Jo's Journey (5 page)

Mr. Emerson took several quick pulls on his pipe and narrowed his eyes. “You don't say.”

Never in all my life had I met a man as humorless as Mr. Emerson. How he was able to get through every day without so much as a smile was beyond my understanding. I raised an eyebrow back at Joshua, and the old man answered me with a little shrug followed by the clear statement of his fee.

That's how we hired Joshua and six of his horses to accompany us on our way. It was quickly apparent that Mr. Emerson had no feel for horses.

“That one there looks good and strong,” he said of a black horse that was tall enough, but not carrying much weight or muscle.
When the horse swung his head around to sniff Mr. Emerson, he stepped back, obviously uneasy.

“Sir? Do you think it might be a good idea for Bart and me to keep an eye on Joshua?” I asked, desperate to think of a way to keep as far from Mr. Emerson as possible.

Mr. Emerson squinted at me. Fact was, I believed that Joshua was both honest and capable. I also knew that Mr. Emerson was greedy, suspicious and lazy.

Rolling the bowl of his pipe back and forth between his cupped palms he pronounced, “I like the way you look out for our best interests. You let me know if there's any trouble.” He squeezed my shoulder as if we were the best of friends, and it was all I could do not to pull away.

After that Bart and I were expected to help Joshua. Mr. Emerson frequently reminded us of our responsibilities, as if working with the horses had been his idea. Though our workdays grew longer, we were happy enough with the new arrangement.

With more than two weeks of travel ahead of us to get to our next proper stop at Williams Lake, we took advantage of the supplies available in Lilloet. Our group now numbered forty-four men, some from as far away as Wales, Scotland, Ireland and England. Soon sacks of flour, more bacon, beans, coffee, salt, sugar and tobacco piled up with the rest of our gear. Early the next morning, Joshua, George, Bart and I loaded all that we could onto the newly procured horses.

There was plenty to learn about packing the horses so the loads were secure, evenly balanced, and didn't cause any troublesome sores. A sore horse was another mouth to feed, and I sure as anything didn't want to carry even another ounce if I didn't have to.

When we finally set out, our own loads were considerably lightened, but we knew that British Columbia was a vast and mighty territory that took the lives of horses and men alike with no concern for those left behind.

I had felt almost smug striding into town, but leaving again made me realize that the wild country ahead was probably beyond my
imagining. Already the way had been diffi-cult, but judging by stories told by some of the men who had traveled this way before, only the very strongest, the most determined, survived to see the Cariboo. Would I be one of them?

The flutter in my belly could have been fear or excitement, or maybe some of both. The only way to know for certain if I was making a terrible mistake or embarking on the most amazing adventure of my life was to put one foot in front of the other and see where the path would lead.

I squared my shoulders and took my place in the line of men and horses heading north.

The trail beyond Lilloet was some of the toughest terrain I had ever seen—worse, even, than the canyons and passes in Utah Territory or the rough going through the Sierra Nevada mountains.

What a blessed relief it was each night to duck into our tents, footsore and bellies full. Bart and I often shared a bit of conversation before falling into an exhausted sleep that
was never long enough nor deep enough to leave us fully rested.

One night, camped in an open area with good grass for the horses, Bart and I had wrapped ourselves in our blankets in the tent we shared with Mr. Emerson. We didn't have to wait long before low rumbles rose from our plump companion.

“Joe?” Bart asked.

“Mmmm?” After three days of traversing switchbacks on steep mountain trails, every part of my body ached.

“You still awake?”

I groaned again, helpless against the pull of sleep.

“Do you ever think about going back?”

Now
that
woke me up. Bart had never talked about leaving.

“What's to go back for?” I answered, not wanting to think too hard about giving an honest answer.

In the lingering twilight I could make out Bart's nose and chin poking up between his blanket and his hat. We all slept in our hats, boots and long pants to try to gain
some protection from the mosquitoes. I was likely the only one who found some joy in this wretched state of affairs. For once I didn't have to worry about what the others might think of me keeping every inch of skin covered. The poor horses were driven nearly mad by the wicked biting insects, and they huddled head to tail and tail to head, swishing the flies and mosquitoes from each other's faces. Even so, they often stamped their feet in irritation and frequently pinned their ears and shook their heads trying to rid themselves of the tiny beasts.

“What's to go back for?” Bart repeated my question and then answered it for himself. “A decent bed. Coffee that don't cost an arm and a leg.” After a pause he added, “Emily Rose.”

The longing in his voice was painful to hear.

“Emily Rose? Who is Emily Rose?” I tried not to sound upset, though I knew I was talking too fast. Who on earth was this Emily Rose? And why should I care, anyway?

“Why, Emily Rose is just the finest young lady I ever met.”

“Why didn't you tell me about her before now?”

Bart ignored my question.

“I should like to marry Emily Rose some day,” he said, and I was surprised to hear a catch in his voice. I was more surprised to feel my stomach lurch at the idea of Bart getting married.

We lay in our tent, listening to sounds from outside. A few of the men stayed up late, talking and drinking by the fire. Occasionally one of the horses snorted or sighed deeply before resuming the steady crunch, crunch, crunch of the serious business of grazing.

“I don't suppose Emily Rose would think much of a journey like this,” Bart said.

“Were you thinking of sending for her?” I could hardly squeeze the words out. What was I going to do if some other girl showed up all ready to marry Bart? The prospect was grim.

Bart sighed and said, “This trail is no place for a young lady.”

I longed to tell him that a young lady would be quite capable of surviving the journey, if
she was in good health and of a determined mind. In my imagination I told him that there was no need to send for Emily Rose, because I was as good a friend as he was ever likely to find. All I could think of to say was not what poor Bart wanted to hear. But I had to say it, to protect myself and the lie that now consumed my whole life.

“No, I don't suppose this is a good place for a girl.” My voice was flat and hard, just like the stone that lay where my heart should have been.

In the darkness Bart's chest rose and fell, rose and fell. I lay awake for a long time, regretting my words and wishing that somehow things could be different.

The fourth morning after we left Lilloet began the same way as every other, with Mr. Emerson slapping the canvas tent so loudly I thought that I had woken up in the heart of a thunderstorm.

“Up, boys! You got work to do!”

Mr. Emerson's temper was worse than ever. He scarcely spoke to anyone unless it was to scold them or tell them what to do. Getting us up out of our beds was the first thing he demanded, and he never let up until we were in our tent again at the end of the day.

“I think you were right about Mr. Emerson,” I said when Bart and I had escaped Mr. Emerson's evil glare and were helping Joshua
with the horses. “Maybe we should cut our losses and tell him that we don't want to work for him anymore.”

“Stay out of his way,” Bart advised, sponging the horses' backs. We had been very careful, but the heavy loads, long days and tough climbs through the mountains had taken their toll despite our best efforts. Several of the horses had developed horrible sores, which we washed every morning before packing up.

“We haven't seen a nickel of pay,” I said, stroking the neck of a leggy chestnut called Sassafras. Joshua cleaned an ugly sore just behind the horse's withers, and Sassafras protested with pinned ears and a nip at Joshua's backside whenever he turned around. “I don't blame you,” I said to Sassafras. “That must hurt, all right.”

“What about me?” Joshua asked with a laugh, rubbing his behind.

Bart chuckled and continued, “You know I never liked the man, but he's been as good as his word when it comes to paying our way. We don't have so many options out here. He ain't no angel, but I don't got no cause to think he won't pay us once our mine starts producing.”

Joshua rinsed off the Castile soap and dabbed at the open sore with a strip of cloth. “Hush, you two,” he said, just loudly enough for us to hear.

“Damned animals,” Mr. Emerson said, walking past us on the way to the creek to wash. “Slowing everything down. Ain't nothing wrong with these beasts that a good stick wouldn't fix.”

“Only one who needs a stick around here is him,” Joshua muttered, jerking his chin in Mr. Emerson's direction. “Hold still.” Joshua gave the wound a final wipe and then tied Sassafras to a tree before turning his attention to the next horse.

Bart and I didn't say anything more about our boss, but I looked at Bart differently after that. He may not have been the most enthusiastic member of our party, but he was steady and reliable, not given to making rash decisions. And on a journey such as ours, rash decisions could be deadly.

By mid-morning on the fifth day out of Lilloet we found ourselves strung out along yet another stretch of precarious trail, scarcely wider than my shoulders.

The path snaked along the sheer face of a mountain in a series of dizzying switch-backs. Like the others with a horse to lead, I was forced to walk ahead of Sassafras.

“Don't look down, Bart.” My words were meant more to reassure myself than to protect Bart. I closed my eyes, tightened my grip on the lead rope, and drew a deep breath before I continued. Sassafras took one short step and then another. His hooves slipped a little each time he set his foot down on the gravel and loose rock.

Each breath Sassafras took came with a little snort—of pain or weariness or fear, it was impossible to tell. Sweat trickled down my temples, dribbled along my neck, eased over my sides. The horses, beneath their heavy loads, were so hot their hides were slick and dark with sweat.

My own back ached from the load I carried, but that ceased to matter when, without
warning, the edge of the trail crumbled, sending a shower of rocks and pebbles tumbling down the steep cliff below me. Startled, I hopped to the side, expecting Sassafras to do the same.

But the path edge had given way in a place already so narrow that the widest part of the horse's load bumped the cliff on our left. As Sassafras put out a foot to steady himself he found only air beneath him.

“Lord! Help!”

The lead rope snaked through my hands.

“Let go!” I heard Bart shouting, but I was paralyzed, staring in horror at the horse, now below me, slipping away.

“Drop the rope!”

My instincts wanted to save the horse, which, ever so slowly, slithered sideways. For a long moment it seemed he might keep his feet under him, and I fancied I might somehow drag him to safety.

But just as the end of the rope yanked through my burning hands, his forelegs buckled and he tumbled, over and over, bashing into rocks, struggling to get his feet
under him. He kept falling until he came to rest at the bottom of the cliff, inches from the stream that carved its way through the gulch below.

We stared into the void. I held my hands out before me as if I could raise the horse from the place he had fallen. He lifted his head and I thought maybe he would shake himself off and wade into the stream for a drink.

But Sassafras dropped his head onto the rocks and did not move again.

I could not stop the tears or the choking feel of bile rising in my throat.

“Son, no man could have held him.” Joshua's voice was quiet, his hand gentle on my shoulder. “He's one of the lucky ones. He died right fast.”

I gulped, forcing the tears back inside, willing the contents of my stomach to stay put. “Attaboy. Ain't nothin' wrong with a soft heart when it comes to beasts of burden. He done served us all well, bless him.”

Served us all well. An animal had died so I might have a chance to collect some yellow
metal from a remote mountain stream? What good would come of this? Could any good come of a mission born of greed?

I was seized with a sudden desire to turn around on the spot and race back down off the mountain.

“What's the trouble up ahead?” Mr. Emerson's obvious irritation sent a spear of rage blazing through me. I clenched my fists and drew a breath, but Joshua yelled first.