by Janette Oke
Willie reached for the woman’s hand. He just looked into her face and patted the small hand with his other one. Missie blinked back more tears. The woman nodded, withdrew her hand, and turned away with tears glistening on her cheeks.
Missie then reached for Willie’s hand. He was so much like her pa, her Willie. He felt so deeply what others were feeling. Homesickness for her father and a surge of love for Willie swept through Missie in one wave.
They followed the Clays, who were already walking slowly down the path toward town.
“Willie,” Missie whispered, “we should try to draw her out more. She’s such a sweet thing, the poor soul. I can’t imagine anyone suffering so much—so young.”
“Yer ma an’ pa did,” Willie reminded her gently. His hand tightened on hers.
Missie was silent, too deeply moved to try to speak. Yes, her ma and pa had suffered, but she had been too young to be aware of it. She only remembered them as laughing, loving parents. Would Mrs. Emory someday be able to laugh and love again, too? Missie prayed that the town would indeed have a fine little church where she could commune with God.
The town wasn’t much, as towns go, but to the travelers it would suffice. There were sidewalks for Becky to walk on, although there were loose, broken, and even missing boards. The shoppers soon learned to keep an eye on their next step.
After a quick general look at the town, the various couples separated. The women went to yearn over threads, yarn, yard goods, and other “luxuries.” The men found themselves around the livery stable to check on more “practical” supplies, such as a new harness or new shoes for the horses.
Becky and Missie spent a long part of their morning surveying soft yarns and materials, planning and dreaming of what they would make for their coming babies. Becky already had most of her necessities, her baby having been expected before she left home, but she was eager to add some special things to the baby’s wardrobe. Missie would wait for her main preparation until she reached Willie’s land and was settled—but it would be so much fun to select a few pieces to work on during the journey.
There was a hotel of sorts in Lipton, and Becky’s and Missie’s husbands had promised to take their wives there for a meal. The four looked forward to it eagerly. It would be so good to have food that didn’t taste of woodsmoke, to drink real store-bought tea, to eat meat that wasn’t wild, and maybe even have some fresh bread. And vegetables! How long it had been since they had tasted fresh vegetables!
Promptly at noon the men returned and made an elaborate display of escorting Missie and Becky to the dining room. The room was already crowded, and they had to wait for a table.
The two couples deliberated long over the menu, and finally, sensing the impatience of the waitress, placed their orders. Missie was surprised at how flat things tasted without the tang of the smoke. The bread turned out not to be fresh, but it was bread. The meat was mild enough, but more than a little tough, and the vegetables were definitely overcooked. They enjoyed it immensely, however, and pretended to one another that it was the finest they had ever eaten. They even ordered pie and lingered over it, savoring each bite as they slowly sipped their cups of tea.
In the afternoon they continued their inspection of the stores. They knew wise decisions had to be made, and each purchase had to be carefully considered. It was a difficult task to make up one’s mind after not having shopped for such a long time.
Their lists were consulted and changed before the goods were finally ordered. Necessary foods were restocked, and a few fresh vegetables were purchased. Missie did pick out a few soft flannels and cottons to make into baby clothes and also bought additional wool for heavy socks. They began their walk back, weary and a little poorer, but refreshed by their day spent back in civilization. They clutched in their arms a few of their most cherished purchases, eagerly awaiting the rest to be delivered that evening.
Missie and Willie left John and Becky at their wagon and walked on to their own. Becky was looking tired after her exciting and busy day—this in spite of the fact that Missie had insisted she sit and rest for a spell every so often throughout the time spent in town. Missie invited them to share the evening meal with them so Becky might get some much-needed rest. Becky was happy to accept.
Upon reaching the wagon, Missie stowed away her purchases and set to work building the fire and preparing the meal. Willie changed back into his old overalls and went to take care of the cows and horses.
It had been a good day. Missie hummed as she worked. She could hear Willie’s whistle moving down the path toward the draw where the animals were staked out to graze.
TEN
Breaking Camp
The town, as Mr. Blake feared, had produced some casualties. Tillie Crane had found her hairdresser. She had also found a job in a shop, and she adamantly refused to move one more step into that “God-forsaken land” of wind, sun, and rain. Her husband had spent the night badgering and pleading by turn, but nothing would make Tillie change her mind. A heartbroken Jason Crane finally came to inform Mr. Blake that their wagon would be withdrawing. There was no way he would travel on without his wife. He’d see what he could do for a job in Lipton. Surely there was work somewhere for a man who was willing.
The Cranes weren’t the only ones with problems. A number of the men from the train had been “out on the town.” Most of them staggered in, sometime during the night, in various stages of disrepair. Mrs. Kosensky had taken care of her husband—a cold bucket of water for the outside of him and several cups of hot coffee for his insides. The next morning he was bleary-eyed and a bit belligerent but ready for travel.
Jessie Tuttle handled her driver-brother, J. M. Dooley, by simply stuffing him into the wagon and hitching the team herself.
Mrs. Thorne had the most trouble. Her husband failed to reappear at all. After waiting tight-lipped, she set off for town in search of her errant man, striding back to camp emptyhanded after two hours of searching. It was Mr. Blake’s turn. Maybe he was more familiar with where to look; at any rate, after about three-quarters of an hour, he returned. The livery wagon followed, delivering a very sodden Mr. Thorne. His wife said nothing, simply nodding to the men where Mr. Thorne was to be placed and picking up the reins of her team.
After a three-hour delay, the teams finally moved out. By then the sun was already hot, the children cranky, and the adults out of sorts.
Mrs. Thorne did not so much as give her neighbors a nod or a suggestion of apology. She smacked her team smartly with a rein and maneuvered into position, her face stern and her eyes straight ahead.
Missie watched as the woman drove up in her wagon. It had been said that Mrs. Thorne had known all along her husband wouldn’t remain in the camp mending harnesses and that she knew exactly what he would do once he got to town. It had happened many times in the past and would likely happen often in the future.
Missie was sure the invincible Mrs. Thorne would be able to cope. Nothing seemed to shake that woman from solid-rock indifference.
Mrs. Thorne smacked her team again and passed on by, her hands steady, her eyes unblinking against the glare of the midmorning sun. Missie almost missed it, but there it was—and what she saw made her stop short and catch her breath. Unmistakably running down Mrs. Thorne’s coarse, tanned cheeks was a steady stream of tears.
When Missie could breathe again she whispered, “You poor soul. Here you are suffering inside, and nobody knows... nobody even suspects, so no one reaches out to you in understanding. Oh... God forgive me. Forgive me for not seeing past her stiff jaw to the hurts and needs. Help me to help her, Lord—to show her kindness and love. She needs me. She needs you, Lord.”
Thereafter, Missie took every opportunity she could find to greet the woman with a smile, to show little acts of kindness. The older woman did not really melt, but she did begin to show a little softness around the firm, hard edges of her soul.
They had been on the trail four days since leaving Lipton, and the wagon train seemed to
be making good progress. The men who had visited the tavern had sobered up and were now back to their hard tasks. But it was strongly suspected J. M. Dooley had somehow managed to smuggle some whiskey along in his wagon against Mr. Blake’s explicit orders. It was a true source of contention between J. M. and Jessie Tuttle. And, of course, anything involving Jessie, Mrs. Page considered her right to become involved in, as well. So a three-way war was now raging.
Folks smiled at the ridiculousness of it all, but finally Mr. Blake decided it was time to step in. J. M.’s booze was discovered and discarded. Mrs. Page and her wagon were assigned a new position at the end of the line far from Jessie Tuttle. Things seemed to settle down again.
When they made camp the fourth night, a message carried by Mrs. Kosensky’s daughter, Nell, arrived for Missie as she cleaned up after the evening meal.
“Ma says, could ya come to Mrs. Clay? She’s been in labor most of the afternoon an’ wants to see ya.”
Missie was stunned at the news. She had missed Becky that day but had supposed she just didn’t feel up to taking in her customary short walks alongside the train. Missie called over to Henry to tell Willie where she would be and quickly grabbed a shawl. In her haste she almost ran to get to Becky but held herself back lest others watching would be unduly concerned.
As she approached the Clay wagon she could hear Becky’s soft moaning. She ran the last few steps and was met by a very worried-looking Mrs. Kosensky. Instead of inviting Missie up, the other woman climbed down and drew Missie aside.
“Ain’t good, ma’am, ain’t good,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Me... I deliver babies. Yes, lotsa babies... but this kind, no. He small... he twisted... and he early.” She shook her head, and Missie noticed tears in her eyes. “Ain’t good. She need a doctor... bad.”
“May I see her?” Missie begged, longing to be a source of comfort and aid to Becky.
“Yes... yes, do.”
Missie scrambled up into the wagon. Becky was flushed and damp with perspiration. Missie looked at her pale, anguished face in alarm. She reached for Becky’s hand and then began to smooth back her long, loose hair. She spoke softly, not really aware of what she said to Becky, but it seemed to comfort the distraught girl.
Missie stayed with Becky for most of the night, but the situation did not improve. Occasionally, Becky seemed to drift off into a troubled sleep, but she was soon reawakened by her discomfort. Willie, who had come to wait outside by the fire with John, suggested that Missie should get some rest or she would be in danger, too. Mrs. Kosensky agreed.
The next morning the LaHayes crawled wearily from their bed and began the preparations for another day on the trail. Missie sent Willie over to ask about Becky. He returned with the news that nothing had changed. Missie’s heart felt heavy as she went through the motions of preparing their breakfast.
While she was hurrying to pack up their belongings, one of the trail scouts came by on his horse. He stopped at each wagon with the same message.
“Mr. Blake says we stay put today. He’s not breakin’ camp till thet baby’s arrived.”
Missie was greatly relieved and would have willingly hugged the grisly wagon master. She could not imagine what it would be like for Becky if she had to bounce around in a moving wagon in her condition.
A rider had been sent back to Lipton the night before to see if a doctor could be found and brought to the camp. Everyone who knew how, and even some who didn’t, prayed that there might be a doctor and that he would arrive soon.
The women tried to keep busy with a little cleaning and straightening up of their wagon homes, and men checked harnesses and wheels. Neighbors used the long hours as an excuse to sit and discuss anything that came to mind. Still the time only crawled, and by the time the day was coming to an end, everyone’s nerves were on edge. Becky and her unborn baby were a heavy concern on everyone’s mind.
With no more valid reason to stay up, they finally extinguished their campfires and went to bed, hoping that the good news of the baby’s birth would reach them during the night.
It did not happen.
As they stirred about the camp the next morning, the news spread quickly that the child had not yet been born. Another long day began. With no harnesses to mend and no further wagon cleaning to be done, time lay heavy on hands and minds. Yet hope remained alive. Surely with the additional delay, the doctor from Lipton would have plenty of time to make it. But the rider finally returned, tired and dusty and with a weary, limping horse. There was no doctor to be found in Lipton.
It was almost one-thirty in the afternoon when Mrs. Kosensky climbed down from the Clay wagon. Willie, Missie, and several other neighbors had been waiting outside. No cry of a newborn baby followed her. Mrs. Kosensky’s shoulders sagged and tears coursed down her plump cheeks. To the waiting friends she shook her head.
“No,” she said brokenly. “No... he did not make it, the little one.”
“Oh, Becky!” cried Missie. “Poor Becky. She’ll be heartbroken.”
“No,” said Mrs. Kosensky, again shaking her head. “No. The little mama... she did not make it, either.”
For a moment Missie chose not to understand, not to believe. But she knew, as she looked at the older woman, that the news was indeed true. Then, from the depths of the covered wagon, came muffled sobs of a man.
“Oh, dear God,” Missie whispered with her hands to her face. She didn’t know if her legs could hold her upright. Willie was by her side in a moment, and she turned to bury her face against his shoulder. He held her close for a time and let her weep. When her spasm of tears had subsided, he gently held her away and looked into her face.
“I must go in to John,” he said. “Can you make it to the wagon alone?”
Missie nodded, but it was Henry who led her away, easing her over the rough terrain and opening the canvas flap so she could stumble into the wagon.
She lay down in the stuffy heat and once more felt overcome with the sorrow and confusion in her soul.
The funeral service was held the next morning. John stood in bewildered silence as the young mother and her infant son were laid together in a blanket. Shock and grief no doubt had numbed his mind, and he didn’t seem to comprehend the event.
After the service was over, the wagons were quietly ordered to move out. The men guided their animals into line silently, thoughtfully. Willie had suggested that John ride with them for a while, but he preferred to be alone. Missie rode beside Willie, but they had not gone far before she asked if he would stop a moment so she could climb down and walk for a while.
She stood quietly for a time, letting the wagons roll past her, turning her back to the dust swirling from their wheels. When the last one had gone by, Missie looked back the way they had come. In the valley below was the circle where they had camped. The evidence of a recent train was still there—the trampled grass, the campfire ashes, the wheel marks—and there, just to the left, was the little mound of bare earth marking the spot where they had left Becky. And Becky’s baby. For a moment Missie wanted to run back, but she knew it was pointless. Becky was gone from them now. Missie felt a certain measure of comfort in the thought that Becky and her baby were not alone. They had each other.
“Good-bye, Becky,” Missie whispered. “Good-bye, Rebecca Clay. You were a dear, sweet friend. May you—and your little one—find great pleasure and comfort in the house of God.”
Missie turned to go, tears streaming down her face. But just then a lone rider emerged from the bushes in the valley and stopped beside the soft mound. Missie recognized the form of Mr. Blake. The man dismounted from his horse and approached the new grave. He removed his hat and stood momentarily with bowed head. Then he bent down and placed a small cluster of prairie flowers on the fresh earth. As he turned and mounted his horse, Missie felt a fresh stream of tears slide down her cheeks.
That was a lovely thing to do, she thought.
But it was much later that Missie learned that many years before, the
same man had stood beside another mound—one that held his own wife and infant son. At that time, too, he had been forced to ride away and leave them to lie alone beside a prairie trail.
ELEVEN
A Tough Decision
Missie found a measure of comfort in the fact that Tettsford Junction was getting nearer and nearer, but the days always seemed long. She kept herself occupied as much as she could. She carefully looked after her own responsibilities, as well as devoting much time to helping others—especially Mrs. Collins. The two Collins youngsters kept quite healthy, in spite of the rigors of the trail. But they were young enough to still require a lot of time and attention.
Missie and Willie had not yet been able to talk about Becky’s death. Missie wept often. If Willie was there when she cried, he held her close, stroking her hair and listening to her sorrow with his heart. They each realized that sometime—and sometime soon—they must discuss it. Probably only then could their hearts begin the true healing process.
John Clay’s name was always mentioned in Willie’s evening prayer. But though Missie ached for John and his loss, she also realized she felt a twinge of resentment toward him. Her emotions swung between grief and anger.
One night, after they had retired, Willie gently broached the subject they had been avoiding.
“It easin’ some—’bout Becky?” His arm tightened around Missie as he asked the question. She could tell he wanted her to know that he understood, that he suffered with her.
“I guess... some,” Missie was able to answer, holding back the tears.
“I think maybe it’s gittin’ harder for John,” Willie commented after a few moments of silence.
“How so?”
“Well, at first I don’t think it... it was real to John. Now it is. He’s over the shock. An’ he’s missin’ Becky... knowin’ thet she won’t be back, won’t be his... ever again.”