Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 (10 page)

I was curious about Miss McKenna, too, but the first thing I noticed as we got closer was the horses, and I couldn't look at anything else for a few minutes. I had never seen horses like the ones in Liddy McKenna's party.

Two had spots that looked like someone had splashed them with white paint. The third was the color of the Mustang, but with a white mane and tail and white stockings on its legs. It had the oddest conformation, tall and lanky. There was one bay mare as big as any plow horse I had ever seen—she had spats of long dark hair that covered her pasterns and her hooves.

I stood back, afraid of the fever in spite of what everyone had said. No one really got close, but they all stared, just like I did. And when I stopped staring at the horses, I saw that the people were as interesting as the stock.

There was one Negro man of slight build who was shouting orders at two of the other men as we got closer. They were arguing with him in a way that made it clear they didn't mind making each other angry. Then they all laughed at something one of them said.

One of the men had his long blond hair tied back from his face with a strip of rawhide. The other was the tallest man I had ever seen, with odd, big hands and feet.

Mr. Kyler pulled his wagon to a halt, and the others creaked to a stop behind him. I could hear people whispering, saw the couples leaning toward each other on their driver's benches to talk without being overheard. Julia and Polly had their heads together, standing out to one side to get a better look. Even Grover had his chin up, staring.

The argument between the two men went on even as Miss Liddy McKenna herself walked toward us and stood with her arms wide, like a woman welcoming relatives into her home. That was odd, but not nearly as odd as her attire. She was wearing men's trousers!

“I am Liddy McKenna,” she said. Her voice was loud and musical. “We appreciate your letting us join you.”

There was an automatic murmur of responses. Only Charles Kyler's tiny wife called out, “Pleased to meet you, Miss McKenna.”

The other women harrumphed and glared at her, but she seemed not to notice. I looked back toward Miss Liddy McKenna in time to see her bow from the waist, then straighten. “We are very grateful. We will endeavor to stay apart. I know you are all afraid of the fever. Any sensible person is.”

She paused, waiting for anyone to answer. Mr. Kyler finally cleared his throat and spoke up. “We're glad to have the extra hands in case of need,” he said. “Our plan is to get as far as Fort Laramie and figure out, each one of us, what is best from there. All are going to Oregon, if possible.”

Liddy McKenna smiled at him, a smile so wide that all her teeth showed. There was another little rumble of disapproval from the women when she stepped forward and pulled off her hat, letting long, unpinned, reddish hair fall down her back. “We aren't at all sure where we are going yet,” she told Mr. Kyler, loudly enough for all to hear.

There was a stunned silence in response to that announcement.

“We travel,” she added. “We aren't looking to settle down.”

No one seemed to know what to say to that, either. So the men just shouted back and forth with her for a while, arranging that her wagons would follow ours for the rest of the day and that we would make separate camps, but close together.

I led the Mustang off to the side, as always, when we got started up again, the drivers of our wagons pulling their teams in a wide arc around Liddy McKenna's wagons to take their place in the lead.

As I got closer to her wagons, I tried not to stare, but it was impossible. She noticed the Mustang and turned to meet my eyes.

“Beautiful horse!” she called.

I nodded, unable to think of a single thing to say.

“Is he fast?”

I shrugged. “I've never ridden him,” I managed to call back to her. “No one has.”

“Not even your pa?”

“I'm an orphan,” I told her, calling it out loud enough for everyone to hear. Then I blushed hot enough to sear peaches for cobbler. I fell silent, amazed at myself.

She tipped her head and smiled. “Lost my folks, too, when I was nine.”

That caught me off guard. “I was six,” I said more quietly. We were passing her now, and I had to turn to hear her answer. She cupped her hands around her mouth to make sure.

“Later on, when the fever scare is over, you and I should talk.”

I nodded, then faced front to follow the Kylers' wagon. I could feel Mrs. Craggett's outraged glare behind me and I knew that Mrs. Kyler would give me a talking-to first chance she got. But, somehow, I wasn't worried about being in trouble. I couldn't wait to get to know Liddy McKenna. Whatever else she was, she wasn't afraid of anything—or so it seemed to me that day. The idea fascinated me. It seemed like I spent most of my time afraid of one thing or another.

I looked back as the wagons swung up onto the rutted path again. Miss Liddy McKenna had her party organized and rolling a few minutes later, a hundred feet behind us. She was sitting astride the big, broad-backed mare with no saddle or bridle on it at all, leading the way.

“We can all hope that this hasn't been a terrible mistake,” Mrs. Craggett said, loudly enough for the Kylers and me to hear.

“She's had to make her way,” Mrs. Kyler called back over her shoulder. “Some have to do that.”

I smiled, pleased as a cat with cream over the way Mrs. Kyler had taken Miss Liddy's side, at least a little.

The next day was hot, and the dust hung in the air around us. No one talked much. The days were all getting hot, and it was worse and worse for traveling. The grass was thinning, and we saw more and more of the silvery gray-green of sagebrush on all sides. It was dry—so dry that our lips cracked and split. My lower lip got a bloody fissure that wouldn't heal. The Mustang often sniffed at it, like it worried him.

If it had not been for the Platte River on our left-hand side most days, we could not have made it so far in such heat. We crossed it again in search of better grass. It was a puny thing now, half as wide as it had been. Then, as we went along, the trail drew farther and farther from the shallow river.

We found springs sometimes, to refill our water barrels—and the water wasn't as muddy as the river water. But it wasn't always good water. Often it had a terrible, bitter taste that made my mouth pucker. Sometimes the Mustang wouldn't drink it at all, and, though he seemed all right, I worried about him. He was losing weight. I could feel his ribs when I patted him with the flat of my hand.

In the middle of one long and miserable afternoon, we came to a place where the land suddenly dropped down into a hill so steep Mr. Kyler pulled his oxen to a halt and stared at it. I led the Mustang closer. There were wagon ruts in the soil as far as I could see. That meant others had come this way, so it had to be possible. It didn't
look
possible, though—it was that steep. I could see trees at the bottom. Trees! That meant shade and probably a creek or a spring.

Mr. Kyler handed the reins to Mrs. Kyler and set the wagon brake, then he climbed down off the driver's bench. The oxen lowered their heads and closed their eyes, grateful, as always, for every possible second of rest they were given.

The menfolk gathered, squinting in the sun, standing in a group at the top of the hill. “That's steeper than the Council Bluff Road,” Mr. Kyler said. Everyone else just nodded. They could see that much for themselves.

“We go one at a time,” Mr. Silas said. “If a wagon wrecks, there is no point in having others close to get in trouble.”

“No one is going to wreck,” Mr. Kyler said firmly. “But I am always in favor of a good precaution.” He met each man's eyes for a few seconds. “One at a time, and every man lends his weight on a brake line for the rest.”

They all nodded again, but I saw Mr. Silas scowling. I knew why. It was hot, the air shimmering close to the ground. There were fourteen wagons, counting Miss McKenna's. It was going to take the rest of the day, at least, and a lot of walking back up that terrible hill to help with the next wagon. Mr. Kyler wasn't paying attention to Mr. Silas's reaction. He was asking each man what he had in the way of stout rope.

It took every second of the livelong day, and everyone was exhausted by the time all the wagons were down the hill. The last long stretch was rock ledges and some of the wagons had to be unloaded and
lifted
down, inch by inch, ten men on each side, straining and sweating. I walked the Mustang down, glad I didn't have to perch on a slanting driver's bench, staring down that terrible hill.

Miss Liddy McKenna came last. She had refused Mr. Kyler's help—since no one wanted to go near her party anyway—and had astonished everyone by putting a heavy, odd-looking harness on the huge dark mare.

First, Miss Liddy ran a heavy rope from the harness to the rear axel of the wagon. Then the Negro man drove the two pairs of oxen while Miss Liddy sat backward on the bench, calling out commands to the big mare that followed.

“Hold up, girl!” she'd shout, and the mare would slow, the rope going taut as the weight of the wagon caught. Then Miss Liddy leaned forward again, “Ease up, pretty girl, ease up slow!” And every time, the mare would take tiny steps forward, as though she was tiptoeing, letting the wagon roll—but no faster than the oxen could walk. It was amazing to watch.

“You're that smart,” I told the Mustang, then blushed, hoping no one had heard me. I glanced around. No one had; they were watching, as astounded as I was.

The men broke into a cheer as Miss Liddy's last wagon rolled onto the flat ground at the base of the hill. Their wives and daughters smiled tightly, then turned to their chores. All but Mrs. Kyler. She was grinning.

We made camp in that hollow. There was a spring with ice-cold, sweet water, a little creek deep enough for the boys to swim in. The sound of the water splashing lifted every heart, and the shade of the ash trees was a pleasure beyond words. There was an old cabin, a little thing, half rotting, that stood near the creek. I couldn't help but wonder who had built it. When I asked Mr. Kyler, he only shrugged his shoulders.

“Fur trappers. That's what people say. So far as I know Indians don't build log cabins, so it had to be trappers, French or English, back when the fur trade was booming in the twenties, I suspect. I'm sure Lewis and Clark didn't come this far south forty-three years ago.”

Lewis and Clark—I had heard their names from my pa. I knew they had something to do with opening the western country, exploring it... but
forty-three
years ago? I drew a breath to ask more questions, but Mr. Kyler was patting my head, walking past me on his way to his next chore.

I lay awake that night, thinking about the trappers and the men who went with Lewis and Clark. How could they travel without a guide, without wagon ruts showing the way at least some of the time? They must have had a lot of help from the Indian people who knew the country, or they would all have taken bad routes on these endless plains and died of thirst.

As late as I went to sleep, I was still the first one up the next morning. I rose, shivering, and dressed, then checked on the Mustang. He was grazing quietly, so I stood at the edge of the creek, listening to the sound of that cool sweet water.

I wondered how Hiram was—and poor Annie. I said a little prayer that her hands would heal, that she wouldn't be crippled.

When a sound I didn't recognize startled me, I turned. There was nothing but rock and water and trees. I tilted my head, trying to hear past the pattering of the water, and I caught the sound again. Someone crying?

I walked closer, imagining one of the Kyler girls upset over some argument, or one of the Taylor girls, maybe the pale one. I tried to recall her name and couldn't at first. I rarely saw her at all; she was almost always in the wagon. Mary. Her name was Mary.

I am not sure what I intended to say or do, but it seemed wrong to ignore someone's tears, so I rounded the rocky outcropping on the south side of the spring and walked into the trees. Then I stumbled to a halt, blushing, wishing I had minded my own business. It was Grover, bent double, and when he raised his face I saw another dark, hard-lump bruise.

He glared at me. “Go away.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

The look in his eyes was awful, desperate. “Get away from me!” he whispered, turning.

“I thought it was Mary crying or—” I stopped. “I'm sorry.”

Without turning, he lifted one arm in a violent, angry gesture, like he was shoving at me. I spun around and ran back through the trees.

CHAPTER TWELVE