by Janette Oke
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look; but she was unprepared for the picture before her as Rebecca pushed back the flap of the canvas and descended slowly, reaching for her husband's hand to assist her. Her face looked tired and so very young; but a smile brightened her countenance as she saw Missie. The long auburn-brown hair was swept back from a pale face and held fast with a dark green ribbon. Her eyes held glints of green; Missie wondered if they changed color with her moods or with what she was wearing. Her smile came easily, generously--as though she were used to wearing it. Missie felt that she had never met a more appealing young woman. Rebecca was attractive--but it was more than that. Missie immediately found herself wanting to know her and become her friend.
As soon as Rebecca's feet were securely on the ground, she held out her hand to Missie.
"I'm Rebecca Clay." She spoke softly, controlled, "I'm so glad to meet you."
"An' I'm Melissa LaHaye," Missie responded. She wasn't sure why she had given her name as Melissa, but somehow she felt that this new friend should know who she really was. "Folks all just call me Missie," she added, not as an afterthought but more as an exchange of confidence.
"An' they call me Becky."
"That suits you," Missie said with a warm smile. She turned to Willie. "My husband Willie--he's met your John."
"Yes, John told me. I've been anxious to meet you both, but I've been a bit of a baby for the past two days. I hope that I'll soon be able to walk some with the rest of you. I'm sure that yer company would be much preferred over my own." She extended her hand. "Please, won't ya sit down. We have no soft chairs to offer, but those smooth rocks thet John rolled over aren't half bad."
Missie joined in with Becky's giggle as the four seated themselves on the rocks and settled in to talk. John replenished the fire in the hope of keeping away some of the hungry mosquitoes.
"An' jest where are you folks headin'?" Willie asked--the first question on all lips of those traveling West. Missie found herself hoping that the answer would bring good news of future neighboring.
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"We travel with this train to Tettsford Junction, then rest for a few days before joinin' a group goin' northwest," John answered. "My brother went out last year an' sent word home thet ya never did see such good wheat land. He can hardly wait fer us to git there so thet he can show it off. Says ya don't even have to clear the land--jest put the plow to it."
Missie found that hard to believe, but others had told the same story. She felt disappointment as she realized that the Clays would not be her neighbors in the West after all.
"An' you?" John Clay asked.
"We catch the supply train headin' south when we git to Tettsford. I've got me some ranch land in the southern hills." "Ya like thet country?"
"It's pretty as a dream. All hills an' sky an' grassy draws. Not much fer trees in the area. The little valley where I'm plannin' to build has a few trees, but nothin' like we have in the East."
"Understand thet there's no trees at all where we're headin'."
"I jest can't imagine country without trees," Becky said slowly.
Becky's voice sounded so wistful that Missie knew that she was going to sorely miss the trees. Missie felt a stirring in her own soul, but pushed it aside with a quick, "We'll get used to it."
Becky smiled. "I guess we will. Anyway, I s'pose I'll be too busy to notice much."
The men moved away to inspect John's harness. One section of the shoulder strap seemed to be rubbing a sore on his big black's right shoulder; John was anxious to find some way to correct the problem. As the men talked, Missie and Becky were left on their own.
"Did you leave a family behind?" Missie asked, thinking of her own parents.
"Jest my pa," answered Becky. "My mama died when I was fifteen."
"You don't look much more than fifteen now," Missie countered.
Becky laughed. "Everyone thinks I'm still a kid. Guess I jest look like one. Bet I'm every day as old as you--I'll be nineteen next October."
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Missie was surprised. "Why you are most as old as me. When is your baby comin'?"
"In about two months. We're hopin' thet all goes well so thet we'll be in Tettsford Junction by then. They have a doctor there, you know.."
"Really!" said Missie. "I didn't know the town was that big."
"Oh, it's quite an important place, really. Almost all of the wagon trains pass through it and then branch off in different directions."
"I sure do find me wishin' that you were comin' down our branch," Missie said with sincerity.
Becky looked at her frankly. "I feel the same way. It wouldn't be half so scary iffen I knew thet I'd have you for a neighbor, even iffen ya were near a day's ride away."
Both girls were silent for a few minutes. Missie toyed with the hem of her shawl while Becky poked without purpose at the fire. "Missie," Becky spoke softly, "are you ever scared?" Missie did not raise her eyes.
" 'Bout movin' West?"
"Yeah."
"I didn't think I was." Missie hesitated. "Willie was so excited, an' I honestly thought that I wanted to go too. An' I do, really I do. But I didn't know--that I'd--well--that I'd be such a baby, that it'd hurt so much to leave Mama an' Pa. I didn't think that I'd--well--feel so--empty." She stumbled over the words, and finally raised her head and said deliberately, "Well, yeah. Now I'm beginnin' to feel scared."
"I'm glad. I'm glad thet I'm not the only one, 'cause I feel like such a sissy. I've never told anyone, not even John. I want so much for him to have his dream, but--sometimes--sometimes I fear thet I won't be able to make it come true fer him, thet my homesickness will keep him from being' really happy."
Missie's eyes widened.
"You feel homesickness?"
"Oh, yes."
"Even without leavin' behind a ma?"
"Maybe even more so. My pa loved my mama so much thet it was powerful hard on him when he lost her. I was all he had,
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an'--when John came along, I--well--I fell so in love thet I couldn't think of anyone else. So I've--I've left Pa--all alone."
Becky's eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away and continued, "If only he still had Mama I wouldn't worry 'bout him so much. I miss him--so very much. He's such a good man, Missie, so strong in the physical sense--big, muscular, tough. But inside, deep inside, so helpless. He's so tender, so--sotouched. . . . Do ya understand what I mean?"
Now it was Missie's eyes that filled with tears. She nodded. " 'Deed I do. I know just such a man, an' I wouldn't be one bit surprised that he's cryin' silent tears for me just as often as I'm weepin' for him."
"So yer lonesome, too?"
A quiet nod was her answer.
"I expect it gits better."
"I hope so. I truly hope so," Missie said fervently. "I'm count- in' on God to make it so."
"You know God?"
"Oh, yes, without Him--"
"I'm so glad! Becky exclaimed. "It's Him thet gives me daily courage, too. I'm not very brave--even with Him; but without Him I'd be a downright coward."
Missie sniffed away her tears and laughed at Becky's confession.
"I'm glad I've got Willie. He has enough courage for the both of us."
"So does John. He can see nothin' but good in our future. Oh, I do hope that I won't let him down."
Missie reached over and squeezed the girl's hand. "You won't," she said firmly. "You've got more courage than you 'low yourself, or you wouldn't be here."
"Oh, Missie, I hope so."
"Are you afraid--'bout the baby?"
"A little. But I try not to think 'bout things like thet. Mostly
I'm jest tired an' a little sick from the sun an' the motion of the wagon. I'll be so glad when I'm feelin' well enough to walk." "You must be careful not to walk too far at first."
"John thinks thet walkin' will do me a powerful lot of good.
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He says thet fresh air an' good exercise is all I need. His ma had nine bab
ies an' never missed a day's work with any of 'em."
Well, 'rah for John's ma, Missie wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. Instead she said, "There's a midwife here. She's delivered lots of babies. She'll tell you iffen you should be pushin' yourself for walkin'."
"John told me thet there was a woman here, but I haven't met her yet."
"You'll like her; I met her today. She's just the kind of woman that one would like to help with a birthin'. I'll bring her 'round, iffen you'd like."
"Would you, Missie? I haven't felt up to seekin' her out, an' I do have a lot of questions. Iffen my mama. . . ." Becky did not finish but brushed away some more tears.
"I'll bring her 'round tomorrow, iffen I can," Missie assured her gently.
Missie continued, "When we left--Willie an' me--my pa gave us a special verse. We kinda claim it as ours, but no one has special claim on God. His promises are for all of His children. I'd like to share our verse with you. I hope it will be as special to you as it is to Willie an' me. It comes from Isaiah an' it goes like this: 'Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.' That's an awful lot of promise for one verse to offer, but I feel sure that God really means it. He can--and will--be with us, in life or in death--in just everything."
"Thank you, Missie, I really needed thet. When you drop by on the morrow, would ya do something fer me? It's too dark to see proper-like right now, but I'd like ya to show me where thet verse is so thet I can read it over an' over. Would ya do thet?"
"I'd be glad to."
The menfolk had gone on down to check the horses and to rub some of Willie's ointment on the black's shoulder. The silence that followed Missie's words was broken only by the crackling of the fire. Missie found herself wishing that she could tell Becky her own good news, but she held it back. Willie must be the first one to know. She must tell Willie--soon. It wasn't right to keep it
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from him. If only he wouldn't worry so. If she could just conquer her tiredness and perk up a bit. How thankful she was that she hadn't been troubled with bouts of morning sickness.
Becky interrupted her thoughts. "I'm afraid thet I have to confess to a lie, Missie. I am scared--'bout the baby, 'bout maybe not havin' a doctor, 'bout the way thet I've been feelin'. I don't know one thing 'bout babies, Missie--not 'bout their birthin' nor their care. The thought of maybe havin' thet baby on this trip west nigh scares me to death, but John says. . . ." She shook her head slowly and let the words hang.
Missie spoke quickly. "An' John's right. That baby will probly be born in Tettsford in a pretty bedroom with a doc there to fuss over him. But iffen--iffen he does decide to hurry it up a bit, then we have Mrs. Kosensky--'bout as good a woman as you'd find anywhere. Just you wait 'til you get to know her. She'll put your mind at ease. I'll fetch her 'round, first chance I get."
Becky summoned a smile. "Thanks, Missie. Boy, you must think me a real crybaby, carryin' on so over an ordinary happen- in' like a baby's comin'. I'd like to meet Mrs. Ko--Ko--what's her name? Maybe she can even git me feelin' better so thet I can do some walkin' with ya. I feel like every bone in my body has been reduced to mush by thet jarrin', bouncin' wagon." She smiled and rose. "The men should be comin' back soon. Do ya thing they'd like some coffee?"
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Chapter 6
On the Trail
On Saturday night after supper, Mr. Blake called for a gathering of the members of the wagon train.
"Life on a trek west can be rather dull," he stated matter-of- factly, "so iffen any of ya can play anything thet makes a squeak, we'd 'preciate it iffen you'd bring it out."
It was discovered that Henry played a guitar and Mr. Weiss a rather beat-up-looking fiddle. A sing-song 'round the fire was called for and folks joined in heartily, humming the tunes when they did not know the words. Some of the children jumped or skipped or swayed to the tunes in their own version of a folk dance.
It was surprising what Mr. Weiss could accomplish on his worn-out fiddle, and Henry was quite adept in keeping up with him. Henry also possessed a pleasant singing voice and led the group in one song after another. Missie enjoyed it; she decided that Henry was well worth feeding and determined to always be ready with a generous second filling of his plate.
Mr. Blake stood far too soon and waved his hand for attention.
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"Thank ya, men--thank ya. You've done a fine job. Now it's gittin' late and time to be turnin' in. 'Sides, the mosquitoes are 'bout as hungry as I've ever see'd 'em." He waved a few away from his face.
"Tomorrow, being' Sunday, the train will stay to camp. Me, I'm not a religious man, but a day of rest jest plain makes sense--fer the animals an' fer us people. Now iffen you who are religious are hankerin' fer some kind of church service, I'm leavin' ya on yer own to do the plannin'. I'm no good at sech things. Fact is, I plan on spendin' tomorrow down at yonder crik, seem' iffen I can catch me some fish.
"Now, then, be there any of you who be wantin' church?" Quite a few hands were raised.
"Fine--fine," Mr. Blake said. "Klein, ya figurin' thet you can take charge?"
Henry nodded his assent and the meeting was dismissed.
Henry spent some time calling upon his wagon neighbors in preparation for the morrow's service. A few did not wish to take part, but most were eager to worship on the Lord's day.
Willie was appointed to read the Scripture; Henry himself took charge of the singing. And it was found that Mr. Weiss could play hymns on his old violin with even more feeling than he played the lively dance tunes and folk songs.
Sunday dawned clear and warm. The service had been set for 9:00 so that it would be over before the sun hung too hot in the sky. The people gathered in a grove of trees near the stream and settled themselves beneath the protective branches on logs that Willie and Henry had cut and placed there for that purpose.
They began with a hearty hymn-sing, Henry leading in a clear baritone voice. Kathy Weiss taught the group a new song--simple and short but with a catchy tune. Many hands clapped in accompaniment when they were not occupied elsewhere slapping mosquitoes.
Henry finally called a halt to the singing and asked Mr. Weiss to lead the group in prayer. He did, with such fervor that Missie was reminded of home.
Anyone who wished was invited to tell of their experiences on the trail. One by one, many stood expressing thanks to God for
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His leading, for strength, for assurance in spite of fears, for incidents of protection along the way. Missie and Becky exchanged looks of confidence and meaningful smiles.
After the last voluntary speaker had sat down, Willie read the Scripture. The people listened attentively as Willie's voice carried to them his excitement over the promises of God. When he closed the book there were many "amens."
It had been a good service, and as the people left they shook Henry's hand and thanked him for a job well done. Some suggested another hymn-sing round the fire that night, and so it was arranged.
The Sunday service and Sunday night hymn-sing became even more popular with the wagon-train members than the Saturday night doings. As the weeks went by, some of those who had not been interested at first in joining the Sunday crowd for their worship time found themselves washing their faces, putting on clean clothes, brushing the trail dust off their boots and heading for whatever spot had been set aside for that week's service. Missie and Willie were pleased to see the interest grow. The folks appeared to really need that restful time of worship and sharing on Sunday.
Mr. Blake, in the meantime, was left to his own choice of Sunday activity, whether it was hunting, fishing or just lying in the shade. Missie noticed him on one particular Sunday morning, though, when he had chosen to just loaf around camp. It looked suspiciously as if he were listening.
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Chapter 7
Tedious Journey
Day after long day
rolled and bounced slowly by. Even the weather became monotonous. The sun blazed down upon them daily with only an occasional shower to bring temporary relief.
But gradually the travelers adjusted to the journey. Bodies still ached at the end of the day, but not with the same intense painfulness. Blisters had been replaced by callouses. Some of the horses had become lame; drivers watched with concern for any serious signs of injury to their animals.
One family, the Wilburs, had been forced to pull aside and retire from the train due to a lame horse that just could not continue on. Mr. Blake detoured the train about two miles out of its way in order to drop the young couple off at a small army outpost. The sergeant in charge said that he'd send a few of his men back with Mr. Wilbur to retrieve his stranded wagon and lead the horses to the safety of the fort. At the earliest future date the Wilburs would be escorted to the nearest town. Missie could have wept when she saw the look of intense disappointment--the look of living pain--that the couple wore as the train moved on without them.
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Then there had been some minor mishaps. One of the Page children had received burns from playing too near a cooking fire; Mr. Weiss, the train's blacksmith, had been kicked by a horse he was attempting to shoe; Mrs. Crane had twisted her ankle badly as she scaled a steep hill in her high-fashion shoes; and a few of the young children were plagued with infected mosquito bites. But, all in all, everyone had adjusted quite well to life on the trail.
The countryside began changing. Missie tried to determine just what it was that made it seem so different--foreign--but it was hard to define. The trees were smaller and different than most of the trees that she had been used to. The hills appeared different, too. Perhaps it was the abundance of short growth that clung to the sides of them. Whatever the difference, Missie realized that she was getting farther and farther away from her old home and those that she loved. The now-familiar feeling of lonesomeness sometimes gnawed and twisted within her. Once in a while she was forced to bite her lip to keep the ready tears from spilling down her cheeks. She must try harder, pray more; and as she walked or worked she repeated over and over to herself the blessed promise of Isaiah. Her greatest ally was busyness, and she tried hard to keep her hands and her mind occupied.