“Heard Warren had headed out. Too bad I can’t leave the store, I’d do it myself. I like exploring new things.” He smiled at Millie and she blushed. What’s that about?
“And I’d hire you. But do you know of someone I might get? I thought an Indian might be good, as escort going back into Indian country.”
He was thoughtful. “I do. He brings in fish,” John Brown said. “Stands up to those Klickitat that moved in giving the Kalapuya a hard time about taking salmon from ‘their tributaries.’ Always fair with me, though. Lives on the Grand Ronde reservation but gets papers to leave to fish old sites. Good judgment and good English too. Don’t know if he has a wife.” He told me where I might find him that time of year, fishing season just beginning this far south along the Willamette River’s streams.
His name was Little Shoot and I found him where Mr. Brown said I would, near a certain place on the Pudding River. He said he’d learned his English from a colored woman and his grandmother, the latter dead and the black woman moved to southern Oregon with her children, though “I see them some. They visit at Soap Creek.”
“I’m looking for someone who can drive my ox team and soon, within the week.” I still needed to find another couple to come with me in their own wagon that had room for more of our things. But I could leave if I had to, so long as I had one driver. “I’ll have these two little ones with me.”
America Jane hid her face behind my waist in the buggy I drove. Lizzie slept in a quilt at my feet. The man smiled at America Jane and she pulled back into me but kept an eye on him.
“Where is your man?”
“He left with several drovers and three hundred head of cattle, heading to Walla Walla country over the Cascades.” I pointed east toward the little-used route. “Have you heard of that passage?”
He lifted his chin up and down once. A yes. “I know of journey stories that way. From Santiam People. It follows a river through mountains. Good grasses on the other side.” Maybe Mr. Warren had gotten good advice after all.
Lizzie woke and I put her on my lap. Little Shoot grinned, teased Lizzie then, hiding his face with his hands, then jerking them away. She giggled, her pudgy hands and feet kicking out together with a vigor that nearly took her from my lap. This man has been around children.
“We’ll go by way of Portland, take a boat and meet at The Dalles. And then on toward Walla Walla. If my husband has already moved on through, I’ll have to try to follow him and your help would be welcomed all that way. If you’re willing.” Little Shoot was taller than me, with strong arms. The Yakima Indian wars just across the Columbia had ended the year before, but he could pass as Yakima should we encounter trouble on either side of the river. I thought him a good choice.
He was thoughtful. “I can go. I will need to tell my woman, my wife.”
“Would she come along?” If she did, I might go with just our wagon, forget the other couple.
“It is near her time. But she has people to care for her and the new child while I am gone.”
He was already a father, finding ways to provide for his family. I suspected the reservation didn’t offer much in the way of improving his lot.
We talked of payment and agreed on a price. His long black hair shone in the April sun, and he brushed it from his face before reaching to shake my hand. “I’ve never been asked to shake my hand as a man.”
“The colored woman, Letitia Carson. I work with her making cheese. She shakes hands to say we have a trust. I would smoke instead.” He grinned.
“I can shake a hand, but smoking is out.”
He lifted my fingers, soft, delicate almost, with one quick up and down and then release. I’d say it was feminine but it might also have meant respect instead of contest, not palm to palm in challenge. I took respect as my interpretation.
I’d made a good bargain. The sense of satisfaction for having made a contract surprised me. Now all I had to do was find a couple willing to pull up roots and travel with me.
To travel with total strangers, to not know if they saw a sunrise as an interruption or a joy; to wonder if they liked a quiet meal or conversation; to not be certain how they disciplined a child who meant no harm or where they thought a dog belonged: these were all things I had no real time to discover. While I changed Lizzie’s napkin, grateful she tolerated my milk well and didn’t suffer from chronic diarrhea as apparently I had as a baby, a young couple pulled up in a mostly empty wagon drawn by two mules. The canvas covering lay folded in the wagon bed beneath the metal bows. It was two days after I’d hired Little Shoot and nearly a month since Mr. Warren had left.
“So. We hear you head east, ja.” He had an accent, German maybe or Swiss.
“Yes. I am.”
“This is my sister, Hannah. We are the Ruckers, brother and sister. I am Charles.” They weren’t much older than me. “Mr. Brown tells us of your need.”
“Yes, please come inside. Can you tell me something about yourselves?”
“We are with the colony north of here.”
“Aurora?” It was a scatter of buildings lived in by hardworking people who had come from Missouri a few years before, who shared their income and needs communally. They were fine cabinetmakers and they’d started a mill and played musical instruments, or so I’d heard. They followed a leader but were said to be Christians.
“Yes. Aurora. We are free to work elsewhere.” The girl spoke, emphasizing the last two words. Else. Where. She spoke less-accented English than his but clear. She had blond braids wrapped around her head, eyes blue as lupine. She had one sleepy eye. Charles on the other hand was shorter than his sister, rounder, and he wore a floppy black hat as from Missouri. “I work with oxen. I manage your wagon.”
“And who would drive yours?”
“Hannah would. She’s quite good, ja. Not a problem for her.”
“I have an ox man, as it happens. But it’s good to know there will be four of us capable of managing our teams. I will welcome your hands with my children. Are you willing to provide care for them too?”
“I can do this.” She said “dis,” but I knew what she meant. She had a wide, somber face and didn’t smile as we spoke of their life in the colony and how they needed to branch out and earn money they’d bring back to the community. I wondered what criteria my mother used to find Matilda, how she knew to trust her to take me to Waiilatpu that last time.
The Ruckers drove a harder bargain than Little Shoot had. They charged for their labor as well as the wagon even though they intended to return with it to their colony after we reached the Touchet River. For now, it would be filled with Warren household goods. I was renting space. Our negotiations complete, I asked them if they had any difficulty traveling with an Indian.
Hannah’s eyes grew large. “We hear tales. Yakima, Modocs. It’s not one of them?”
“No, a quiet Kalapuya man who has permission to leave the reservation.”
“He might prove as protection for us, ja?”
“That was part of my thinking, too, Mr. Rucker. So I hired him, as he came recommended.” I thought I ought to ask these two for someone to recommend them, but as my mother might say, beggars can’t be choosers “Tomorrow we leave,” I said.
“Grateful I am,” Charles said. A phrase he used often. “We stay the night.”
“Oh, well, of course. Best you come in for some supper then. We can load until dark, wait for Little Shoot to come in the morning to finish up.”
“Ja, that’s good. Come, Hannah. You take that end and we load the bedstead first.”
“No. I mean, I plan to sleep on it one more time. We’ll load it in the morning.”
“Best to load the heavy bedstead on the bottom, Frau Warren. Maybe you could sleep in the wagon, ja?”
“I don’t think so. No. Please, let’s just get an early start loading. Little Shoot will be here to help.”
“Grateful I am dat you are clear with your orders.” Charles tipped his hat.
I sighed relief. Th
ey were no-nonsense people. They set a task and did it. It would be an adventure with four such people having certain ways of doing things venturing into unknown territories. Maybe I’d learn how to live better with my husband after dealing with strong-willed people on this trip.
Mr. Warren’s path would take him east of Brownsville and along Wiley Creek. Wiley had told Mr. Warren he’d made the crossing last year and intended to do it again, hunting on the little-used Indian land—public land, Wiley had called it—on the eastern side of the Cascades. A large rock outcropping skirted the pass both east and south and he was certain cattle could be brought through single file, moved north to The Dalles to rolling, high grass country. But there could be no wagons. Mr. Warren would take a different path from me, not for the first time in our marriage.
He’d been gone a month when we finished loading our two wagons with household goods, grain for the horses, chickens in their cages. One of the Rucker pair would also have the two sheep trotting behind their wagon. Mr. Warren had been insistent that we needed the sheep, but he didn’t want to be traveling with them. My father loved his sheep. He’d built up a huge herd while at Lapwai with sheep the Hawaiian Halls brought with them along with the printing press from the Sandwich Islands. Once, one of the rare times my mother insisted that all of us go to the annual gathering at Waiilatpu, my father drove his herd of twelve sheep the 120 miles from Lapwai, let them graze on the lush grass near the mission, and when the meeting was over, we all rode back, my father bringing up the rear behind his flock. At least no wolves got them, which he was sure would happen if he’d left them unattended. I always wondered why he didn’t think the Nez Perce would watch them, but perhaps it was that time of year when the Indians camped in places farther from Lapwai. Otherwise there’d have been a dozen families near us, people more than willing, as they always were, to help my father, including watch his sheep.
But they had changed, those Nez Perce. They no longer wanted us there.
We made good progress and Little Shoot got on well with the determined Ruckers. He simply eased his way doing as they asked, only once or twice gently suggesting an alternative in such a way the pair weren’t offended. I needed to watch that young man to see just exactly how he did that.
Just before we left, I took a final tour of what had been my home since marrying Mr. Warren. How soon would the mice claim it, make nests in my woodstove? I ran the stories in my head: where I’d dropped a knife and barely missed my barefoot toes. The incision still jabbed the floor. Where the O’Donnell brothers had deposited him with his broken leg; where he’d shared his deepest shame with me; where I’d given birth to our two girls.
“Mama, someone comes.” I turned to America Jane’s words.
“We couldn’t let you go without saying good-bye,” Rachel said.
“I knew you wouldn’t come to us.” This from Martha as she dismounted.
“But I said my good-byes. I . . . I don’t know if I can ache that much again.”
My father scowled, but Rachel beamed, whether out of her success at getting him to do something he didn’t want to or because all of us were together—except for Henry Hart who’d gone off to Washington somewhere. “You missed telling me and your father adieu.”
I hugged Rachel then. My father stood by the wagon while my sisters cuddled their nieces.
“I might have visited you, but as you can see I still have more things to load.” Here before me stood my family. And I was leaving them. Perhaps always had been. At least I could recall a dozen long good-byes. This one would be short. I had to get on my way.
“Don’t fret,” my father told me. Such an odd admonition.
“I don’t.”
“Ah, but you do. That’s what’s happening when you turn back to that sad time. You scold yourself, rebuke what happened to you there that was not your fault. None of it. No one’s fault. Except those Cayuse. And the Catholics, of course.”
Maybe it wasn’t the Cayuses’ fault either as they defended what had been taken from them. Losing things doesn’t always bring about a kinder, more grateful heart, appreciative of what one still had; sometimes loss hardened it. But perhaps there was a choice in that.
“Your concern is noted.” I kissed him on his whiskered cheek. “Thanks for coming to say good-bye. All of you.” He stood stiff, but he didn’t turn his back or brush his cheek of my touch.
I didn’t want tears to puddle in my eyes, but they did. I feared then I would go to sobbing or, worse, change my mind.
I inhaled, stepped up onto the wagon. Little Shoot handed my baby to me. America Jane sat beside me. Little Shoot moved to the oxen’s head. He’d walk beside the oxen, carrying a stick to guide them. Charles Rucker checked the ties on the bleating sheep and the butter churn hanging from the bow. We had one milk cow and my horse tied behind our wagon. I turned to wave and shouted, “You’ll see us again, God willing.” It was similar to what Timothy had told me about seeing my mother when he couldn’t take me from the murderers. I prayed it would be in this life and not the next.
“You’ll see us again, God willing. The exact words your mother said to her parents when we left New York!” He shook his head in wonder.
I saw tears on my father’s cheeks and turned north to our new beginning.
20
Heading Backward
Our first evening stop developed our routines. We’d packed grain for the oxen and mules to supplement grasses that grew beside the road. We didn’t want them wandering off onto people’s property, something overland emigrants didn’t have to worry over. Everything was still free range in the eastern part of the territory. That’s what had appealed to Mr. Warren. After Charles built a fire and Little Shoot set up tents, the Kalapuya and Hannah picked berries into a twine basket Little Shoot brought with him. Later he washed up the dishes and I commented on his doing women’s work.
“Work does not know who does it. It just wants to be done.”
I smiled. “Someone taught you how to do what is typical of women’s work, though.”
“My grandmother. She feared I would not find a woman to accept my ugly face so made certain I could feed myself.”
“A wise woman. I’ll remember that if I ever have a son.” I surprised myself by thinking I might want another child with Mr. Warren. My annoyance and anger at him was waning even then.
Despite my trepidation at going it without my husband, I found myself sleeping deeply, waking to the sunrise and the sweet smells of summer.
Our third night north, we heard wolves howl and we huddled the sheep close to our wagons. I was pleased for my helpers even more. In the morning, the trail took us near the Aurora community, so the Ruckers asked if they could stop at the gross haus where their leader and several families lived, to let them know they’d hired out for a time. As it was a Sunday and we’d stopped for the Sabbath, I agreed. We heard music coming from the long two-story house with a wide veranda, and Charles explained that worship began on Saturday afternoon and ended at Sunday noon, followed by music and food and “talking. It is when girls and boys can be together.”
“Otherwise women do what women do and men what they do,” Hannah added, “unless it is time to butcher or stack hay or pick hops. We do all together, those.”
Little Shoot and the girls and I remained with the wagon, but we could hear the festivities and I wondered if the Ruckers might change their minds about going with us. I thought of what I’d do if they did. Turn back and wait until I found others to go with us? But they returned and my imaginations once again resulted in the fears not coming forward. Perhaps making the commitment brought on the peace not found in all the ruminating about whether to go or stay.
We headed north toward Oregon City the following morning and the Ruckers commented on how many more houses there were. “Coming across the trail we saw not so many people. It grows fast here.”
“Imagine if you will how much it’s changed since when I was young,” I said.
“You came across
when?”
“I never did. I was the first white child to live born west of the Shining Mountains.”
“Aaahh,” Little Shoot said. “You are long time here.”
“Not so long as your people.”
We had our evening rest not far from the Willamette Falls.
“You are grandma, a kasa?” Little Shoot grinned. “You tell stories of your growing.”
“Not old as a grandma, but when I was little we lived in Lapwai on the Clearwater River, and every year dozens of white people came our way when I was old enough to remember. I haven’t been back. I imagine it’s changed greatly.” I didn’t say I had no desire to return.
“Where my people dug roots and hunted deer, already people live there, make it different.”
“I imagine they do.” All our Lapwai buildings had been built on someone else’s land, not even “owned” land, as my mother explained to me. The Nez Perce didn’t see the hills and rivers as belonging to anyone. It was there for use, given by the Creator, in order for all his people to survive and thrive. Everyone was charged with caring for it, being wise.
“Grateful I am that Dr. Kiel purchased the acres our colony has,” Charles said.
“From Kalapuya?” Little Shoot asked.
“No. Others already claimed it. A man named White.”
Little Shoot nodded as though that made perfect sense. Charles looked away. The Cayuse claim that the Whitmans had stolen their land came to mind. Could the violence really have been about that? About who had the power to give and take what they so desperately loved? Who is to say what made them do it? Taking back power could be a vehement thing. Was that why our Lord had encouraged us to do things a different way, grant forgiveness?
Lizzie fussed and I moved away from the wagon end where Hannah had placed hardtack and beef jerky for our light supper. The Ruckers had brought back sausage with a perfect blend of spices. I fed my baby and listened to Charles play his harmonica while I tucked America Jane into her bedroll in the wagon, knelt beside her to hear her simple prayers, then crawled in and spoke my own. I wasn’t certain what forgiveness really was, but it had come to me in the context of the Cayuse. I asked for clarity in my prayers that night, direction. Grateful I am. I echoed Charles’s words. I hoped that by the time we reached Touchet country I might have found a better way to look at what had happened to me not far from there and forgive my husband for taking me to a place of memory fraught with harm.
The Memory Weaver Page 18