Clay (16 page)

Low-slung clouds added to the pall that hung over the wagon train as it departed Fort Laramie. With the threat of an Indian attack foremost on all their minds, there was a sense of security when they were surrounded by the United States Army at Fort Laramie, and a smaller garrison of soldiers at Fort Casper later down the trail. But from there on, all knew they’d be on their own.

Rebecca felt like a marked woman. There were small clusters of women talking in whispered tones as her wagon passed. Some of the looks were sympathetic, but the majority were resentful glares. As if it were her fault the train had been put into peril.

Fortunately, Clay was driving. Mike Scott had pulled him away from duty and told him to stay close to her. Last night she had slept in isolated stretches of ten or fifteen minutes, afraid to close her eyes lest she awake to finding Eagle Claw hovering above her. Now she climbed back into the wagon bed to avoid the stares and curled up on her fur pallet, hoping the motion would lull her to sleep, but the wagon bounced too much, making sleep impossible.

They were approaching the Rockies now. The land was barren except for patches of sagebrush and occasional greasewood, and most of the water was putrid and had to be boiled. The only good thing was that Hawk and the outriders reported no sign of Indians. Rebecca could only hope Eagle Claw had accepted Clay’s refusal.

The same was true for the next few days. They spent one night under the protection of the army at Fort Casper, where they crossed a bridge to the opposite side of the Platte. Four days and fifty miles after leaving Fort Laramie, they arrived at Independence Rock on the third of July.

Scott said they would lay over the following day to celebrate the Fourth of July holiday.

The wagon train camped by the river under tall cedars and pines, their pleasing fragrance permeating the air. For the first time since leaving the fort, Rebecca left the security of the wagon circle and joined the many others climbing the landmark to carve their initials among the hundreds who had gone before them. Tom and Etta had preceded them, and the lovestruck young man had engraved a heart around his and Etta’s initials. Although the likelihood of an Indian attack diminished with every passing day, Clay and Garth never left her side.

Rebecca gazed with rapt wonder at the Sweetwater River flowing below. In the distance loomed the majestic peaks of the mountains they would have to crest. It was all so peaceful; and she finally relaxed and enjoyed the serene beauty.

If anyone still held any resentment toward her, it wasn’t in evidence that day. Game was plentiful and there were several spits with roasting rabbits and venison. The women had baked cakes and pies, or cooked whatever food they had in excess.

A carnival atmosphere prevailed, with several games to test one’s skills. Rebecca applauded Clay’s sure eye and steady hand as he tossed rings over bottle tops.

Later she found herself partnered with Clay in a three-legged sack race. Garth and Georgie Garson were lined up on Clay’s left, and Etta and Tom were on Rebecca’s right.

Gripping each other firmly around their waists, Clay put his right leg in the sack and Rebecca her left leg. Then, each holding the open side of the sack, they hopped and scrambled toward the finish line.

The spectators clapped and cheered on the contenders. Clay and Rebecca had a narrow lead, with Clay and Garth naturally goading each other. With the finish line only a few yards away, Garth and Georgie tripped and fell sprawling into them. All four of them went down, and Etta and Tom crossed the finish line victorious.

“Becky, I hope you observed that my brother fell on purpose,” Clay said good-naturedly. “He never could stand me beating him in any competition.”

“Don’t listen to him, Becky,” Garth replied. “He’s never won a shooting competition against me yet.”

“And you’ve never won one against Colt,” Clay retorted.

“And who’s Colt?” Rebecca asked, brushing the dust off her dress.

Garth laughed. “He’s one of our younger brothers. He could shoot the eye out of a gnat if he had to.”

“I don’t imagine there’s much call for that,” Becky said. “I’ve had enough competition for one day. You two can go ahead, but I’m relaxing.” She sat down and leaned back against a tree.

“Same here,” Clay said, and sat down beside her.

“Not me. That weasel Fallon has a shell game going. He’s charging ten cents a try. See you later.”

“What’s a shell game?” Rebecca asked, after Garth left.

“It’s a sleight of hand, done with a pea and three half shells of a nut. You put a pea under one of the shells, and then shift them around. The other person has to guess which shell the pea is under.”

“And you have to pay ten cents to guess?” she asked.

“What if you guess right?”

“Then he pays you ten cents.”

“Why would anyone make a wager with that unpleasant Jake Fallon?”

“Becky, my brother can’t resist being hoodwinked. I think he truly believes there’s a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He always talks about chasing off to find a gold mine.”

“Do you think he ever will?”

“Find one, or try to find one?” Clay asked.

“Try to find one,” she said, laughing.

“No doubt, Becky. No doubt. One thing I know for sure: Garth would never settle down on Fraser Keep and raise cotton.”

“But you would?”

“I don’t love raising crops like my brother Will does, but Fraser Keep’s in my blood. It would take something exceptional to draw me away from it.”

That evening they had another hoedown, singing and dancing in celebration of the birth of the nation. A nation once again united—in body, if not in spirit.

Eventually, too exhausted to dance another step, Rebecca collapsed and sat down. Garth had gone off to refill his and Clay’s plates, but Rebecca settled for just a cup of coffee and piece of pie. She was sipping the hot coffee when Garth returned.

“Becky, you should put something in your stomach besides coffee and pie,” Clay said.

“I’m fine, Clay. I sampled the potato salad when I made it,” she said.

“Aha!” Garth said. “That explains why it’s so good.”

“Garth, when you settle down and get married, you’re going to make some woman very happy.”

His teeth flashed white against the deep tan he’d acquired in the last couple of months. “Little Sister, I’d like to think I’ve made more than my share happy already.”

“You have no idea how a woman appreciates a husband who enjoys her cooking.”

“How could one not enjoy yours, Becky?” Clay asked.

“You’re spoiling me, Clay. Other than your remarks about my cooking at Ash Hollow, you’ve never said what you like or dislike that I cook.”

“I like it all,” he said.

“Well, I can’t make any promises about my future cooking since that little shrew Kate stopped laying,” Rebecca said.

Garth choked on the food he’d just put into his mouth. “Kate?” he gasped. “Laying who?” he managed to get out between coughs.

Becky quickly handed him her coffee, and Garth took several swallows to clear his throat.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Brother Garth. Kate is a chicken,” Clay said in a droll tone.

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, it must be this mountain air that’s causing it, or the bouncing around. I barely had enough eggs for the potato salad. Poor Lady MacBeth can’t keep up with the demand.”

She sighed and leaned back again, feeling quite contented as she listened to a favorite folk song being sung from the nearby campfire. For the first time in almost a week, she wasn’t obsessed with the fear of Eagle Claw lurking nearby. She realized that much of her contentment was due to the two men who were sitting at her side. Funny, how much they had come to mean to her in the last couple of months. For four years she had carried a hatred for Southerners in her heart; now, except for her brother Matthew, these two men meant more to her than any others on earth.

Garth finished eating and excused himself. As she watched him walk away, she thought about the rest of Clay’s family. Were they all as nice as Garth?

“You’re really homesick, aren’t you, Clay?”

“Oh, yeah. Seems like the farther away I get from home, the more I miss it.”

“What is it that you miss about it? The plantation itself, or the people you love?”

“That’s a good question. It’s kind of like that chicken and egg question, isn’t it? Maybe they’re one and the same in my mind. Yet we lost so many loved ones during the war, I guess it can never be the same—even if Fraser Keep is restored to what it once was.”

“But can one really restore what is lost from the past? The fact that it was lost and cannot be restored is what makes it significant. Isn’t that what all these people are trying to escape from?”

“You can’t escape from the past. You have to come to terms with it, that’s all. Pluck the good out of it and let the bad wither.” He stood up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go to bed.”

“Yes, I’m overdue for a good night’s sleep.” They gathered up their cups and plates and returned to their wagon.

Rebecca fell asleep the instant she laid down, but Clay lay thinking about their conversation. He missed his home, missed the rolling hills of Virginia and the gentle flow of the James River. He couldn’t wait to get back to it.

He rolled over, and his gaze fell on Rebecca. Could he ever love a woman enough to give up his home for her? He’d like to think he could; that he’d give up anything or anyone for the woman he loved. To keep her only unto him till death do them part.

He closed his eyes. Though he wanted to think that one day he could know such a love, he doubted he ever would.

In the next week they followed the Sweetwater River deeper into the Rockies. The higher they climbed, the more spectacular the scenery became—but the travel became harder and slower. Many trails were barely wide enough for a wagon, and dropped off sharply into ravines hundreds of feet deep. Other times they would come upon stretches of flat, grassy meadowland.

The weather had been better than they could hope for. Sunny and warm during the day, with cool evenings at night; neither rain nor snow had been a problem.

They were a few days away from reaching South Pass and the Continental Divide when they awoke to gray clouds and distant flashes of lightning in the sky. By the time they got underway, the first raindrops had started to fall. Within an hour the full fury of the storm was upon them.

Pelted by sheets of water, the wagons creaked and swayed under the force of the turbulent wind that threatened to overturn them.

Progress was slow on the steep ascent. Often a half dozen men would have to get out to push the wagons on the rain-slickened granite underfoot. Braying mules and oxen alike fought the reins as jagged bolts of lightning, accompanied by roaring booms of thunder, streaked from the sky, and the wail of frightened children rose above the continual chorus of shouts and cracks of whips.

Clay was maneuvering their wagon up a narrow trail to a tableland above. They were only ten feet from the top when a brilliant bolt of lightning struck the face of the ledge overhead and sheered away part of the edge. Rebecca screamed as fragments of granite flew past and dropped into the deep ravine below. The nervous mules shied in fright and tried to bolt, and for several seconds the wagon rocked dangerously close to the edge before Clay was able to get them under control and reach the flat surface above. Scott called a halt there to rest the animals.

While they waited for the rear wagons to reach the top, Clay loosened the reins on the mules. Now, with their number cut in half, it only took half as long for the wagons to join up. Garth got a small fire started under a tarp, and Rebecca put on a pot of coffee.

By the time the coffee was brewed, the thunderstorm had moved on and a bright sun burned away the dark clouds. Cup in hand, Rebecca strayed to the edge and gazed out at the magnificent beauty of the mountain range. A rainbow had appeared, and she felt she could reach out and touch it.

“Don’t go too near that edge,” Clay warned. “It’s a straight drop to the bottom.

“Oh, Clay, the view is spectacular.”

Rebecca turned to step back when she heard screams coming from the wagon that was about to crest the trail. A wheel had rolled off, and she watched in horror as the wagon flipped over. The axle snapped and the team broke loose. For several seconds the wagon tottered on the brim, then toppled over the edge. The screams of the occupants faded as the wagon plunged deep into the ravine.

“Oh, Dear God,” Rebecca murmured, and sank to her knees.

“Get back to the wagon, Becky,” Clay said, and followed Scott, who had already started down the trail as Peterson and Garth caught the team and brought it under control.

“Keep moving!” Scott shouted to the next wagon when the driver reined up. “Keep those wagons moving. This is no time to jam up on that trail.”

Rebecca waited anxiously for Clay’s return. The last arrivals were grim-faced as the wagons rode past, and Clay and Mike Scott followed the last wagon up.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“The Ryan wagon,” Scott said soberly.

“Don and Caroline Ryan?”

Scott nodded. “Jim,” he said to his second in command, “let’s get this train moving out of here as quickly as we can. I’ll get the first half moving, and you start the rear moving about thirty minutes after. That’ll give them time to rest their teams. The sooner we’re out of here, the better it’ll be for everybody.”

“You aren’t just going to move out and leave them?” Rebecca said.

“Mrs. Fraser, there’s nothing anyone can do for them now,” Scott said.

“You don’t know that,” Rebecca lashed out.

“My God, woman, that’s at least a thousand-foot drop. No one would have survived that fall.”

“The least we can do is give them a decent burial!”

Scott looked at her with disbelief. “There wouldn’t be enough left of any of them to bury, even if we could get to them. And I’m sure as hell not risking anyone’s life trying to.” He strode away angrily.

Dabbing at her tears, Rebecca ran back to her wagon.