Wilderness Double Edition 19, page 17
Bert had thanked the man, and later, at Rosemary’s insistence, they had gone to Harry Trapp and questioned him. The pilot was a lanky rail of a man whose beard needed trimming and whose clothes were in bad need of a washing. He had listened impatiently to Bert, then swore.
“Who’s been filling your ears with this hogwash? Some townsman, I bet, who’s never set foot on the prairie in his life.” Trapp had drawn himself up to his full height. “I’ve led fourteen trains to Oregon. Fourteen! And the one time some pilgrims were lost along the way, I never hear the end of it.”
“What happened to them?” Rosemary had inquired.
“Stupidity, ma’am,” Trapp responded. “They were killed by their own stupidity. They thought they knew better than me. Halfway to Oregon we passed through a nice little valley with plenty of grass and water. They decided they’d rather settle there than go the rest of the way.”
“Why would they do that?” Bert asked.
“They were tired, Mr. Spencer. Tired of being on the go twelve hours a day. Tired of the heat and the bugs. Tired of the toil.” Trapp had looked at each of them in turn. “I won’t lie to you folks. There are no guarantees any of us will reach Oregon alive. There will be long stretches where water is mighty scarce, and game scarcer. There are Injuns to deal with. Grizzlies, buffalo, wolves. A hundred and one things that can kill you dead if you don’t keep your mind on what you’re doing. For every ten pilgrims who make it to Oregon, there’s one or two who don’t.”
‘‘Those people who wanted to settle halfway there?” Rosemary prompted when he fell silent.
“Oh. I almost forgot.” Trapp scowled at the memory. “I talked myself blue in the face, but they wouldn’t listen. They insisted on staying. I had no choice but to go on with the rest, so I left them.” His scowl deepened. “On the way back, I stopped to see how they were doing. They were dead. Wiped out. Every last man, woman, and child.”
“My word,” Bert said. “Who was to blame?”
“Hostiles. I couldn’t tell which tribe. But it wasn’t a pretty sight, I assure you. And some gents hereabouts have held it against me ever since.”
“It wasn’t your fault, though,” Bert declared.
Harry Trapp smiled and placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “You’re a man after my own heart, Mr. Spencer. Try telling these townsmen that, though. Some claim I’m a bad wagon master, but there are wagon masters who have had more people die on them than I have.” He winked conspiratorially. “The truth of the matter, if you ask me, is that it hurts the merchants where it matters most. They’re getting rich selling provisions and they’re afraid they’ll lose business. Afraid if word gets out, fewer folks will head to Oregon.”
His explanation had seemed reasonable to Rosemary. Bert and her discussed it at length and decided to see their adventure through to the end.
“Ma!” a youthful voice hollered from the rear of the wagon, bringing Rosemary’s reverie to an end. Twisting, she beheld her youngest leaning out the back of the Conestoga and pointing to the south.
“What is it, Edward?”
“Are those buffalo, you reckon?”
Rosemary squinted against the harsh glare of the late afternoon sun. Sure enough, on the far horizon were several vague dots, but whether they were buffalo or something else was impossible to say. “I don’t rightly know,” she admitted.
“Shucks,” Ed muttered. “We ain’t ever going to see any.”
“Aren’t going to see any, son,” Rosemary amended. “And don’t give up hope. Mr. Trapp mentioned last night we should see some any time now. Soon we’ll be in the heart of buffalo country.”
“And Indian country,” Sam casually mentioned. “I sure would like to get a redskin in my rifle’s sights.”
Rosemary didn’t like being reminded. “Don’t talk like that. Some Indians are friendly. With a little luck we won’t run into any who aren’t.”
“We owe them for what they did to Grandpa,” Sam said.
“We can’t blame the Indians who live out here for what happened back there,” Rosemary surprised herself by saying. Normally, she was the last person to defend the red race. But fair was fair.
“That’s not what you said last year,” Sam mentioned. “You told Mrs. Jacobson that you agreed with the man in the newspaper who wrote the only good Indian is a dead one.”
“It was the heat of the moment.” Rosemary had been arguing with a neighbor lady over whether Indians should be rounded up and pushed onto reservations, or exterminated, as many were calling for.
“Call it what you want, Ma,” Sam said. “I still want to get a red devil in my sights.”
Rosemary didn’t appreciate it when her son talked that way. She wasn’t one of those who hated Indians on general principle. She had a reason. They had slain and mutilated her grandfather, the sweetest, kindest soul who ever lived, a man so gentle he refused to carry a gun, even after hostilities broke out.
From near the left-rear ox came her husband’s stem reprimand. “Don’t ever let me hear you sass your mother like that again, Samuel. You’re never too old for a tanning. Show her the respect she deserves.”
Rosemary had almost forgotten Bert was there. As was customary, he was walking beside the team to better control them, and when necessary, he would goad the dumb brutes with a flick of his twenty-foot whip. The six oxen were plodding mechanically along, their huge heads bowed in their yokes. They were arranged in pairs, the largest two nearest the wagon to bear more of the load.
And what a load it was! Every article of value Rosemary and her family owned, every household item and personal effect, was piled in the Conestoga’s ten-foot-by-three-foot body. Almost five tons of it, Bert had estimated. Heavier possessions were on the bottom: their plow, their dresser, their stove, her spinning wheel. Next came their clothes and tools and utensils. On top were things they used every day—a cooking pot, sacks of flour and salt, axes, blankets—and in one corner the long rifles they might need to defend themselves.
Their wagon, Rosemary had noticed, was a bit larger than the rest in the train. The others were prairie schooners, shorter, lighter versions of the Conestoga. She was glad her husband hadn’t bought one. As it was, she had been forced to sell or give away far too much.
Her mother’s piano, her grandmother’s loom, and more had to be sacrificed in order to meet the weight limit.
The thought of spending months cooped up in a Conestoga hadn’t appealed to Rosemary one bit, but she had to admit, as time went by she realized it wasn’t all that bad. There was enough room left for them to sleep inside in inclement weather. The heavy canvas top, saturated with linseed oil to make it waterproof, would keep them dry should it ever rain. It also spared them from the worst of the blistering sun and sheltered them from the high winds that invariably ripped across the plains each evening.
The wagon’s hardwood bed was another marvel of construction. Able to withstand great abuse, it was supported by massive axles and a sturdy undercarriage. Theirs had a steel kingpin, the pivot that enabled the wagon to turn, and was far superior to the iron kingpins of the prairie schooners.
All in all, Rosemary was proud of the Conestoga, and proud of her husband for choosing it over the smaller models. He had spared no expense, as he often reminded her, in order to make the trip less taxing on her and the children.
Bert was such a good husband. His decision to sell the farm aside, Rosemary had always trusted his judgment.
Then Harry Trapp came riding back from his usual position on point. Wheeling his sorrel, he nodded at Rosemary and said to Bert, “You’re falling behind again, Mr. Spencer. You’re doing a lot of that of late.”
“I’m pushing the oxen,” Bert responded, hefting his whip, “but they’re tired.”
“No, they’re just plain slow,” Harry Trapp said. “Everyone else has mules, and mules make better time. You would have been smart to buy mules too.”
Bert’s jaw muscles twitched, as they always did when he was angry. “Now you tell me. Why didn’t you mention this back in Independence?”
Trapp shrugged. “It’s not my place to tell people how to live their lives. I figured you’d do a better job of keeping up, even if your oxen are older than they should be—”
“Old?” Bert interrupted. “You must be mistaken. My neighbor, Harvey Pringle, assured me these animals are in their prime.”
“I don’t suppose it was this Pringle fella who sold them to you, was it?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Only that he must be chuckling to himself right about now,” Trapp said, and sighed. “I can’t slow the whole train on your account. Push your critters harder, or by nightfall you’ll wish you had.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting you would abandon us?” Bert said, laughing lightheartedly at the preposterous notion. “I have a wife and children.”
“All the more reason to keep up,” Trapp insisted, and scanned the rippling waves of grass. “Especially during this next stretch. A month or so ago some Sioux were seen in the vicinity.”
“Sioux?” Bert repeated, sounding as if he had accidentally swallowed an apple.
“They stray down this way now and then to hunt buffalo and lift a few scalps.” Trapp caught himself and glanced at Rosemary. “Not that I’m expecting trouble, ma’am. The Sioux don’t have many guns, and they’re not fools. They won’t brace us so long as we stick together and stay alert.”
Rosemary watched him ride back up the line, her heart aflutter with anxiety. Bert cracked his whip a few times and the oxen plodded a trifle faster. “Pringle swindled us, selling us these animals,” she commented. Just as he had swindled them out of a fair price for their farm. Her husband didn’t answer. Flushing red, he snapped the whip at the lead ox.
“Get along there! Get along!”
Rosemary bent to her knitting. She needed to keep busy, to keep occupied, to take her mind off a knot of dread forming deep inside her. But her heart wasn’t in it, and after a few deft flicks of the needles, she balled the swatch of would-be shawl, swiveled, and placed it in the wagon.
Both her sons wore worried expressions. Sam was gazing anxiously across the prairie.
Ed was gnawing on his lower lip, a habit of his when he was upset.
Smiling to reassure them, Rosemary said, “Have faith, boys. Things will work out. Mr. Trapp and the others won’t really desert us. No one can be that unspeakably wicked.”
“It’s the Indians I’m thinking of, Ma,” Eddy said. “I’ve heard stories.”
“We all have,” Rosemary said. “But as Mr. Trapp mentioned, they’re not likely to attack us, not with all the guns we have. So quit fretting.” Adopting a nonchalant air, she reached for her shoulder bag and removed her hairbrush and small mirror.
Rosemary had her own habits. As a little girl she had picked up one that stuck with her to this day. Whenever she was troubled, whenever she had a lot to ponder, she would brush her hair, stroking it over and over while she contemplated. It helped her think, helped clarify problems and find solutions.
Now, holding the mirror up, Rosemary regarded her face. Bert was always complimenting her on how pretty she was, but she knew better. She was plain as plain could be. Her nose was much too thin, her cheeks weren’t full enough. Her lips had a perpetual pout to them that Bert seemed to like but which lent her a childlike aspect she wasn’t fond of. Her blue eyes were her best feature. Deep, aqua blue, like the blue of a beautiful lake on a summer’s day. Over the years she had received a few compliments about her hair, too, but it was too fine to suit her. Here, under the blazing prairie sun, her blond tresses shone with uncommon luster, falling in gradual curves well past her slim shoulders.
Rosemary swiped at them with the brush and soon settled into a rhythm. Her mind drifted on currents of random thought. She pictured Pringle, pictured thrusting a pitchfork into his keg of a belly, and inwardly grinned. He deserved it. He surely did. Greed and lust were all that motivated him. She never had understood people like that, people who used others, people who didn’t care whom they hurt. Her conscience would never let her cheat someone as Pringle had cheated them.
The Conestoga gave an abrupt lurch, and Rosemary had to grip the seat to steady herself. A small hole was to blame, an old prairie dog burrow eroded by the elements. She glanced back at the large wheels on her side of the wagon, making sure they were intact. They were, of course. It would take a lot worse than that to damage them. The massive hubs were nigh indestructible. From them radiated heavy spokes that fit into sockets in the outer rims. The rims themselves were made up of curved sections, the felloes, that fit seamlessly together, and were in turn ringed by an iron strip, known as the tire, that protected them from wear and tear.
Rosemary gazed along the trail in the direction they were heading. The famous Oregon Trail was a broad, rutted track, the soil riven by the countless wheels of the many hundreds of wagons belonging to all the wagon trains that had gone before theirs. Trapp had told them this was the easy part of the journey, that later, beyond South Pass, the country changed, becoming mountainous and rugged and arid for long spells, and would stay that way until they reached their destination.
The Promised Land. The land of milk and honey. Rosemary wondered if Oregon, and the Willamette Valley in particular, were really the paradise everyone made them out to be. Supposedly, the climate was mild year-round. Even in winter the grass was green, and heavy snowfalls were a rarity. Crops flourished, the earth was so rich. And best of all, the Indians were friendly.
Rosemary daydreamed about their grand new farm, envisioning their new house, painted bright green as she liked, with neatly trimmed flower beds and tall trees for shade. She would have a vegetable garden, with string beans, lima beans, and asparagus. Potatoes. Pumpkins. Melons. The bounty of the land, courtesy of the Lord.
“We’re falling behind, Ma.”
Sam’s comment caused Rosemary to look up. The sun was perched on the rim of the world, and the shadows of the wagons and oxen ahead had lengthened considerably. It wouldn’t be long before Harry Trapp would call a halt for the night. She noticed, with gnawing alarm, that the other wagons were several hundred yards ahead. It wasn’t a lot, but sufficient for her to feel keenly vulnerable. Should hostiles attack, the Indians would swarm over their Conestoga before help could arrive.
Rosemary was relieved when, in due course, the pilot drew rein and pumped his arm overhead, the signal for the wagons to pull into a circle. Room was left for theirs, and by the time they arrived the other men had removed their mules from harness and the women were preparing supper.
Trapp came over as Bert was unyoking the oxen. “I’m beginning to worry a mite, Mr. Spencer.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” Bert said, and once again groused. “I wish you had told me about my animals before we started out. I could have taken steps.”
“Like what?” Trapp said a trifle testily. “Sell your oxen and buy mules? There wasn’t a spare team to be had, or I’d have suggested it.”
Bert’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Still, it was remiss of you not to warn us. I paid you two hundred dollars to be our guide. Our welfare, our very lives, are in your hands.”
“Are you implying I’m only interested in the money?” Trapp snorted. “Hell, if that was all I cared about, there are easier ways to earn it. Piloting pilgrims is the most thankless job around. Up before sunrise, in the saddle from dawn until dusk, never enough sleep, never enough food, hostiles and silvertips everywhere.”
“I wasn’t implying anything of the sort,” Bert said defensively.
Trapp glanced at Rosemary and the boys, hesitated a moment, then said, “Listen, Mr. Spencer. I explained the risks to you. I laid out all the rules a wagon train has to abide by. One of those is that everyone must keep together. It’s one of the most important of all. I was as honest as I could be, and I’m being honest with you now. We’re too far out for you to turn around and go back alone. Push those oxen of yours harder tomorrow. Please. For all our sakes.” He walked off.
Ed had crawled to the front of the Conestoga. Tugging on Rosemary’s sleeve, he asked, “Are we in trouble, Ma?”
“Not at all,” Rosemary assured him. “The oxen will hold up, you’ll see. Six months from now we’ll be seated at the dinner table in our new home and look back at this day and laugh.”
“I hope so, Ma,” said Sam, hopping down to give Bert a hand.
To the west the sun was being slowly devoured. Soon ebony night would fall. Rosemary felt a shudder run through her, and she couldn’t say whether it was the cool breeze that had sprung up or something else entirely.
Two
As was customary, at five a.m. the man on sentry duty fired his rifle into the air and everyone was required to rise and shine.
Rosemary disentangled herself from Bert and shuffled sleepily to the front of the Conestoga. Pulling a robe on over her heavy woolen nightgown, she stiffly climbed out and kindled the fire. Other women were doing the same. Like them, she climbed back inside to rouse the children and dress.
Bert was up, tugging on his trousers. He had to join the men and help gather the wagon teams and horses, a task that usually took half an hour. Pulling his short-brimmed hat low over his eyes, he pecked her on the cheek and hustled out.
Rosemary touched her cheek in mild surprise. Her husband rarely displayed affection. She could count the number of times he had kissed her in public on two hands, and the number of times he had done it in front of the children on one. Not that he didn’t care. Far from it. He adored her with the breadth and depth of his soul. But there was a time and a place for everything, and affection was properly the province of the bedroom. Or so Bert had instructed her early on in their marriage.
Rosemary never gave it much thought. Most husbands, she had discovered, weren’t all that different. Where romance was involved they were horrendously shy, almost comically awkward. Men had a natural aversion to sharing their feelings. Why that should be was one of life’s many mysteries. She figured it was how the Good Lord had made them, and let it go at that.
