I think I caught Mama missing Papa's quiet, but all she did was scrub harder.
The men prepare their firearms. I hope all this fuss is for shooting small game and not Indians.
Jem says they should call this place Council Grave, with so many Indians about. How his head's filled up with stories! Mr. Ryder says this place gets its name from a big meeting held here between traders and Indians to help keep peace and safety. I pray that all the Indians in these parts did indeed go to this so-called peace meeting.
Afternoon
Mr. Biscuit and I have come upon Mr. St. Clair, who has made a most handsome sketch of Indians at a ceremonial dance. How I wish I could capture such likeness. And to think he makes dozens of such
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sketches before painting one picture. The artist remarked, "Anyone can draw, with a little practice and determination." To which I replied, "I think I'll stay a student of nature. People are much too difficult to draw."
"Start with Mr. Biscuit," the artist told me. "If you can get him to sit still long enough to sketch his portrait, that is." He laughed till his ears wiggled. Then he surprised me by ripping the sketch right from his book and handing it over to me. I protested, of course, but he insisted I keep it for study!
A real artist's drawing!
June 18, still at council grove
Today I could not help but leave Mama to the washing so I could go off exploring with Louisa and Eliza. We scrambled up a steep bank to get a good view, and saw a scene more beautiful than any artist could draw. Wildflowers such as the red painted-cup, yellow goldenpea and rose-purple fairyslipper made a patchwork threaded with silvery green grasses. We felt like we'd been painted into a landscape ourselves.
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From on top the hill we could see the heads of our city of wagons. Eliza said our caravan looked no bigger than a spider.
We found a pool filled with the most crystal-clear, cold liquid any of the three of us has ever known. Louisa found the words big John's spring carved in a nearby tree, looking as if they were cut with a tomahawk. I thought Big John must be a friend of Mr. Ryder's giant. Eliza thought him a blackhearted pirate, and Louisa suspected him to be a famous horse thief.
Everything around us looked wild and twiny, until I thought Big John himself might be lurking, waiting to lunge at us through the grapevines.
We drank our fill. No water on this earth could be more satisfying.
We then heard a rustling in the thicket and flew down that hill. I don't think we could have gone faster with a pack of wild wolves at our heels.
When I got back to camp, Mama was most distressed, and not only over the wash still to be done. She scolded me something awful and says I have to learn different now that we're entering Indian territory. She made me stay in the tent, where I'm bound
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to think over my misdeeds. I am not to see Louisa and Eliza or join the campfires tonight.
I am sore angry for the scolding, but grateful, too. No more washing for the rest of this day!
Later
What a life! To be shut up in a tent by my own self with the rain pouring down fierce as a wolf pack on the run.
Must tell Mr. St. Clair about the view from the hill, but I'm trapped here.
Water runs through the tent like a stream, making mud of the ground. As if a pack of pigs has been wallowing inside the tent.
All I could think to amuse myself then was to take up sewing my quilt. I'm working on a patch of the view from the bluffs at Big John's Spring for the baby, even though Mama would hardly approve.
But when I went to take it up, it was missing. Per-dido! Gone!
I bet I know the thief. Jem. He's hidden it just to vex me, so I have nothing to do but sew, kept here like a prisoner.
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Now it has commenced to lightning! As if God is sore angry with me, not just Mama.
June 19, Diamond Spring ( 12 miles from CG)
Up at six and a half o'clock. Still being punished by Mama, who is chillier to me than water from Diamond Spring.
While I was boiling coffee this morning, I caught Eliza reading my diary!
I marched directly over to the Nuttings' wagon and gave that girl a piece of my mind. What was she thinking -- looking at my own private thoughts without asking?
She protested (of course), claiming that she did not read a word. Only opened my book to the back to have a look at the fairyslipper we found yesterday. She knew I would have pressed it there.
I will not repeat the angry words I returned.
She said I was a hateful person for thinking so little of her. And she is resolved never to speak to me again.
That makes two of us! Ouch! What a day this is!
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Later
More rain. And rain and rain. Stuck. Again. We came to a crossing where a small creek swelled like a full belly. Our wagon was sorely bogged down. I jumped out and waded in the creek, thinking I was helping to lighten the load, but Mama only snapped at me for risking my neck. I fail to see what my neck has to do with it, when the water came only as high as my waist. I
offered then to throw off a chair, or chest, or churn, to which I got nothing but a stony glare from her. Nothing I do is right.
June 20
On our way to Lost Spring. An apt name. I feel lost. Like a stick figure drawn in the dust, erased by wagon tracks.
Later
I have uncovered the thief! Not Jem in the least. The thief's name is none other than -- Mr. Biscuit! That silly hound carried off my quilt and hid it under Mama's good kitchen table for his own bed.
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How on earth will I free my handiwork of doggy hair and slobber?
Mama and I were bent over the cooking fire (still not talking) when Jem called out to us. We turned our eyes to heaven and saw a magnificent rainbow. The sky was on fire with colors.
"If there is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow," Jem said, "I bet it must be all the way in California. And I aim to find it someday."
Mama laughed. Her laugh, though not for me, was as welcome as a change of clothes.
The trail, like a rainbow, leads us west.
And west. And westward still.
Later Still
Mr. St. Clair has made several new drawings. He calls them his field sketches. I asked him how he came to be such an artist. He said, "I was an orphan at the age of fourteen. After my parents died, I had to make a living for myself, so I became a sign painter. That was the beginning."
I have also seen him paint pictures in color and draw detailed maps. He's been all the way to California,
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Oregon, and back, sketching all the while. He's risked his life many times just to paint Indians! Once he even traveled with mountain man Kit Carson himself, making maps along the way. I must remember to tell Jem!
Camp No. 14 Lost Spring, nighttime
Still angry with Eliza. Then Louisa came and pleaded her case. She convinced me Eliza meant no harm. I missed my friend, so I went to make amends, but could not find her.
Louisa said, "That girl has a mind of her own and a heart for exploration. She could be off to anywhere."
June 21
Mud, mud, and more mud.
One mile per hour is all the time we made today. No wood. No water. Hungry. Tired of wet clothes.
Passed a wagon stuck fast in a mud hole with the tongue twisted off, belonging to a trader, name of
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Cutter. He had two other wagons stuck, and his team gave out from having no water.
I was sure we'd stop to help, but Mr. Ryder insisted we push on to make camp before nightfall. I don't think Mr. Nutting agreed with him. Seems to me mighty hard out here to tell when to think of others, and when to take care of one's own skin.
Camp No. 15. Cottonwood Creek
Made camp but are now stuck here in mud. Waiting out rain. Mr. Ryder told us a story to pass the time. The story turned out to be not about giants, but a true-life murder!
It goes that there was a well-known trader by the name of Elliott. He was a rich man, known for his store full of goods and the way he always traded fair with folks. One night two men came into his store pretending they aimed to trade, but when Mr. Elliott turned his back to reach for a hide, the bad men stabbed him in the back and killed him and made off with most of his goods and all his money. The only thing they didn't see fit to stealing was his Bible, which was all his family had left of him.
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Now the reason Mr. Ryder brings this up is that we passed a wagon train headed for Missouri that carries a trader up from Chihuahua, right where it happened. And this trader is supposedly wearing a gold watch that bears an exact likeness to that which belonged to Mr. Elliott!
To think! There could be a murderer in our midst, camping in the same spot as us tonight.
June 22 a wretched day
Eliza is missing! Mrs. Nutting is beside herself with worry. Eliza went off to the creek before breakfast and has not returned. No one has seen her for hours. Louisa assured her mama it's just like Eliza to wander off and not tell a soul. I hope she's right. My heart quickens at the thought of the murderer, and it's all I can do to push the image from my mind.
Evening
Supper is over. Still no Eliza.
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Later
Getting dark and Eliza did not make it back to the camphre. It's not like her to miss stories and dancing. Of course, there will be no dancing tonight.
With darkness falling, Mr. Nutting has organized a search party. Mr. Ryder has gone, and has taken Jem and Mr. Biscuit with him and the others. I feel helpless ... I'm no good at waiting.
Later still
Well past dark.
Waiting. Waiting. They've been gone several hours now. What if something has happened to her? What if she's not found? What if the rain doesn't let up?
What if? What if? What if?
going on midnight
The men are back. Wet and weary. Eliza is nowhere. Rain doesn't help. They can't even see tracks with so much mud. We wait for daylight, and the rain to let up.
So tired, I can't sleep. I'm sure if I close my eyes the
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rain will give me a drowning in my sleep. Or worse yet, a murderer!
June 23, morning
Rain stopped at last. The men went up the creek at first light, in search of Eliza. Even Jem
slipped out before breakfast without my notice. I should've been awake, keeping thoughts of Eliza awake with me.
Louisa and I wonder, "Is this what the fortuneteller meant, 'Horse is separated from the wagon'?" We're off to find the woman and see if she knows what's happened to Eliza.
Late morning
Been to see the fortune-teller without objects or anything. She told us, "Don't you worry ... horse and wagon belong together. Save room in your hearts for thoughts of her now. She'll be needing that more than your worried heads."
Louisa got a scolding for leaving the wagon. Mrs. Nutting does not want Louisa to leave her sight. I brought my sewing over to sit with them. Six patches so far, including the rainbow I'm working on. Sure is
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hard to get a mind onto neat stitches when all I can do is think of Eliza.
Noon
The men have come back from their searching for some coffee and something to fill their bellies. They say no news could be good news, but it's hard to believe them, looking all downcast. Blown-down branches from the storm litter every path, and there's mud everywhere and they can't seem to pick up a single sign of her.
Night
Another night passes without Eliza.
June 24, morning
Eliza has been missing a full two days now. It's getting harder to keep up hope.
Captain Elias is most anxious to be back on the trail now that the weather's cleared a bit. I fear that if Eliza is not found soon, our captain will make us push on without the Nuttings. I could not bear it. To think
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that I accused her falsely of wrongdoing, and left her feeling so hateful toward me. Now I may never see that dear sweet girl again. I feel helpless as a baby bird blown from the nest. Mama says all we can do is pray to God she'll be returned safely to us.
Jem returned with news: They found an apron full of pinecones that looked to be Eliza's! Mrs. Nutting wept when she saw it, confirming that it is for sure and certain Eliza's own apron. Nobody could speak. I'm afraid we were all thinking the worst.
I heard Mama tell Mrs. Nutting she was sure it had to be a good sign.
In the midst of our worry over Eliza, Jem went and nearly got himself bit by a rattler. In his haste to report to us on Eliza's apron, he stepped on a snake with eleven rattles! He stood still as stone with eyes so wide, they near swallowed up his face. Mama did not hesitate to kill the snake with a stick.
Jem walked backwards and took hold of my hand. We, the rest of us, kept a safe distance, staring at the dead snake.
Suddenly, that dead snake opened its mouth wide, and out jumped a fat brown toad. For a moment, it
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stood blinking its eyes at us, then went hopping off into the grass like nothing.
How we all did laugh right over top of our worry. Eliza would have laughed the loudest.
June 24, afternoon, a- great day!
Eliza is found!
I could hardly tear myself away from Eliza's side, but I had to write her story down as it was told to me, with Mr. Biscuit as the hero of our tale:
Eliza was wandering around picking berries and collecting pinecones when she got farther and farther away from camp. Soon she didn't recognize where she was, and the harder she tried to get back, the more confused she got. She tried calling out but was afraid Indians might hear her instead of us.
The rain was coming down hard, so she crawled into a space between two rocks and put branches over her head to keep dry and hidden. She tucked in like a duck asleep that whole night through.
The next morning she ate all the berries she could find, but was still so hungry, she nearly ate a pine-cone!
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Then coming on evening as she was still trying to find her way back, she spied some animal tracks in the mud and bent to study them. Sooner than you can say "jack rabbit," she turned to find a strange black-and-white-striped critter upon her, more fierce than a wolf! Eliza started to run, and before she knew it, she had climbed a tree to safety. That critter would not forget her and leave her alone. It pawed and clawed at that tree and hissed with a terrible snarl all the while.
Eliza's heart was thumping away, but what could she do? She spent the whole night up in that tree afraid to come down. By now her hair was all in a snarl (her temper, too!) and her dress torn to ribbons.
It seemed like a week till she heard Mr. Biscuit barking and barking, right at the foot of her tree. Eliza called out to Mr. B, daring to hope at last she'd been saved. Mr. Biscuit raced back and led the others to the spot, all the while barking up a storm, then sniffed out that wild animal until Mr. Nutting came and shot it dead.
Mr. Ryder exclaimed, "I do believe we caught ourselves a badger."
The mud-streaked Eliza said, "Don't be fooled for a minute by the size of that critter. I'd rather come face-to-face with a buffalo any day!"
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This concludes Act I of the drama of Eliza Nutting and her run-in with a wild badger. I told Eliza we could make a play about it and take parts, but she said, "Only if I don't have to play the part of myself!"
June 25, noontime
Eliza and I are all made up now. I'll pray to God each night for a long time to come, thanking him for returning Eliza to us in one piece.
Mrs. Nutting paid Mr. St. Clair to make her a portrait of Louisa and Eliza. They sit for him at the noon rest while he draws. I wonder if this is Mrs. Nutting's way of keeping her Eliza close.
Eliza has trouble sitting still. Even so, she makes a much better pupil than Mr. Biscuit! I'm still tryin
g to get him right, but he always comes out looking pointy as a fox.
Mr. St. Clair has given me a special thick pencil for shading. When I asked him how soon he would be needing it back, he replied, "Keep it till you've learned something."
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Afternoon
Jem climbed a cliff with Mr. Biscuit and stumbled on a grove of plum trees. I'm afraid he didn't leave many plums behind. He's eaten handfuls, and they were not ripe -- now he curls up on the ground like a dry leaf. Moaning and groaning and clutching his stomach. Mama brewed him some pennyroyal tea, with hot ginger.
Even Mr. Biscuit ate a plum! That dog is getting heaps of attention, now that he helped Eliza get saved. He sure is looking fat and sleepy, with all the niblets folks are giving him for his good works.
I should have liked to taste plums, but not if it makes me squeal like a baby pig!
Camp No. 16, Cottonwood, Coming on evening
The cottonwood trees along the river are tall and majestic, tall enough to rival Mr. Ryder's giants. They lean toward one another like gossiping old women. Great dark turkeys fly overhead and perch in their branches.
There's one old tree stump with a funny shape -- splintered, looks the way I imagine a cactus to be.
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Frenchie, the head driver, told Jem and me that each cottonwood has its own spirit. A bit like a ghost.
Frenchie says there goes an old story in which a certain cottonwood was thought to protect travelers along this trail. Then one night a terrible rainstorm came and lightning hit the tree and it fell into the current. Before the current carried it away, the spirit of the tree could be heard crying! One part of it clung to the earth while the other part was carried away by the current.
That tree reminds me of me. One part of me clings to Missouri. To my old life with Caroline and the School of the Sacred Heart and the house with real floorboards that held my father's footsteps.
The other part of me rides the wind -- like a leaf.
After dark
I kept a cottonwood leaf to press in my journal so I can show Eliza and Louisa. Frenchie gave me a seed pod from the cottonwood -- a pear-shaped capsule half an inch long. He says the capsule holds about thirty seeds. It's in my pocket till I find a safe place for it. I'll keep it and plant my own cottonwood grove when I get to New Mexico. If I give some to Louisa
All the stars in the sky: the Santa Fe trail diary of Florrie Mack Ryder Page 3