Katie and the Mustang, Book 3 (9 page)

 

 

 

T
he next day,a group of seven wagons started back toward Council Bluff. Mr. Teal was in the back of one of them, padded by as many blankets and bedclothes as the party could spare.

Mrs. Kyler and I stood watching the wagons head back along the north side of the river. “They'll wait for the water to go down to cross back,” she said. Then she was still a moment. “I only hope he makes it,” she said quietly.

I looked at her. “You mean he might die?”

She nodded sadly. “He's hurt bad, Katie, bruises and cracked ribs and the leg bone pierced his flesh from the inside out. The wound wasn't big, but it could sicken and go putrid. He needs rest, not a pounding in a wagon bed.”

“Then why doesn't he just stay here for a while and...” I trailed off because I knew the answer to the question. No one wanted to stay here with him. Those who wanted to go on were afraid to take extra time. Those who had decided to go back wanted to go find land in Nebraska Territory before the summer was gone—or get settled in Council Bluff to wait the winter out, then try again for Oregon.

The wagons weren't even out of sight before I heard the first argument erupt. It was Mr.Silas. Now that Mr.Teal was gone, he saw no reason why he and his friends shouldn't be the first wagon in line, to make up for all the dust and mud they had eaten being last all this time.

No one argued too long with them. Most just wanted to get going. The men had their maps and guidebooks out all day—at the dinner stop, Mr. Kyler pulled out a compass I had never seen him use before.

At supper, after we had traveled along the Platte, we came upon a mound of goods—a heavy bedstead and chairs, just piled beside the rutted road. Several of the women looked at the bedstead with longing, but no one so much as discussed picking it up. It was becoming all too clear how extra weight grated at the oxen's strength.

We had gone only seven or eight miles when another argument began. I was leading the Mustang out to graze and I slowed him to listen. Mr. Silas wanted to take shorter dinner stops.The McMahons—and every other family with little children—said they couldn't manage with less time.

“We need to elect a leader,” Mr. Kyler said when the men had talked themselves to a resentful standstill.

Mr. Silas made a sound of disgust. “And I suppose you think it ought to be you?”

Mr. Kyler looked surprised. “No, no. Someone younger, someone who knows about the trail ahead if we have anyone who does.” He looked around the circle of faces.

Mr.McMahon cleared his throat. “I made a study of the guidebooks and the maps.”

No one else spoke up.

By the time we broke camp, eight more wagons had decided to go back eastward, to travel hard and catch up with the party carrying Mr.Teal—or so they said. I wondered if any would try to join a wagon party with a guide if they met one.

One man and his pregnant wife decided to go back. So did a family whose youngest boy had fallen beneath a wagon wheel that crushed his ankle. But most of the others were clearly afraid the arguing would explode into fighting.

Grover's family decided to go on. For the first time, I heard their last name. It was Heldon. Mr. Heldon had a gaunt face and angry eyes. Mrs.Heldon looked exhausted. If Grover remembered me, he showed no sign of it. I started to hope he hadn't recognized me at all down by the Elkhorn River that day. Maybe he threw rocks at a dozen horses a day and had forgotten the incident completely?

The McMahons and the Kylers decided to keep going—and, of course, Mr. Silas and his men. There were two other wagons still going. The Craggetts—the woman with the milk cow and her husband—were in one, and the Taylors, the mileage keeper and his family, in the other. They had three older boys and two girls a little older than I was. One of them was a pale child who rode in the wagon most of the time.

I listened to the men talking. What if more decided to go back? What if the Kylers did? What would I do? I had to get west to Oregon country. I
had
to.

The next morning, when we were ready to set out, Mr. Silas began by announcing that he wanted to leave an hour earlier every day. Andrew Kyler spoke up. “If you don't allow time for the horses to graze, we'll start losing animals.”

Mr. Silas looked at him. “Well, then, maybe it wasn't so smart to buy up every horse in every town you come through and herd 'em along.”

I bit my lip. In one long day, we were suddenly a party of only eleven wagons. Eleven. All of the guides had said that any party fewer than twenty-five wagons was too small to be safe. Some said thirty or more.

It was also too small to avoid Grover. His family's wagon fell into place in front of the McMahons now. I saw him two or three times that morning, walking not far in front of me and the Mustang. I dropped back, stopping to let the Mustang graze when I could.

Midmorning, when Grover glanced around at a shout from his father, I did, too. I noticed a dark bruise on his face. Maybe he had been jolted to the floor of his wagon during the crossing. Maybe he had gotten into a fight with one of the other boys. Whatever the reason, he seemed distracted and downhearted. I wasn't glad, but I was relieved that he showed no interest in me or the Mustang.

Two nights later, the men had a meeting. They elected Mr. Kyler as their leader. I grazed the Mustang a little ways off and could hear them when they raised their voices. No one had really wanted Mr. Kyler. Mr. Silas wanted to run things and so did Mr. McMahon. Mr. McMahon wasn't tough or bold like Mr. Silas, but it was obvious that he was smart and that he had studied the guidebooks more than any of the rest of them.

Trouble was, some thought that Mr. Silas was tough and strong and that he'd get them to Oregon whether they liked him or not. Others thought he'd run the party straight into trouble. Some thought Mr. McMahon knew enough about the trail to make good decisions and wanted anyone
but
Mr. Silas in charge.

In the end, Mr. Kyler got elected because he was the only one enough of the men could agree on. He led the party south to miss some rough, rock-strewn country, and we found the Platte at low water again. Since the better grass was on the south side, we crossed back. Every evening the men hauled out their drawings and maps and consulted, usually ending up in shouting matches. It scared me. It scared us all. No one knew which way to go.

I looked at Mr. Kyler's maps more than once with Mrs. Kyler. No one can draw countryside with a few lines on paper. The lines didn't show dozens of little creeks and ravines and rocky flats that split the iron tire-rims and cracked the oxen's hooves. We did the best we could. We kept the Platte River more or less in sight and kept going.

One afternoon, we saw dot-sized wagons on the horizon ahead of us. The word passed down the line like water down a steep ditch. The men stepped up the pace without Mr. Kyler saying a word. Mr. Silas got his short dinner break and we stopped later than usual for supper. Everyone was excited, full of hope. Maybe we could simply join another party and go on to Oregon with a real guide.

The next morning, I barely had time to graze the Mustang before we set off. Even Mr. Kyler popped his whip and kept his oxen walking as fast as ever an ox can walk. We were all watching the trail ahead, happiest when we could see the wagons as tiny dots on the horizon ahead of us.

Two days later, the men voted for Andrew, Mr. Kyler, and Mr. Silas to go ahead on horseback and meet up with the other party. The next night, they came galloping back with bad news.

There were only three wagons, and the people in them had a sadder story than ours. Their party had been hit by a fever. They had buried a lot of people, and those left had split up. Some had stopped to nurse their ill, others had turned back, a few had turned south, hoping to escape the fever in warmer weather. They were so low on men that a woman was running the party, Mr. Silas said, and then he spat. And they weren't families. They were circus people. He spat a second time.

As soon as I heard the men say
fever
, my heart shrank inside me, and all the other news dimmed. But before long the arguments seeped back into my ears.
Everyone
had an opinion.

“We don't want to be around people who have been through the fever,” Mr. McMahon said. Mr. Craggett and his wife agreed. Everyone did, really, and I was relieved. I had seen a wild fever kill my family. Better than any of these people, I knew how awful it was.

I noticed Mr. Kyler glancing at me all evening long, gauging how close I had led the Mustang to the men, whether or not I could hear. No one besides the Kylers knew my story, and I was glad. I didn't want anyone asking me about the fever now.

“They say it's been nearly two weeks since the last case,” Andrew Kyler nearly shouted, trying to quiet the rest of the men down. Then he continued on in a more normal voice. “I've heard a week or two is usually plenty long enough for it to be gone.”

There was a murmur of agreement. I started to feel uneasy.

“How many wagons are they?”

“Three,” Mr. Silas repeated. “But only four people. And they are carrying banners and boxes of costumes and what all I don't know.”

Another wave of murmuring ran through the men. I realized that I'd followed the Mustang as he grazed, and we'd ended up close to the campfire; but no one seemed to notice except Mr. Kyler, and he didn't say anything. So I stayed within ear-shot and kept listening.

“The boss lady's name is Miss Liddy McKenna,” Mr. Silas said, pronouncing it like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “She's got fancy horses and all manner of nonsense. I say we angle north and just go around them.”

“Doesn't seem right,” Mr. Kyler said. “You elected me, and I say we ask them to join us as far as Fort Laramie. After that, anyone who wants to can camp and wait for a better deal to come along.”

“But they aren't decent people,” Mr. Taylor said. “She is
Miss
Liddy McKenna. She's traveling with men who are unmarried. It ain't right or proper, and I don't want my girls seeing a setup like that.”

“Nonetheless,” Mr. Kyler said. “Three more wagons makes us safer and stronger. You can cut your own path at Fort Laramie. We all can.”

“I don't like it,” Mr. Silas said. “Maybe we'll just go on north alone.”

There was an awkward silence. No one liked Mr. Silas. Even his own companions hung back during the talks, their eyes averted, rarely speaking. But no one wanted him to leave us, not even me. When things were rough, he pitched in, hard.

No one answered him. They all sipped their coffee and sat back. He finally got the message and stopped pretending he was fool enough to strike out alone. “We'll stick to Fort Laramie. After that, I don't know.”

“I agree with Benton Kyler,” Mr. Taylor said reluctantly. “More wagons is better for all of us. The fever ain't likely to come up again, and we can all just stay clear of them anyway, stay out of their camp.”

The men looked away, gazing out at the horizons in all directions. No one said anything right off, and I knew the decision had been made. I led the Mustang off a little ways, then let him graze again. No one said anything more. The men stood a few minutes, then split up and walked back to their own wagons.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

 

T
he day we came up on Miss Liddy McKenna and her three wagons, every woman on the wagon train had on her best bonnet and her cleanest skirt. The Kylers' granddaughters' faces had been scrubbed and their bonnet strings were neatly tied. Mrs. Taylor and Mrs. Craggett had on what looked like Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. The women were bound and determined to show Miss McKenna what decent women looked like.