South Pass Brides

by Sterling Scott

  Heading northwest along the North Platte River from Fort John, the terrain became savage with never ending steep rocky hills. The Oregon Trail shrank to a single pair of parallel wagon wheel ruts. All of the emigrants used this one trail with the wagons lined end to end as far as she could see in either direction. Their progress was slow; the line could travel no faster than its slowest affiliate. An unwritten rule of the road forbade a wagon from attempting to overtake another. If it hadn’t been for the perpetual wind, the dust would have choked them all to death. They each wore a kerchief tied over both nose and mouth. At night they simply stopped where they were and camped beside their wagon.

  But Olga ignored all of these tribulations. She had her traveling home, her clothes, and she had Thomas. As promised, he retrieved her new shoes. They were sturdy and fit her feet perfectly. While the first day of walking was uncomfortable, she was surprised at how quickly she broke them in.

  As they progressed, the line of mountains that began with the Laramie Peak grew closer. With the assistance of a teenage boy, she took charge of driving the oxen while Thomas resumed his daily hunting. The population of buffalo diminished and the constant line of people and wagons had frightened the game into the hills. Yet, Thomas never failed to bring home a deer or an antelope. He was not working as a scout for Major Jamison. Now, he was working as her provider. And he always brought back to camp sufficient meat to feed the merry widows and several others.

  “Thomas and the Merry Widows,” Major Jamison called them. Almost immediately that was what everyone else called them as well. Olga lived with Thomas as a wife lived with her husband. If any of the members of their traveling troupe remembered Peter, and thought evil of her, they kept their thoughts to themselves. No one said a disparaging word to her.

  After a hundred miles of the rugged terrain they paused to rest and wait. “The river bends here to the south,” Thomas said. “We must cross it to continue heading west.”

  While the river had shrunk to a fraction of its former size, its churning, dark water remained a formidable adversary. In the steep terrain of the low mountains, the Platte River was not the peaceful, slow moving waterway that they had crossed a month earlier. From a hilltop, they gazed down on an encampment of wagons beside the river. Olga watched as one wagon was ferried across.

  “The Mormon settlers living nearby have set up a ferry. They charge a pretty penny to carry the wagons across, but the alternative is to travel several days south to find a shallow crossing.” Thomas pointed to the line of wagons stretching southward. “Major Jamison has paid for us to graze our livestock here and to cross.”

  Olga studied the contrast between the green grass along the river and the dull gray sagebrush beyond it, to the west.

  “And that,” she pointed westward, “is that the desert?”

  “Yes, when we leave here, there will be several days of travel with little water. Or at least that is what Major Jamison has said. I’ve not ventured across the river. Then there will be two hundred miles of desolate land to cross. However, there will be springs and streams to provide us with water for most of it.”

  Two days later, they left the sight of the North Platte River for the last time. They set out before the sun had risen. They filled every barrel to the brim withs for the oxen which they were instructed not to drink. They crossed through the most rugged hills that they had yet encountered and then over mile after mile of rock and sand. Only the prickly pear cactus, rabbitbrush, and sparse sagebrush managed to grow here. At last, they reached a spring and joined the other emigrants.

  For the next three days, they continued across the desert. They camped wherever they found water, even if they had only traveled a handful of miles. Five days after leaving the Platte River, they had traveled only fifty miles, but they reached the Sweetwater River. Olga found it to be aptly named—she had never tasted such delicious water. They camped for a day of rest beside a giant rock.

  “This is known as Independence Rock. Major Jamison says that settlers carve their names in it as they pass by,” Thomas said.

  They walked to the monolith jutting from the desert floor and studied some of the names and dates. Olga observed that it was not single, continuous granite rock. Its surface had broken in numerous places, leaving fissures between jumbled boulders. The windblown sand had worn the exposed surfaces smooth and had collected in the crevices.

  “Come on, it is an easy climb,” Thomas urged her as they worked their way over and around the individual boulders. They climbed higher. “Look there, isn’t it stunning,” he said, pointing toward the horizon.

  Olga shaded her eyes from the sun and scanned the horizon where the azure sky met the dusty brown earth. Thomas pulled her close and she melted against his side.

  “It’s breathtaking,” she said, enjoying the closeness of their bodies while she studied the purplish mounds of distant mountains.

  They found an unused space on the monolith’s surface. With a hammer and chisel, Thomas carved their names on a flat rock worn smooth by the wind. She silently watched as the letters materialized: Thomas and Olga Meyer, July 1848. He carved a heart around their names.

  Her breath caught in her chest and she found it difficult to speak. She pointed to their entwined names carved into the rock.

  “What does this mean?” she stammered. Pointing to their names, she drew her finger under the word ‘Meyer’ after hers.

  “Well, it just seemed to be more appropriate than Graus, and I don’t know your maiden name.”

  “It’s Strobel,” she said. “But I like this better.” She sighed and added, “So much better.” She traced her finger along the letters, and then the heart that surrounded them.

  Yes, I like this very much.

  She smiled and kissed him. On a patch of soft sand between two boulders, hidden from the view of those below, they laid down. Thomas cradled her head as he held her and kissed her, softly at first, and then with an urgent passion. She opened her lips and their tongues touched, explored, and danced.

  He lifted her dress. His fingers twirled her thick curly hairs and then slid along her pussy. Parting her folds, he dipped into her dew. A mini-orgasm surged when his finger touch her clit.

  She bucked and arched her back, giving herself over to him. Reaching down, she helped him lower his trousers. His cock sprang out fully erect. Slowly, in the cool shadows, they made love. When his climax approached, he did not withdraw from her. He thrust ever deeper inside. She felt the surges of his hot, wet come fill her. Her erupting waves of ecstasy joined his as their bodies bound together as one.

  Did he mean to do that?

  He had never allowed his seed to flow inside her womanhood before. Olga was not disturbed by his action, but she wondered why he risked a possible pregnancy. While she hoped that the act had been some sort of consummation of an unwritten marriage contract, she said nothing about it. Hand in hand, they walked back to the wagons.

  Day after day, they followed the Sweetwater River. As they were traveling upstream, the river’s girth shrank a slight bit each day. Due to its never ending twists and turns, they crossed it six times. There was rich, green grass along the riverbanks for the livestock. However, the land a few hundred yards away was nothing but rocks and sand interspersed with thin wisps of sagebrush. Even the rabbitbrush could not take hold here. Sagebrush, apparently, could grow anywhere. They allowed their livestock to range free. The animals would not venture far out of sight of the only water available.

  The wagon trains had drifted apart as various small groups stopped to witness the miracle of a new birth or to take a much-needed break. All too often, they stopped to bury one of their party who had died. Olga had given up counting the graves that they passed.

  Tragedy strikes

  “What was that?” Beth cried out.

  Olga, Beth, and Grace had been cooking a meal to share. Thomas was hunting. He had not been successful for the past two days and they were digging deep into their supply of dried meats.


  “It was a gunshot!” Grace replied.

  Olga's blood ran ice cold and chills went up her spine.

  “Maybe someone shot a snake,” she said, wishing this was all happened. With Thomas out late, her mind raced through a number of nefarious meanings the shot could have. An Indian attack was the first idea that came to her mind, but they hadn’t seen any Indians since leaving the Platte River.

  Shouts sang out several wagons away, and the three women raced to see the source of the commotion.

  “It’s Mr. Sager. He shot himself,” a woman told them. In horror, the women watched the agony on the man’s face as other men examined him. They tried valiantly to stop the bleeding.

  “Someone get the child away,” a man pointed to Sager’s ten year old daughter as she approached.

  Olga, not wanting to see any more of the man’s plight, snatched up the girl and returned to her wagon.

  “I’m sure your father will be just fine.” Olga attempted to console the child. “They will patch him up, but we don’t want to get in the way.” The girl said nothing, but appeared unconvinced. Olga remembered having been told that the girl’s mother died of a fever somewhere east of Fort John. As this was during the time that Olga was with the Mormons, she had not witnessed the event. However, she understood why the girl was not easily swayed to believe that her father would recover.

  Olga searched her memory for the girl’s name. “Catherine, I’m Olga. Could you please help me finish cooking dinner? There is so much to do.”

  The girl nodded. Olga assigned some tasks to her and prayed.

  Thomas returned from hunting. As he had been the day before, he was empty handed. Seeing the commotion, he joined the others around Mr. Sager. A short while later, he approached Olga. Olga held the girl, covering her face. Thomas shook his head and gazed into the fire with a haggard look on his face.

  “He—he was removing his pistol from its holster and,” he swallowed the lump in his throat, “and dropped it. It fired and shot him in the groin. The ball passed all through his insides. There was nothing to be done.”

  Olga held the girl while she sobbed. She took Catherine to bed with her and held the child until she fell asleep.

  In the morning, a tent was set up and Mr. Sager’s body was laid out for Catherine to say her last goodbye. Then, he was carried to a grave a quarter mile from the Oregon Trail such that future travelers would not risk traveling over it. His name was carved into a wooden headboard, which was all that could be done. Major Jamison read from the Bible and the women sang hymns. At the end of it, everyone returned to the wagons. They were too mournful to pick up stakes and carry on, so a day of mourning was announced.

  “Mr. Meyer,” Major Jamison approached them, “ma’am,” he tipped his hat to Olga. He looked at the girl in Olga’s arms. “Miss Catherine,” he said as he removed his hat. “We are all so very sorry about what has happened.” Then he turned to Thomas. “May I ask you to walk with me?”

  Olga watched the two men moved out of earshot and conversed.

  “The Major has asked that we take charge of the girl,” Thomas said when he returned. “It seems she has no one and you are already caring for her. She has an uncle already settled in Oregon and we need only see her safely to him.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said yes.”

  “Yes, yes, of course we will take care of her. I’ll go and tell her.”

  “Also,” Thomas continued, “there is the matter of her family’s wagon. We are to search it and remove what money and valuables we can find, and save them for her. And what foodstuffs and other things that we need to accommodate her. Then, everyone else will be allowed to examine what is left and buy items. We are to save this money for Catherine. What remains will be abandoned for those behind us to use.”

  They found slightly more than a hundred dollars. Olga was careful to examine all the trunks for false bottoms, but found none. Additionally, they kept this and most of the food for their own use. Another fifty dollars was collected from those who purchased items from the wagon. The items were worth much more than they collected, but no one had money to spare.

  The next morning, the wagon train once again set off. However, the misery of the trail had become oppressive. There was no game and they were forced to eat their remaining dried meat. Olga reminisced upon all the misery that she had faced since arriving in Independence, Missouri. Each hardship had hardened her in preparation for the next one. Each new tribulation was a greater trial than the one before it.

  Oh, Lord, what can possibly lie ahead, she prayed. Then, as she had done day after day, she put the rising sun to her back and began walking westward.

  Several days later, they abandoned the trickle of water that was left of the Sweetwater River. Once again, everyone was instructed to fill all their water barrels to the brim, but this water was to be saved for the oxen. The wagon train angled to the southwest and they continued their march over gentle slopes of barren hills. At midday, it appeared as though they were spending more time going downhill than up.

  “This is it? This is the South Pass?” Olga asked in amazement.

  The wagon train had stopped for their noon meal and the merry widows busied themselves cooking. Olga had been expecting that the infamous path through the mountains would be a dramatic canyon with a hidden entrance and sheer rock walls. However, this place was a wide open space with hills leading to a low mountain in the north. There was nothing but sand to the south.

  “Yes, that is what Major Jamison says,” Beth announced. “This is the South Pass. All the rivers to the east flow into the Atlantic Ocean. All the streams and rivers we encounter going forward will be flowing into the Pacific Ocean.”

  “It’s true,” Mrs. Clark agreed. “We are now in Oregon Territory.” She chuckled. “But still far from our destination.”

  Olga snorted a short laugh. “I expected so much more. All this time we have been striving to reach the South Pass, and here it is—a mere patch of sandy hill.” Sweat dripped from her nose and she wiped her face. She had no idea what the temperature might be, but she could not recall ever being so hot. “At least there are no darn mosquitoes here.” She mimicked swatting and scratching.

  The three widows and the orphaned girl laughed. Olga noted that it was the first time Catherine had laughed since the death of her father.

  By the end of the day, an oasis of green grass and low shrubs opened before them. The sharp contrast with the surrounding sand and olive sagebrush could be seen a mile away. Drawing closer, they found a stream. Meager as it was, they turned south and followed it in the direction of its flow.

  “This,” Major Jamison announced, “is aptly named Pacific Springs. It is where we begin to follow the water to the Pacific Ocean.”

  For two and a half months Olga had always been walking along rivers against the water’s flow, now she was following the water. The water was now leading her to her future in Oregon. With renewed vigor, she quickstepped forward to walk beside Thomas. He was driving the oxen, but they required little encouragement to pull the wagon down the hill to the water. She reached out and took his hand in hers. He kissed her and she dreamed of a future with him always by her side.

  Two days later they crossed the Green River. The trek through the desert was finished. The river was teeming with trout and they fashioned nets from spare canvas. Scooping these into the water, they drew out countless fish for their first meal of fresh meat in several days. Two more days and they had arrived at Fort Bridger.

  Fort Bridger and into the mountains

  “It doesn’t look like much,” Olga stated to Thomas, as they watched the smudge on the horizon. It slowly grew in size as they plodded forward.

  “No. Major Jamison says that it was once a fur trapper’s trading post, but that now the Mormons have taken it over. Our Mormon friends are almost home. The Great Salt Lake is not too many miles over those mountains.” Thomas pointed to the purple mounds on the horizon
to the west.

  Isn’t that the way to California as well? She did not speak the words for fear that it would alter his mood. She still feared that he would leave her for the distant gold fields.

  “Which way are we going?” Olga asked. She wanted clarification, but was unwilling to directly ask the question that plagued her.

  “We are going to turn to the north and pass between those mountains,” he pointed to a gap in the purple mounds on the horizon. “Not much but mountain after mountain ahead of us.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief when he had said we. He was not going to abandon her.

  Fort Bridger was as much of an anticlimax as had been South Pass. It was a wooden stockade half the size of Fort John. Olga could see where mud had been packed between the wood poles. The result left the building looking just slightly more civilized than the homes had been in the Pawnee village.

  There were dozens of wagons camped around the fort, but their numbers were nothing like those that had been gathered at Fort John.

  “We will stay for two days here,” Major Jamison announced. “Anyone who needs supplies or repairs should get to it. The Mormons bring flour from their wheat fields here to sell. If you can afford it, stock up.”

  Olga was glad that Mrs. Clark did not suggest that they look for the saloon. She was certain that the Mormons would not have allowed one to exist. Even if one existed, she had experienced all the saloon entertainment she need for one lifetime.

  When they once again yoked their oxen and snapped the whip to continue their journey westward, Olga could wait no longer. She required an answer to her question. The question, the doubt that consumed most of her waking hours.

  Am I going to be a part of his life?

  “Thomas, what of California? Are you still thinking of that as your destination?”

  He smiled.

  “Oh, yes, my love. I still think that I am better suited as a merchant in the gold fields than a farmer in the Willamette Valley. However, this looks to be a good direction to go today. We have Catherine to consider. We must see her to her uncle’s home. Then we’ll have a look at Oregon before deciding what to do next.”