Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  Realization hit his audience about the same time. “Aw, I knew he was carryin’ us along the whole time.”

  B. F.’s eyes were shining, and he said it before he thought. “Your pa would have loved that story.” Jane looked away, not bearing to answer. She choked out a goodnight and ran back to the wagon. B. F. could only shake his head at his stupidity.

  The train continued a slow descent along first the Big Sandy, then the Muddy River. B. F. was excited to hear they would reach Fort Bridger by the end of the day. Everybody knew of the exploits and discoveries of the famous mountain man, Jim Bridger. He was credited with discovering the Great Salt Lake and exploring much of the west. In his younger days, he had been shot in the back with an arrow. According to the story, he carried the arrowhead for three years until it was finally removed by a frontier doctor, “cause it irritated me some.”

  He and his partner, Louis Vasquez, had established the Fort Bridger trading post in 1843, which was nestled in a mountainous area surrounded by the lands of the Shoshone Indians. From outer appearances, it seemed they had chosen their location well. The fort was located on perhaps a thousand acres of level, green pastures, had a great number of trees nearby, and was well watered. The fort itself was composed of a stockade about ten feet high, and inside was a well-supplied store with clothing, food, liquor, tobacco, and ammunition. Bridger’s log home was also located within the stockade.

  However, a closer look revealed that the stockade was little more than a line of poles that were bound together in some semblance of a line, and filled with daubs of mud. The three buildings were also crudely constructed and filthy inside. Arranged around the front of the fort were about twenty-five lodges that were occupied by the Indian wives and children of trappers that frequented the fort. The women attempted to trade their skins, clothing, and moccasins with wagon trains for food. Some travelers were only too happy to exchange excess food that they might have to throw away anyway for a pair of soft and supple elk hide moccasins to give their aching feet some relief.

  B. F. was prepared to meet the famous frontiersman himself and looked forward to hearing his latest stories in great detail. Instead, upon entering the trading post he saw a middle-aged man sitting cross-legged in the corner with scraggly gray hair and wearing a filthy jacket. He was running his tongue over the surface of a broken front tooth. “What’ll ye need boy?”

  “Nothing, sir. I just wanted to see Jim Bridger.”

  The man curled his lip, sort of waved his hand over his head in a dismissive manner, then turned his attention once more to his whittling. When others who entered the post got much the same response, it became obvious that Bridger was only interested in making a favorable trade and did not spend any time recounting a single one of his famous adventures for the entertainment of his visitors.

  In a very few years, Bridger would be gone from the fort. He and the Mormons would fight repeatedly about his sales of alcohol to the Indians before he finally sold them his fort and went back to the edge of civilization. There he would run a store in West Port, providing supplies and a constant stream of advice to travelers on the Santa Fe, Oregon, and California Trails well into his old age.

  Within a day and a half, the train struck the Bear River, where they turned to the north, and came to a spot, which Del called Soda Springs—with good reason. The water from the spring foamed like bicarbonate of soda mixed with water, and even tasted like soda, only stronger. They did not bother to fill their water barrels with the foul-tasting brew. There were other springs in the area, some of them bubbling heated water, with steam rising up from the earth.

  All of the children wanted to touch the hot water, if for no other reason than to say they had. About the time Ethan leaned over to stick his hand in the heated water, he was suddenly grabbed by the nap of his shirt and dragged backward by his mother. “Get away from there.” She turned to all the children and shook her finger at them. “Get back from this here spot. Don’t ye know what this place is? The divil and his hell cain’t be far from this here place.”

  Just beyond they struck the Blackfoot River, which took them further north until they crossed the Snake River, and then headed west. The entire area was filled with various rivers, creeks, branches, and standing water that seemed to head in every conceivable direction, but eventually all flowed into the Snake. Cattails were everywhere in the slow moving waterways. The valley was surrounded by timber, which was only exceeded in number by mosquitoes. At dawn and dusk they were everywhere. The beasts and the travelers could get no relief. For every one that was swatted, another ten volunteers took its place in the obvious effort to drive animals and humans crazy.

  Mary pulled some dried up flowers out of a cloth bag in her wagon, ground them up, and mixed in a little vinegar. “Ya’ll pat this fleabane on your arms and faces. It’ll keep most of them skeeters away.”

  Jane and Ethan were quick to protest. “Ma, that stuff smells terrible. Nobody’ll want to come close to us when we’re usin’ this.”

  “Them skeeters feel the same way. That’s why they’ll leave ye be.”

  In the midst of this environment stood Fort Hall. Finally, this was indeed a true fort—a stockade eighty feet by eighty feet square, constructed of cottonwood trees that had been sunk in the earth, and extended some fifteen feet in the air. There were two square guard towers standing at diagonally opposite corners of the fort, while inside stood two well-built log structures—one a supply post and the other a barracks for the men assigned there.

  Here the Snake formed a huge river valley, with massive mountains to the north and south. The stock had plenty of grass, but B. F. wondered if his pony was finding enough to eat to keep him going. He couldn’t forget the warnings about the horses who couldn’t withstand the rigors of the trip and the poor forage in the high plains and mountain valleys. It did give him hope that the Shoshone Indian ponies which they saw from time to time appeared to be in good shape. He hoped his horse was from the same stock.

  Twenty-One

  The Choice

  Indian Territory 1849

  My story. On July 29 year of 1849

  We are heading up the Snake River getting closer and closer to the day when farmers headed for Oregon and miners headed for Calyfornia must go their separate ways. Mary has said nary word about what she intends to do. I don’t know how they can make it without me, or how I can make it without them. How can a woman and two children start up a farm, build a cabin, plow their fields, harvest a crop, and stay safe by themselves? Let alone that they don’t have any money.

  For myself, I cannot figure how I can carry what I need without their wagon. How can I even protect any money that I earn in Calyfornia? If I don’t find my pa, can I truly do it by myself?

  He kept hoping Mary would bring up the subject, but she didn’t. He couldn’t figure what her silence meant. Did she assume that he would just stay with them? Was she waiting for him to start the conversation? Did she not care? The train moved on and the days wound down. Without saying anything at all, the decision would be made for them when the two groups separated.

  He decided to talk to Jane one afternoon as they walked beside the wagon. “Has your ma said anything about going to California instead of Oregon?”

  “No. She don’t talk as much as she use to since pa died. How many weeks ’til the split?”

  “Del says it’ll be sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  She looked at him quickly. “I didn’t know that. I don’t think ma knows neither.”

  “I guess I’m going to California. I was hoping you’d go that way too.”

  Jane looked away. “I think ma figured you’d go with us.” She walked back to the wagon and climbed in the back.

  When the full train circled up for the last time, Del spoke to them. “After lunch tomorrow, we’ll strike the Raft River on the south bank. Them for Californy’ll cross the Snake and head up the Raft. Them for Oregon will stay on the north bank. Both roads is hard, but the Californy Trail
is worse. I hope you boys goin’ to find all that gold is lucky. I been proud to lead all of you’ns. Startin’ at the Raft, you’ll be led by Louis Vasquez’s boy, Roberto. He led one group to Californy last year, so he’s a proven guide.”

  Paddy Dowd walked Miz Campbell back to her wagon. Although they weren’t trying, B. F. and Mary could overhear most of the conversation. “Ma’am, I know ye’ve had a terrible loss on this journey. And I know I’m not the best-looking man you ever did see, but it was a good farmer I once was in County Clare. I know how to build a snug house. I seldom take a drink of whisky—except on special occasions of course. And I’ll treat you good as can be, and take care of you good as any man. If you’d consider me for a husband, I’d like to go with you to Oregon.”

  B. F. couldn’t hear what she said, but directly they walked back to the firelight together, and Miz Campbell had her hand on Paddy’s arm. He envied them. He failed to notice that Mary’s eyes were watering.

  Some time later that evening, B. F. decided he just had to say something and walked over to the Fitzwater fire. “Ma’am, I guess you know I’m headed to California tomorrow. I still hope to find my pa there. I’m sure grateful for the way you treated me these last four months. And I’m so sorry about Mr. Fitzwater. I believe he was the finest man I ever met.” He waited for her to lift her head back up. “I wish you all would come with me.”

  “You’re the third man today that’s asked me to go to California. Both Leon Quinn and Clyde Hancock asked me. But, B. F., I don’t know nuthin’ about gold minin’. To tell the truth, I don’t know much about farmin’ neither.”

  “I don’t aim to mine for gold. A man I knew in Indiana said the only ones who made any real money in the gold fields were people who sold things to the miners. I figure on doing just what we did back in West Port. I can cut hair.”

  She stared at him with a look of disgust. “Well, me and Janie ain’t about to sell no hot baths in California!”

  “I didn’t mean that. You and Jane can cook real fine. What if you opened a dining establishment near Sutter’s Mill? All those miners have to eat. I bet they’d pay dearly for some of your biscuits.”

  That brought a hint of a smile. “Where would we get the fixin’s for all that cookin’?”

  “According to Roberto Vasquez, it comes by wagon from San Francisco.” He pressed his case. “This way, you can take the money you earn after a couple of years in the gold fields and do whatever you want—buy a farm, open a store for women’s clothes, live in town, live in the country—whatever you want.”

  “Let me talk to Janie.”

  The next morning, B. F. gave a questioning look to Missus Fitzwater, but she just said, “We ain’t decided yet.” She and Jane rode in the wagon all morning.

  When they stopped at lunch, he got the same response. He began to think that she just didn’t want to tell him the bad news. He knew exactly how she felt. He remembered how he had spent a day and a night struggling with how he could tell her the terrible news that no doctor would be coming from Fort Laramie to save her husband.

  Around three o’clock a substantial stream cut into the Snake from the South. Del pulled the train up. “All fer Californy, here’s yer gittin’ off place.” As the two groups began to pull apart, Del said his goodbyes. He found B. F. quickly enough. “Son, I’d wagon train with you anywhere and anytime you say. I wouldn’t trade you for any man in this outfit. It’s real courage when yer skeered to death, but ye git on yer hoss anyway—an that’s what you done back at Laramie for old man Fitzwater.”

  B. F. had seldom heard Del compliment anyone, so he instantly knew he was being sincere. He couldn’t help the blush that came to his cheeks. “Thanks, Del. You’re a true friend. We were all lucky to have you leading us. For a fact, you saved our lives more than once. Good luck to Oregon.” They shook hands, the big, rough hand of the wagon master, and the hand of the boy, no more than half the size.

  B. F. quickly sought out Paddy. “So it’s a farmer you’ll be?”

  “How did you come to know that?”

  “One of those fairies you’re always talking about told me your secret.”

  “’Tis true. I aim to grow the fruit of the gods in that Willamette Valley.”

  “Fruit of the gods?”

  “Aye. The best Irish potatoes Oregon ever saw. You’re welcome to come too if you ever decide you miss following behind a plow.”

  They shook hands. “I’m for California. I still hold out hope to find my pa there.”

  As he turned back toward the Fitzwater wagon, he saw Mary carrying a gallon-sized stoneware crock. She grabbed Paddy by the sleeve and took him aside. “Mistuh Dowd, I have something precious here for you that I brought all the way from Tennessee. It was my intention to save it for my husband, but that’s no longer possible. Mistuh Fitzwater thought a lot of you, and I’m sure he’d want you to have this.” Paddy started to speak, but she held up her hand. “It’s not my intention to cast doubts on you in any way—but I can’t help but notice that the Widow Campbell is quite a bit younger than you are.”

  “Age is only in the mind, m’dear.”

  “Not necessarily, Mistuh Dowd. Age can find other locations aside from the mind. I have here a jug of the best Tennessee River bottomland blackstrap molasses, and it might be a godsend to ye one of these days.”

  “Why do you call it ‘blackstrap’?”

  “Blackstrap is the most powerful of all molasses. It’s the third boiling of fine cane sugar syrup, and its chock full of what must be solid iron. But here’s what’s real special about it. If you take a tablespoonful a day of blackstrap, it will provide a source of powerful vigor to your blood.”

  Paddy gave her a strange look. “Do you mean. . . .”

  She nodded her head. “That’s exactly what I mean, Mistuh Dowd. One of these days, your young wife may have expectations of you that are hard to meet. As long as you have this blackstrap, you will be ready, willing, and able.”

  Paddy doffed his hat and accepted the gift. “I sincerely hope those days are a long ways off, but thank you for your kindness—and maybe the Widow will thank you as well!”

  For the life of him, B. F. couldn’t figure out what they were talking about, but then he turned to the task he dreaded and began pulling gear from the back of the Fitzwater wagon and wrapping it in a blanket to affix it behind his saddle. The voice came from behind him. “What do you think you’re doing?” He turned to see Mary standing there with Jane and Ethan beside her. “Put that right back where it came from. We got a river to cross, don’t we? Janie, you and B. F. see if you can sell some of those farm tools to them sodbusters headed to Oregon.”

  He couldn’t hide how relieved he was. He hugged Mary and slapped Ethan on the back, but when it came time to express his feelings to Jane, all either of them could do was stand about four feet apart and grin at one another.

  It was obvious that Jane was the better salesperson. In fifteen minutes, she had lightened the wagon’s load by 150 pounds and increased their pocket book by eleven dollars. She and B. F. unloaded the seed corn, red wheat, corn sheller, and plough, and watched as it was carefully placed in the back of the Zimmerman wagon.

  Seven wagons and fifty souls could almost smell their fortune ahead as they waved farewell to the rest of the train, crossed the Snake and headed southwest, up the Raft River, then over Granite Pass and along Goose Creek, Little Goose Creek, and Rock Spring Creek. They then spent an entire day fording waterways in Thousand Springs Valley, then traveled along West Brush Creek to Willow Creek, and finally to the headwaters of the Humboldt River.

  B. F. couldn’t help but notice the frequent attentions of Leon Quinn and Clyde Hancock. At least once or twice a day they each stopped to tip their respective hats and ask if there was anything they could do to make Mary’s trip more tolerable. Mr. Hancock had even started filling up their water barrel every evening. But both men were convinced that it had been their own gift of gab that had gotten Miz Fitzwater to come
south, and who knows, maybe that was the case.

  They followed the Humboldt for many days, passing through Carlin Canyon, where the river was high enough that the water was flooded across the wagon road in two places. They then had a steep climb through Emigrant Gap, then an even steeper descent into Emigrant Canyon where they rejoined the River.

  There was discussion about taking the Truckee River Route or the Carson Trail. Roberto Vasquez had taken the Truckee Route on the way in, and the Carson Trail on the way out last year. Both routes required a terrible two-day trek across the Forty Mile Desert. But the Truckee Route required some thirty additional river crossings. By comparison, the Carson Trail would require pulling the wagons up an almost vertical, three-hundred-foot-high bluff—the Sierra Crest. They would accomplish the latter by using all seven teams to pull a single wagon up the obstacle. The wagons would be completely unloaded, and the gear carried by hand to the top of the bluff. When Vasquez mentioned that the Truckee Route had at least two hundred graves along the trail, they all voted for the Carson route.

  They filled every container they had at the Humboldt Bar, and made sure their oxen were grazed well on the grass along the river. At daybreak, they headed south toward the Carson River. By mid-morning of the second day, their water barrels were empty, and they had to rely on what was left in their canteens for the remainder of the trek.

  They were all suffering in the late August heat, with the temperature close to 100 degrees. But if they suffered, the oxen were in misery. They had received nothing to eat for the second day in a row. Not a drop of shade anywhere, and no water to drink. As he trudged along, B. F. began to feel as if he was being cooked in the fierce sun, and he suddenly remembered his conversation with Del. He had finally “seen the elephant” and began to seriously wonder if they could survive for the rest of the day.

  At dusk that evening, the dark formation of a tree line formed in the distance. All prayed that it marked the river in front of them. The stock could undoubtedly smell the water, and despite their exhaustion, they quickened their step. As soon as they reached the river bank, the men unhitched the pitiful beasts and they trundled into the water to stand belly deep for at least an hour. When they finally exited, they spent the first half of the night eating the emerald green grass along the river.