by John Babb
B. F. nodded and stepped around the wagon to where George Fitzwater lay. The pain was so bad that he was shaking and sweating. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll be back.”
George grabbed his hand, gritting his teeth so he could get the words out. “Be careful, son. I’m not worth your life.”
Jane had stepped behind B. F., holding the pony’s bridle. “I want to go with you.”
“The pony can’t handle two of us for such a long ride. Besides, you need to be right here with your ma and pa.”
“I want to go. Maybe I can help if you get into trouble.”
Before B. F. could respond, Mary put her arms around her daughter. “Your pa and I need you here, Janie.” She looked at B. F. “Get goin, boy.”
B. F. knew he couldn’t ride the pony as fast as he wanted to. They both had to last for the next four days. Thank goodness the horse was well rested, as he had hardly been ridden at all over the last week, and the grass had been good. He had four days of biscuits and salted meat for himself and a small bag of corn for the horse, but he had not brought along a gun. If he found Indians—or worse, if they found him—one rifle wouldn’t do any good anyway. It would just slow him down, and besides, the Brodericks and Fitzwaters might need all the firepower they could muster.
He rode steadily throughout the day, only stopping around nine o’clock when it was too dark to see. He and his horse slept in a thicket, away from the trail itself, and woke with the sunrise. B. F. guessed that he was traveling maybe five times faster than the train.
About mid-morning, he met another wagon train. He hollered at the man out front to assure him he was no threat. “Do you folks have a doctor on this train? A man is hurt real bad about three days up the trail.”
“We ain’t got no doctor. What happened to him?”
“Got run over by a wagon. Do you know if there’s a doctor at Laramie?”
“Don’t know.” He shouted behind him, “Hey Smiley, is there a doctor at Laramie?”
“Was last year.”
B. F. waved a thank you and rode on. In early afternoon, he passed another train with the same result. He began to have a sense of dread that he would find no doctor. How could he return to George Fitzwater with that news?
Inside of an hour he sighted a cavalry troop headed his way on the trail. The Sergeant in the lead pulled them up. “Where you bound for boy?”
“I’m headed for Laramie. Is there a doctor there? A man is hurt real bad up the trail.”
“Waal, we sorta got a doctor. He come out from Kearny a couple months ago. But his second day in camp he got kicked in the head by a mule. He ain’t been outa bed since. Lieutenant says he ain’t got sense enough not to piss his pants.”
B. F. looked at him. “Are you saying he can’t doctor anybody?”
“That’s what I’m sayin’. He don’t even know his own name.”
“Is another doctor on his way?”
“Probably not ’til next year. How far you goin, boy?”
“About a day-and-a-half ride.”
“Say, this is bad territory. You cain’t do that.”
“My friend’s waiting on me to bring a doctor. I gotta get back.” B. F. turned his horse around.
“Corporal Daniels, take Private Swanson and go with this cussed boy.”
B. F. again rode well into the twilight. Corporal Daniels was not happy with this long day as he pulled his horse alongside B. F. “We been ridin’ all day. It’s time to make camp.”
“I got a long ride tomorrow too. Maybe you can make camp and catch up with me in the morning.”
The Corporal reached out and grabbed his reins. “We’re stoppin’ here, I said.”
“Alright. Guess I don’t have much choice.”
The Private pulled out his cook kit and began preparing to build a fire. B. F. looked at the Corporal. “It’s probably not a good idea to have a fire. There’ll be a good moon tonight. You can see that smoke from a long distance with no wind.”
“Mind your own business, boy. We intend to eat a supper.”
“Then if you don’t mind, my horse and I will bed down away from your camp.”
“Suit yoresef.”
B. F. led his pony a good half mile west of the campfire and again bedded down in a thicket of honeysuckle well off the trail. His horse nuzzled him awake while it was still dark. The full moon was well past vertical on the horizon, allowing him to estimate it must be between two and three o’clock. He heard what sounded like a rifle shot, followed by a single shot of lesser caliber—probably a pistol—then five or six rifles, then silence.
He had left the saddle on his pony, simply loosening the cinch when he bedded down. His shaking hands made it difficult to tighten the cinch, but he scolded himself about not being a coward, removed the hobble, added the bridle, and got back in the saddle as quickly as he could. He guessed that if the Sioux had prevailed, they would spend some time at the campsite making sure they had taken everything of value, so he probably had at least a fifteen minute head start. Of course, if the cavalry had won, then he had plenty of time. There was enough moonlight that he had little problem finding the trail and staying on it.
By daybreak he felt safe enough to stop so both he and his horse could get a long drink from the river. Even so, he felt exposed when he dismounted and got down on his knees at the water’s edge. He could almost feel someone sighting in on him as he knelt. He wasn’t as thirsty as he thought.
It was a very long day. He finally rested around noon so that his horse could get some grass. He ate two biscuits and some buffalo jerky and rode on. Around four that afternoon, he overtook the wagon train that he had met after leaving the Fitzwaters. He shouted out to them that he was coming in.
The wagon master asked if he had news. “I’m pretty sure there was a fight between two soldiers and some Indians back about forty-five miles. I don’t think they knew I was around, but I’m not positive of that. You’d best be sure your lookouts are sharp tonight. I think I’ve got about fifteen more miles to go. Got to get moving.”
Both he and his pony were worn to a frazzle, but B. F. was committed to getting back as soon as possible. He felt a terrible weight in his chest that if he didn’t get back tonight, he might not see Mr. Fitzwater alive again. He had no idea what they were going to do when he arrived, but he just knew he had to get there.
The sun had long since set, but there was enough moonlight for B. F. to believe that he had arrived at the place where he had left the wagon train three days earlier. He searched for a sign of the Fitzwater and Broderick wagons, but to no avail. Could it be that this was not the place after all? Then he saw the fresh pile of dirt and stones off to the side of the trail. His heart fell into the pit of his stomach.
He inspected the grave to see if the Broederick’s had left anything to confirm that this place belonged to Mr. Fitzwater. He located a piece of wagon canvas stuffed under the largest rock, with an inscription that read, Here lies George Fitzwater – the finest of men. His friend was gone. Not only had he failed in his mission, but now it was too late to even tell him goodbye. He had wanted to say thank you for so many things, but now there would be no chance.
It was too dark to go further, and he had no familiarity with the trail beyond this point, so he led his horse back into the brush for another night and bedded down. Despite his fatigue, he sought out his mother, there beyond Orion’s Belt, and spoke to her with an uncharacteristic anguished heart. For the first time since he left Indiana, he cried himself to sleep.
He was up and gone at daybreak and saw the two wagons ahead of him at mid-morning. He slowed his horse to a walk before he caught up to them, trying to think of something he could say to Mary and Jane. There was nothing. The emptiness returned to his chest.
My story. On June 26 year of 1849
Mr. Fitzwater was run over by the wagon and it crushed his legs. I rode back to Fort Laramie to fetch a doctor, but couldn’t get one. What I write next is awful bad. Mr. Fitzwater died around
three in the afternoon yesterday, before I could get back to him. Missus Broderick says his right leg was swole to twice its normal size and turned as black as night. He had a fever that put him out of his head that last day, and he died right in her arms.
Mary just sits on the wagon seat like a statue. I don’t think she’s crying but her face never changes. Little Ethan keeps asking about his pa, but his ma won’t answer him. She just sits there. Jane can’t hardly talk at all about it, and to tell the truth I can’t either.
Mister Broderick came and told me that before Mister Fitzwater got out of his head, he told him to tell me that he thought I was the finest boy he ever knew. I didn’t know it, but he told him when I took off to Laramie that he knew he’d never see me again. I think this hurts as bad as anything I’ve ever felt.
Mister Broderick put his hand on B. F.’s shoulder and nodded toward the Fitzwaters. “Son, they’re really gonna need you now—but I know you can do it. Coggins said we might catch up at the Mormon Ferry. He said it was about four days ahead, but that it’d take at least a day for them to cross. So it’s possible that we can get there in time.”
The river turned to the southwest for three days, and at about five o’clock in the afternoon, they reached what had to be the Mormon Ferry. Coggins’ train was nowhere in sight. Mr. Broderick knocked on the door of a cabin at the side of the river. “We need passage across the river. We’d appreciate gettin’ over to the north side this evening.”
The man at the door had half a slice of cornbread in his hand, and when he spoke, it was easy to see that the rest of the piece was in his mouth. “We’ll be down soon as we finish our dinner. Unhook your stock right at the river bank. Since it’s after my suppertime, it’ll cost ye two dollars and fifty cents a wagon.”
The ferry consisted of two large, hollowed-out cottonwood canoes that were fastened together with cross bars and then covered with wooden planking. It was operated with oars, but there was a stout rope tied from a tree stump on one bank to a big pine tree on the other. A second rope was tied from the raft to an iron ring that encircled the main rope. A third rope was tied to the front of the ferry. As the contraption left the opposite bank, a team of four oxen and two men pulled the load across to the north bank.
The Broderick wagon with the Brodericks and Jane on board crossed on the first load, with their oxen swimming behind. The Fitzwater wagon, carrying Mary, Ethan, and B.F was on the second crossing; followed by B. F.’s pony and their stock. They decided to keep going for another hour before stopping for the night. Until they caught up with the Coggins’ train, they resolved to travel at least an hour longer each day than the train normally did. They felt like they could gain some miles anyway with the lack of wasted time in getting the whole train moving after every stop.
The next day the trail turned back to the west, and again they were climbing. They noticed a peak to the southeast that still had snow on top. Jane announced that it was the twenty-ninth day of June. What manner of place was this that you could see snow in the summer?
The third day, they came to the confluence of the North Platte and the Sweetwater River near Muddy Gap, where the larger river ran straight to the south. The trail began heading up the Sweetwater River, and there was now a succession of snow-covered peaks in sight off to the north. The second day on the Sweetwater, they saw a broad open saddle with prairie grass and sagebrush. This was the famous South Pass, the pathway that straddled the Continental Divide in the Rocky Mountains, and at least a mile ahead of them, they spied what had to be the rear end of Coggins’ train.
The Sweetwater began on the east flank of South Pass, and its water flowed eventually into the Mississippi River. On the west end of the pass rose Pacific Creek, which would flow into Big Sandy River and eventually find its way to the Pacific Ocean.
They finally caught the Coggins Train as they were making camp for the evening. Del came to see them straight-away, and listened intently while Missus Broderick told the story, including some of the details of B. F.’s ride that he had shared with them.
Del took off his hat and put his arms around Mary. He suddenly realized it had been a good eight or ten years since he had hugged a woman, and he took a quick step backward. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I was about to give ya’ll up. Didn’t know if you’ns went back to Laramie, or mebbe them Sioux found you. And B. F., I don’t know what to figger about you!”
Over an evening campfire, they brought everybody up to date on their sad news. B. F. noticed that a couple of the single men were extremely attentive to Mary, offering to help out with anything she might need during the remainder of the trip. He had not noticed them being particularly nice before.
Twenty
The Devil Can’t Be Far From This Place
Indian Territory 1849
The next morning, Del spoke to the travelers. “Today it’s our Independence Day. We’re gonna stop early this evenin’ and do some celebratin’. How about a couple you men ridin’ ahead to kill us a buffalo or some deer. Today oughta be celebrated in fine style.”
About four o’clock that afternoon, the train came upon the hunters in a narrow valley, busily dressing a bear and the hind quarters of a cow elk. Their efforts were worthy of a rousing cheer from the train. One of the hunters had a request. “We kilt this bear up on that ridge while he was eatin’ huckleberries with both hands. It sure would be tasty if we had us some huckleberry pie to go with these steaks.”
Del spoke up. “We can send a dozen younguns to pick, but we got to have three or four men up there with muskets. Them bears won’t take kindly to us stealin’ their candy.”
Fires were started, potatoes peeled, biscuits readied, and thick steaks provided to each wagon. Most of the women prepared a cobbler crust for their Dutch ovens in anticipation of huckleberries. They weren’t disappointed. The children returned with full buckets and stained mouths.
The single men on the train were invited to the families’ dinner tables, and they ate until they were almost stupefied. The huckleberry cobblers were pronounced as the best ever tasted. Of course, for most of them, they had never even seen huckleberries before.
One of the more studious men of the company, Rupert Osgood, stood up before the group. He had a large, purple birthmark on his forehead, so it was his habit to wear a hat on all occasions. Some said he wore the hat to bed so as not to distract Miz Osgood. But on this particular occasion he held his hat in his hands. “I think we should say somethin’ about our Declaration of Independence.”
He was encouraged, “Go ahead, Osgood.”
He squared his shoulders and spoke out so all could hear him. “It was seventy-three years ago that our ancestors wrote a Declaration of Independence from King George. Since that time, we fought two wars with England and one with Mexico to protect our liberty, and that don’t count all them wars with the savages and the pirates. There may be some in this company who fought for our United States. To them who did, we’re grateful for what you done. And as to this journey, to use the phrase of a great man, Mr. Thomas Paine from my home state of Pennsylvania, there sure aren’t any summer soldiers or sunshine patriots in this company. In the face of daily hardship, you’re all showin’ great faith and courage in this strange and untamed land. Of all the people I ever met, you are the best fitted to take our country to the Pacific Ocean.”
There were cries of “Huzzah!” from the crowd.
In short order, musical instruments were retrieved from wagons. Songs were sung, and dancing begun. Both B. F. and Jane were completely mesmerized to watch Miz Culberson and Miz Carrollton dancing together. Their amazement had nothing to do with the fact that two women were dancing together. Not at all. But the two women were stout in the extreme. When they danced, they had various body parts and bulges that shook and rolled so that it was impossible not to watch.
Whether the two women were conscious of their effect on the settlers, it was hard to say, but they certainly let nothing stand in the way of their joy of the moment. When t
he music stopped, B. F. could swear all those bulges kept on shaking for a good minute even when the two women were no longer dancing. For B. F., the memory of all that wiggling flesh was something he would visualize every time he celebrated the Fourth of July for the rest of his life.
Del chose this moment to step in front of the musicians. He held up his hand. “This was a wonderful evenin’. Thank you to our hunters who provided for us, and to all them good cooks that turned out such a fine meal.”
“I need to warn you about them bears. We gonna be in their territory for a couple of months. They’s two kinds of bears—the black bear we ate tonight and the griz. A big griz might weigh seven or eight hunnert pounds. He has a front paw that’s mebbe a foot long. And I seen em that was harder to kill than a big bull buffalo.” He looked at them intently. “You don’t wanna get nowhere near a griz.”
“One thing you can do is make sure them bears know yore around. Some people sew those little silver bells on their clothes—like them Mexicans wear—so’s the bears’ll know where they is and they’ll keep their distance. But if they do get close, people carry little bags of black pepper so they can throw the pepper in the bear’s face.”
“We all need to keep our eyes open for bear sign. For one thing, look out for bear scat. If ye see scat with berries and bits of fur in it, then it’s purty sure they’s a black bear close by.” Del paused and made sure his audience was listening.
Miz Culberson asked the question they all were wondering. “How do you tell there’s a griz around close?”
Del looked at them intently. “Griz scat has got little silver bells in it, and it smells like pepper.”
They looked at Del. He was straight-faced. They looked at each other. Someone snickered. Miz Broderick started laughing. She looked at the blank faces of the settlers, and she whooped and hollered even harder. Del could stand it no longer and couldn’t keep from laughing himself.