Mary took Penn’s hand. “I do not intend to wait a year to reach California.”
The other women muttered their agreement.
William shrugged. “There is no other way.”
“There is another way,” Mary said, as the women quieted and stared at her. “We will go on alone.”
“Without men?” William asked.
“Why not?”
“We cannot allow it,” Joseph said.
“We know how to drive the oxen and how to make camp. We have learned how to repair the wagons and doctor the animals,” Maggie said.
“What if Indians attack?” William asked.
“We are up to the mark with our guns. After all, we held off the Indians before,” Maggie told him. “Mary can shoot as well as any man. So can Penn. I say we are as good as the men who deserted us. Maybe better.”
“No,” William said. “The worst part of the journey is ahead of us. It is too much to ask of you.”
“If it was not too much to ask us to make this journey, why do you refuse to let us complete it?” Maggie asked. “If you do not care to go, then we shall continue without you.”
“I believe we could do it,” Caroline said, raising her chin. “Time will turn back before we will.”
Joseph looked at her in shock. “You would go on without me?”
Caroline blushed. “Not willingly, Joseph, but I cannot desert these women. I believe God wants me to attend them.”
Joseph stared at his wife. “Against my will?”
“Perhaps it is God’s will.”
Joseph turned and looked at the mountains to the west. Then his shoulders fell in defeat. “I believe we have been bested, Willie. The women will not go back, and we cannot stay here. We have no choice but to go on.”
The women cheered at that, but William cautioned them. “It will not be easy. You will be challenged as you have not been yet. More of you could die.”
“We might just as well die if we went back,” Mary countered, glancing at Penn. Then she added, “We will put it to a vote. If more than five vote no, we will return to the Salt Lake.”
The women looked at each other. Joseph and William, too, exchanged glances.
Maggie saw the look and added, “Only women vote.” She raised her voice and said, “All wishing to go on, vote yes.”
There was a chorus of yesses.
“Those who wish to return, vote no.”
One or two opened their mouths as if to speak but did not, and in the end, the vote was unanimous.
“Let us move out,” Winny called.
William held up his hand. “It is not so easy. With the men gone, we must leave at least one of the wagons behind, and that means lightening the loads again. You must go through your belongings once more.”
Maggie suddenly realized what they were asking of themselves. Many of them were already exhausted. A few were sick. Still, Maggie would never vote to go back.
In the end, the company abandoned the two poorest wagons. The women searched their trunks and discarded items they had once thought indispensable. Mary took out her mother’s teapot, touched her finger to the tiny pink flowers, and set it gently on a rock. Maggie stared at the teapot, and when Mary walked away, Maggie picked it up and hid it among her things. She would carry it in her apron if she had to and give it to Mary when they reached California.
Bessie refused to abandon her apple trees but added her rocking chair to the pile. Maggie placed the doll she had made for Clara among the discards, then turned away, tears in her eyes. She had nothing left that had belonged to either of her children. Winny, touched by the sacrifice, wrapped it in her spare dress, and in the doll’s place, she left a framed drawing of her parents.
By late afternoon, the remaining wagons were packed, and William gave the order to move out, although they would not go more than a mile or two that day. The women were apprehensive, but they were excited, too, and proud of themselves. Not until they made camp late that afternoon did they realize how much work they had taken on. They were tired, and their muscles ached more than ever, and there was still supper to prepare, the animals to take care of, and wagon wheels to be greased and repaired. They were surprised at how much work the men had undertaken, work that now fell on them. Mary had already done men’s chores, and she instructed the others. The women were silent, overwhelmed, as they realized what they had agreed to do. They had voted to continue, however, and they would not be deterred. In just a few hours, the excitement of going ahead without the men had worn off. Maggie understood now what it meant to be on their own.
Mary began greasing a wagon hub, but Maggie came up to her and gently shoved her aside. “I can handle this,” she said. “You have done too much already.”
Penn, watching, approached. “I shall help you,” she said.
Winny heard the exchange and went to Dora, who was stirring a pot of beans. “My turn to cook.”
“It is not,” Dora said.
“Then let me do it because I want you to save your strength for the trail ahead.”
The bond they had formed earlier was back. Maggie hoped the hardships ahead would not break it. She knew it would take all of them together to make it to California. Did she have a man’s strength? So far she had proven herself, but California still was a long way off, and Reverend Parnell had said the journey ahead was harder than anything they had experienced. Well, she would try. She would tax herself to carry her share of the burden and more. There was no choice. Either they would work together or they would never make it to the gold diggings.
* * *
EVALINE HAD RIDDEN in the wagon all day, hiding herself under a quilt. That evening when the train stopped, she tried to get up. “I must be about supper,” she said. “Surely it is my turn.” She started to climb down from the wagon but stopped when she saw the women looking up at her. Their faces were open and friendly, sympathetic, but still she hesitated.
How different the reaction to Evaline’s attempted rape was from what it might have been in Chicago, Maggie thought. There the girl would have been blamed, or she would pretend it had not happened. The trail was a different place, however. One of their number had been ill-treated. They all knew it, and they all shared Evaline’s anger and resentment. “Come and help with the bacon,” Maggie told her, taking the girl’s hand.
But Evaline could not move. The others might want to take on her shame, but she kept it for herself. “No. I cannot face them,” she murmured and slid back into the wagon, hiding under a quilt.
“She should be up. It does her harm to stay hidden,” Sadie said.
“Working has helped me,” Maggie put in.
“No. Leave her be,” Bessie told them.
“You do her no favor. It will be harder tomorrow and worse the day after if she is left to brood,” Sadie said.
“I cannot help it. She is a child.”
“She is a woman, but I shall not interfere,” Sadie told her, shaking her head.
Maggie and Sadie turned to the campfire. They all pitched in to prepare supper. Since Dora had already set a pot of beans on the coals, Penn mixed up cornbread. Their coffee grinder had been discarded, and Winny ground coffee beans by placing them on a rock and hitting them with a hammer. Maggie put slices of bacon into a frying pan.
Other groups were preparing their suppers, too, although a few of the women were so tired that they had already wrapped themselves in quilts and were asleep.
Maggie heard a commotion at another campfire. There was a clattering of tin dishes, and a woman yelled “Shoo!” Maggie turned to see what the noise was about and spotted a small black dog running away with something in its mouth.
“Catch him. He took my salt pork,” a woman called, racing after the animal. Sadie reached for the dog and held him fast, but he had already consumed the food.
“Useless pup!” the woman said as she went back to her campfire.
“What is a dog doing out here?” Dora asked.
“Probably ran away
or was left behind by someone who did not want to feed him anymore,” Mary answered. “Look, there is a rope still attached to his neck.”
“He has been following us. I saw him in the morning,” Maggie told them.
“We shall have to get rid of him,” said the woman whose salt pork the dog had stolen. “Perhaps we should shoot him. What if he is mad?”
“I do not think so,” Maggie told her. “Look at him wagging his tail. He is friendly.” She held out her hand, and the dog came close. “Poor thing. He is starving.” She took a piece of bacon out of her pan and blew on it to cool it, then held it out to the dog. He snatched it out of her hand and ran off to eat it. He came back, and Maggie stroked his fur. “He is a tiny little thing. I believe he is a puppy. How could he survive out here, tagging along after wagon trains? I would think a coyote or a wolf would have gotten him.”
“You had better put him out, or he will follow us all the way to California,” someone said.
“How could we?” Maggie asked. “He will die if we do not take him in.”
“Who wants him?”
“I know who will take him,” Maggie said. She looked toward the wagon where Evaline was hiding, then coaxed the dog to her and began picking burrs and twigs from his coat. She untied the frayed piece of rope from his neck. “Tomorrow, when we reach a stream, I shall give you a bath, but for now, you will do.” She rose and went to the wagon and climbed in with the dog. For a long time she sat and petted the dog while Evaline peered out from under her quilt. In fact, supper was eaten, the dishes put away, and the women sitting around the campfires singing before Evaline finally asked, “Who is that?”
“He is a mutt who has been following us. He has no name. I do not know what to do with him. One of the women suggested we shoot him.”
“Shoot him?” Evaline rose up on her elbow.
“It is only a suggestion. Still, no one seems to want him. A bullet would be a more merciful death than letting him be attacked and eaten by a wolf or left to starve.”
“You cannot kill him.” The girl was horrified.
Maggie shrugged. “But who will care for him?”
“I will.” Evaline put out her arms, and the dog jumped into them. She held the animal close, her tears falling on his fur. “I had a little dog at home. Whitey, we called him. We had to leave him behind. I shall name this one Blackie.” She smiled. “Do you think Clara would have approved?”
Maggie watched for a time and then climbed out of the wagon. She went to Bessie, who was sitting beside the campfire. “Evaline will be all right,” Maggie said. “The healing has begun.” There was healing for her, too.
Eighteen
The train moved slowly. Maggie and the others packed and repacked the wagons. They took turns performing chores that the men had done. They lingered at their nooning, and for two days they started late and stopped early, making no more than a few miles. “At this rate, it will take us a year to reach California,” William told them that night. “You must work together and work harder,” he said. “The pass ahead is worse than any we have seen so far. The descent is the most difficult between the Missouri and California.”
Maggie blew out her breath. She had heard of Granite Pass from an eastbound traveler and knew it would test them more than anything on the trip. “We shall make it,” she said, although she was not sure.
“We have no choice,” William told her. “But I wish we were better prepared. It will take everything we have to cross it.”
* * *
THE WAY UP Granite Pass was no worse than what they had encountered before, and Maggie thought travelers had exaggerated its difficulty. She reached the top and once again admired the beauty of the far hills. In front of her, however, was a valley of rocks and formations so bizarre that Caroline remarked, “It appears the world has been broken apart.” That broken world was a bizarre mass of limestone and sandstone and granite cones and tables and rock formations that made Maggie shiver because they brought to mind the strange shapes in City of Rocks. They shone red and green and yellow in the sunlight, like a devil’s garden. They would have to descend miles over steep and twisting trails, through a series of mountains and valleys until the pass and its descent were behind them.
William said they would wait until morning to begin. “God knows where we could spend the night in that trail of horrors,” he said.
Maggie wished that they had started earlier, because she lay awake much of the night worrying whether they were up to the task ahead of them.
The early morning was cold. Mary rose to place branches on the fire, and Maggie realized her friend had been awake and worried, too. “Do you think we can make it?” she whispered.
“We will try. It is that, my girl, or go back, and we have voted not to do so.”
“I am glad we are going ahead. There is nothing behind for either of us. You will get us through, Mary. We will all pray.”
“We shall get us through, you and I, and we will leave the praying to others. Myself, I will place my faith in the wagons, not God.”
“You are not a believer?”
“I am more inclined to believe the Lord comes to the aid of those who depend on themselves.”
“Then He is surely on your side.”
“Our side.”
The two warmed themselves by the fire, and before long, the others awoke. Dora got up awkwardly, her distended belly huge in the dawning light. She rubbed her injured arm as if it pained her. Maggie hoped the baby did not choose that day to be born.
* * *
THE RISING SUN sent long shadows across the east side of the pass, giving the rocks and defiles an even more devilish appearance. Maggie could see the remains of wagons and dead animals along the trail. From somewhere ahead of them, a dying ox bellowed. Maggie closed her eyes for a moment and said a prayer. She wished that Mary prayed, too, because God surely would pay attention to her. Maggie prayed that none of the women or their wagons or animals would be destroyed before they reached the bottom. She did not believe they could be so lucky, however. Like the other women, she hurried through breakfast, anxious to have the descent behind her.
William was nervous, too, and he yelled at the women to hitch the oxen. “No one is to ride inside the wagons. It is too dangerous,” he ordered. “Joseph and I will be needed for the ropes, so you women will have to drive the wagons. If no one volunteers, we will cast lots.”
“I will drive,” Mary offered.
“And I,” Maggie said.
Others volunteered, but the train still lacked one driver, so the women drew from blades of grass to see who would guide the oxen hitched to the final wagon. Dora had the shortest blade. She might have pleaded her condition, but she would not and started for the last wagon. Sadie exchanged a look with Bessie, then spoke up. “Let me go instead of her.”
“No, the responsibility is mine,” Dora said.
Sadie touched her arm. “Big with the baby like you are, you aren’t strong enough. If you lost control of the wagon, you could run down the rest of us. Let me do it.”
Dora thought that over. She had never used her pregnancy to avoid work, but it was clear that she was weak and exhausted. If she could not control the wagon, it could indeed careen down the mountainside. Finally, she nodded agreement.
The women loaded the wagons and were ready to leave when another train crowded in front of them. It was made up entirely of men. Both Maggie and Penn scanned the faces as they always did, but Reed was not among them.
The men looked at the women in disbelief. “Where’s your men at?” one asked.
“We have none but our two guides. The rest have run off,” Mary told him.
“You going to try this on your own?” He was incredulous. “Can’t no women go down a pass like this without they have men.”
“We intend to try,” Maggie said. She raised her chin in defiance, although she was so afraid she almost shook.
The man called to the others. “This here’s a wagon train of wome
ns—womens! They think they can go by theirself.”
The men stared, and two or three guffawed. “They expect us is going to help ’em?” one asked.
“Yeah, for a price. I say forty dollars a wagon ought to do it.”
“For such a price, we might hire the United States Army,” Mary told him.
Joseph came up to the men. “We thank you for your generosity,” he said with sarcasm. “But we do not need your assistance.”
“They’re womens. You think they can drive them oxen down these mountains?”
“They have done so for a thousand miles. They are magnificent.”
Maggie’s heart swelled with pride. She might have expected such encouragement from Reverend Parnell, but Reverend Swain had been more critical. He was not a man to praise them without reason. He truly believed in them, she realized.
“Now move out,” Joseph told the men, “or the women shall take precedence and show you what they can do.”
As the men started off, one of them broke away. “You might chain a small tree behind your wagon,” he told Mary. “The weight will hold it back.” She thanked him, and he said, “Good luck to you, ma’am.”
William let the men go a long way down the trail before he ordered the women to line up. “We do not want to crowd them,” he said.
“And we want to study how they manage each curve and drop,” Joseph added. “We will learn from their mistakes.”
Just as Mary started down the trail, they heard the sound of a wagon far ahead as it careened over a cliff and crashed below. Men screamed. A mule made a hideous sound until there was a gunshot, and the animal was silenced. Winny crossed herself, and Caroline bowed her head in prayer. There had been a great deal of praying, Maggie thought. She hoped God was listening.
Mary glanced at Maggie, then at William, who did not comment on the tragedy but instead asked, “Are you ready, Miss Madrid?”
Mary could only nod as she urged the oxen forward. The other wagons joined in a line behind her. William and Joseph and the rest of the women walked along. The descent was treacherous. Frequently, the wagons had to stop while the women locked the rear wheels with chains to slow the wagons on the steepest parts of the descent. Maggie did her best to ignore the broken vehicles and dead animals scattered about, but she could not help but shudder at the thought that one or more of the emigrants who had shoved ahead of them had been killed in the accident. The wind came up, raising clouds of dust that settled in her hair and nose and made it difficult to see.
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