Gone West (6 page)

“Sure was, Ma.” He lingered outside her shelter long enough to catch a few drops of the rain on his tongue. “Horrifying it was, with ten feet of snow pilin’ up around the widow’s house, and no food to be had. But the Lord sent neighbors to check on her before she had to eat her cat~”

“Jamie!” Maggie was still rooted in the downpour outside their book wagon. “
McGuffey’s
never suggested~”

“Nope. But it made sense to me, even though it was a mighty skinny cat, too. Think we’ll ever see that much snow, Ma? I mean, if it were just a little bit colder right now, this rain could make ten feet of snow easy, couldn’t it?”

Where did boys find their imaginations? “Your bedtime prayers tonight will include a special message to the Lord that we never see such snows, Jamie. At least not until we’re safely in Oregon.”

“It was only an interesting idea, Ma~”

Maggie was beginning to get very wet. She remembered her errand. “Come along, Jamie. We’ll have to figure out which wagon is Mr. Thayer’s.”

They found Sam Thayer’s wagon by dint of its silence. Maggie poked her head in and saw him disconsolately throwing a slab of raw bacon onto a piece of very dry bread.

“Evening, Sam.”

He jumped in surprise.

“Could you do with some hot soup for supper?”

His sodden hat was tipped at her and a grin spread from ear to ear of his homely face. It made him almost handsome, even if his nose had been broken once or twice along the way. “T’would be a rare pleasure, ma’am.”

“Come by our wagon in about an hour. The broth will thicken while we visit the sick child at the Richman’s.”

Maggie let the canvas flap close on him, almost catching Jamie’s curious nose.

“Know why he’s so strong, Ma?”

Maggie pulled Jamie closer under the umbrella. “Why, Jamie?”

“He used to be a blacksmith. He can fix anything that moves~wagons and horseshoes alike. He’s just like Longfellow’s hero:

Under a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.”

“You
have
been busy today, Jamie.”

“Oh, I memorized lots more~”

“Save a few to surprise me with later, son. I do believe my cup overfloweth at the moment.”

The Richman’s wagon was easier to find in the sodden gloom. War whoops definitively marked its territory. Maggie closed in and raised her voice. “Grandma? It’s Maggie Stuart.”

The flap was raised. “Come in and welcome if you can stand it. I think Jubal’s going to make it. The fever broke a while back, praise the Lord.”

“Amen!” Maggie let Jamie hoist himself up, then followed. She sidled past the invalid’s elevated legs and scrunched up to his head. His eyes were almost animated again. The swelling was down on his arm, too, and he was accepting Jamie’s gift with subdued enthusiasm.

“Bet that’s the last time you’re gonna jump from the wagon,” Jamie was saying.

“Not on your life! Just be more careful-like next time. Woulda been everything all right if that big old clap of thunder hadn’t skittered me. Messed up my timing, it did.”

Maggie smiled at the braggadocio. If Jubal was feeling well enough to boast he’d be all right. She felt his forehead anyway. Still damp and sweaty. He’d be needing some of her hot soup, too. “Come now, Jamie. There’re enough youngsters around here already. You can visit again at breakfast time.”

She finally had to haul Jamie out and shove him under the umbrella. Then he remembered more poems and recited all the way back.

Sam Thayer was already in the little cabin, cuddling a fascinated Charlotte. There was a bemused expression on his face as she tugged at his thick, bristly, brown mustache and pinched his lopsided nose. Reasonable father material, thought Maggie to herself. She closed the umbrella and stepped over his legs to check on the cauldron of soup. She had a ladle up to her mouth, tasting, when a tentative tap sounded on the door. Maggie glanced up at Johnny on the upper bunk. What now?

Johnny didn’t wait to consider, just belted out a cheerful “Come in!”

Gwen Hardisty entered, tears in her eyes. “Maggie, I’m at my wit’s end! I’ve done everything you taught me, but I just can’t keep the fire going in this rain, and Irish is in a black mood from the wet and no hot food, and~” She tripped over Sam Thayer’s legs and finally noticed him.

“Oh.”

Sam pulled his mustache out of Charlotte’s grasp and nodded, stiffening his back a little.

Maggie checked her pot of soup once more, mentally calculating how far it could be stretched. She turned to a bag by her feet and threw in several handfuls of rice.

“Go back for your spoons, bowls and your brother, Gwen. If you don’t mind standing up I’ve enough soup here to warm up an army.”

The tears stopped. “You’re a saint!”

“No,” Maggie retorted good naturedly, “I’ve just got the only decent fire in camp tonight. But I’m on the last of my firewood, so tomorrow night we’ll all be in the same boat together, or maybe swimming, from the looks of things.”

Gwen raced out as Johnny’s eyes met Maggie’s. She knew the expression. The ‘here she goes collecting more orphans again’ look. She grinned at him suddenly. It was true. Her only weakness, and nothing could be done about it. That’s how they’d adopted Jamie, after all, and Flower Blossom and her brood. Now here they were with a new set.

Maggie tasted the soup and added a pinch of salt and another of pepper. Come to think on it, there could hardly be a better way to spend a wet night on the prairie~with the sole exception of some complete privacy with Johnny. And that was far from forthcoming.

They were crammed in tighter than the books on the wagon shelves outside and the soup pot was scraped clean. Jamie had fallen asleep on the top bunk, Charlotte snuggled safely between his body and the wall. Maggie and Gwen sat on the bottom bunk, the men slouching comfortably on grain sacks in front of the women. Irish was sucking on an unlit cheroot, and they were all speculating on their futures.

“I had a word with Josh Chandler this afternoon at the crossing,” Irish commented. “He’s worried about Pawnee country coming up. Seemed even more concerned about the Mormons, though.”

“Does he really expect Brigham Young to sweep down across the prairies and wipe us all out, or worse yet, force polygamy upon us?” Johnny looked amused at the idea.

“What’s
polygamy
?” asked Gwen.

“That’s when, that’s when . . .” for once Johnny seemed at a loss for words.

“It means a man can take as many wives as he wishes, Gwen,” Maggie filled in for her husband.

Gwen looked shocked. “Oooh. Is that what that Celestial Marriage business is that the Reverend Winslow’s been going on about?”

“They also call it the doctrine of `Spiritual Wives’,” continued Johnny, more at ease now. They were among a group of adults, after all, even if Gwen weren’t a married lady. “There was a wonderful joke going around Independence about it over the winter. It seems that shortly after Joseph Smith came up with this particular revelation a gentile lady had the nerve to ask his first and number one wife where the Saints found this doctrine. With eyes blazing, Smith’s wife answered, `
Straight from Hell, Madam
!”’

Chuckles rose from all save Gwen. “The man deserved to be shot!”

Johnny was serious again. “Not necessarily, Gwen. It turned him into a martyr. Worse still, it took the reigns of power from a sly, but inefficient man and turned them over to Brigham Young, who’s apparently becoming a real leader of men. From what I’ve heard, he’s transformed Smith’s militia and is honing it into an efficient group of killers. They call themselves Danites, and sometimes Destroying Angels~”

Johnny stopped when he saw the frightened look on Gwen’s face. He’d gone too far.

“But their ways needn’t concern us. They’re struggling to the north of us, without even proper wagons for shelter. They’ve no cause or reason to know of our existence~” He halted again. Unless, of course, someone had gotten wind of that Ramage press. He’d not really taken serious precautions to hide their leaving Nauvoo . . . No. He shook his head almost perceptibly. That was long ago and far away. It had been fair game. And the Saints had the survival of their people to busy them now.

“They’ve much more serious things on their minds,” he repeated aloud for the benefit of everyone, including himself.

“Seems to me you take the Mormon threat too calmly, Stuart, especially after what you’ve just said.”

“They only crossed the Mississippi in February, Irish. Thousands of them. Last we heard in Independence, they were still bogged down at Council Bluffs in Iowa Territory. They’ve got their own troubles finding a place to take them. They won’t have any energy left for marauding.”

“That Reverend Winslow sure thinks different on the subject,” opined Sam.

“It appears to me the Reverend Winslow has more on his mind than religion,” countered Johnny, glad for the change of subject, willing the change to continue. “And I’ve never seen a man of God as handy with a gun as he seems to be. I saw him taking a potshot at a crow today. Knocked the poor creature clear out of the sky whilst flying. Then he just left it lying on the ground. I can’t see any reason for killing God’s creatures without a purpose.”

“Must’ve justified it to his Maker as target practice,” muttered Sam before squirming a little uncomfortably on his grain bag.

Maggie noticed. “Getting too tight in here for you, Sam?”

“No. Weren’t that at all. Was just thinkin’ on something peculiar, something the general direction of the conversation lead me to remember. Wonderin’ whether it be worth it to bring it up or not.”

“Out with it, Thayer,” urged Irish. “It’s among friends you are.”

“Just don’t want to seem precipitate, is all.” But now they were all staring at him and he was forced to continue. He cleared his throat. “Well, then. For all the recent rains, the ground’s been a mess of mush constantly. Can’t tell one impression from another~”

He had their attention.

“ ‘Cept under the overhang of my wagon, where it’s parked of a night.” He looked up. “It’s sort private territory, you know? Ought to have but my own footprints there, coming in and going out.”

“And?” nudged Johnny.

“Last few mornings, was another set of prints there as well. Male. Boots. Give me the impression someone been spyin’ on me.”

“In your sleep?” Maggie was incredulous. “Couldn’t it have been a neighbor seeking aid, then thinking better of it?”

“Two mornings in a row? Same set of prints?”

“Just thank the Lord they weren’t moccasin prints,” laughed Irish.

“My brother’s right! It’s the Indians we have to consider,” worried Gwen.

“Nay, I’m being foolish with my footprints. Must come of living alone too long. Just put them out of your minds. By and by it’ll be the train itself we have to worry about.”

Sam had managed to gain their full attention. He’d spoken but few words all evening before his comments on the footprints, content just to warm himself and listen. Now his brow was furrowed with the unusual effort of expressing himself in company.

“I grew up in a village in Indiana. Learned my trade there from my daddy. Never been much for words. Maybe it was that the bellows and hammers always made too much noise for words. Did a lot of watching and learning, though, about all kinds of critters~animal and human both.” He stopped, perhaps perplexed by his verbosity.

“Yes, Sam?” prodded Maggie gently.

“For a community to work, has to have everybody pitching in, like.”

“We all signed that westering constitution outside of Independence, Sam,” threw in Irish.

“True. Swore on what we’d do come catastrophe. To help each other. But with these rains, seems like morale is falling apart already, and we hardly started. Just think on me and my silly fancies.” He smiled to himself self-consciously, causing the ends of his huge moustache to turn up before putting his mind back to his thoughts.

“And we only done about five miles today. Got to be a lot more communal, like supper tonight, or things just gonna start to splinter. Everybody want to go his own way, fight over the little bit of kindling available, or look for a better trail, a faster cut-off.” He pulled at his moustache.