that changed its mind, that eased or turned and bellied out the sails and streamed the lines of bank behind.
   A fort bateau, up-bound to the falls for passengers. Hello and goodbye, and we're all right and how far yet to go? Emptiness afterwards, a greater loneliness, the loneliness of water, wind and mountains, of all the might of earth against three flimsy boats.
   The touch of lostness, the touch of sorrow, the inward asking if gentler shores would come, the thought of Dick, called backward by some whisper in his mind.
But, under all, the waiting flush, the singing of the blood when hills would roll away, and real and fair to sight would come the hard-held dream. This time was short. These wind and mountain troubles were the last. Around the turn! Beyond the quiet stretch!
   Hardships, sorrows, partings? But the heart still ready to beat high? Without troubles, Evans thought, rejoicing would be a puny thing, with no roots in the soil of life. How much would he prize Brownie if he hadn't lost another child? How much would he like Oregon except for sweat and grief along the way? Grief bowed the heart but made it richer, so that joy was rich. Some night on the banks of the Willamette he'd hear Rock's throaty growl and would like Oregon the more. Some night he'd see Tod Fairman and his swollen leg. Sometime he'd bend again and find in pigeon eyes the kinship to himself. In some remembering silence he'd hear Dick Summers say, "Take it easy, hoss!"
He held tight as the mountains fell away. He said not yet, not yet, while in his gaze a softer country swam. Not yet, not yet, and then ahead, beyond a grass-green prairie, mellow in the sun, the lines of Fort Vancouver with a great ship standing by! Across from it, unseen in the wooded flow of land, the waters of Willamette!
   Once, long ago, he had come to the Platte and felt greatness. He had reached the Columbia and shuddered to the flowering hope. And now he looked on home. A tide rose in him, so fierce, so bursting in the breast, so close to women's tears, that he feared to meet the others' eyes. Yonder it was, yonder was home, yonder the rich soil waiting for the plow, waiting for the work of hands, for the happy cries of children. They'd made it. They had rolled the miles. And back of them came others. Crossers of plains. Grinders through the dust. Climbers of mountains. Forders of rivers. Meeters of dangers. Sailors at last of the big waters. Nation makers. Builders of the country.
He let himself look around and saw the Byrds' and Fairmans' boats lapping close behind and, on his own, Brownie idle with his sweep and Becky with the home-gleam in her eye and Mercy sitting by her. Mercy who, Rebecca said, was going to have a child. Sweet Mercy who would bring a baby to the house. Blood of his blood, Evans thought. Blood of his blood once removed.
   He winked at his woman and spoke loud above the tremble in his throat. "Becky," he said, "hurrah for Oregon!"