by Janette Oke
Damaris decided to try to keep the fire going. At least there would be some comfort from the heat.
Conrad was just finishing his breakfast when Damaris and the children reached the shelter where the breakfast fire flamed. He didn’t even nod at Damaris or speak to his sisters as he spooned in the last few mouthfuls.
“Bet yer goin’ with Pa,” accused Bella.
Conrad nodded his head but did not look up.
“It’s not fair!” cried Nina.
He did look up then. Damaris thought she could read anger or resignation in his eyes.
“You wanna carry heavy sacks and crates to load the wagon?” His voice was low and controlled—but also weary—and Damaris suddenly realized that he was a very young boy to have been doing a man’s job for the many, many miles of crossing the prairies.
She stole a look at him and noticed how the coarse shirt hung loosely over his thin shoulders. She was sure he had lost weight, and he had not been big for his age at the beginning of the trip.
“Where’s Pa?” pouted Nina.
“Gittin’ the horses,” Conrad replied. Then he put down his empty plate and turned to go.
“It’s not fair,” Trudy flung after him, but he did not turn around or indicate in any way that he had heard her.
Damaris began to dish up plates of the morning porridge.
“I hate this stuff,” said Nina. “It tastes like—like slop.”
“How do you know what slop tastes like?” asked Bella. “Did you ever eat it?”
“I smelled it,” declared Nina hotly.
Trudy began to giggle. “Nina’s eating slo-op. Nina’s eatin’ slo-op,” she said in a sing-songy voice.
Nina reached over and slapped her and the fight began. Damaris knew they were in for a very long day.
———
“I hear there’s been a change of plans?”
The voice behind Damaris brought her quickly to an upright position. She had been bending over the porridge pot, scrubbing it with a handful of creek-bed sand. The wagon master stood there, his hat droopy with the morning rain, his shoulders seeming to sag under the weight of his wet shirt.
Her dark eyes clouded and she nodded slowly in verification.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
Damaris swallowed hard and tried to straighten her slight shoulders. “I did have an agreement,” she answered in a barely audible voice.
“Perhaps you’ll find an even better job in Dixen,” the wagon master tried to console her.
Damaris reached down to brush sand from the skirt of her dress.
“I’ve brought you a—a letter of reference,” he went on as he reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “I don’t know iffen you’ll even need this—but I thought it could do no harm.”
Damaris was surprised at his consideration. He had been so kind to her—he who had not wanted her on his wagon train in the first place.
“I—I thank you,” she fumbled as she accepted the bit of paper. “I—I most ’preciate it.”
They stood in silence for a moment. She let her eyes study the toes of her worn shoes. She felt him move beside her.
“Well—I must be going. We’re ’bout ready to push on.”
Damaris looked up then. His broad shoulders had straightened and he lifted the hat from his head and shook the water from the dripping brim. She was surprised at the amount of gray in his hair.
“I do hope,” he said sincerely, “thet all goes well fer you. Brown says he won’t leave you stranded. Will try to get ya located in town before he moves on to his homestead.”
Damaris was surprised at the statement. The captain must have had a chat with Mr. Brown.
“Thank ya,” she said in a whispery voice and lowered her eyes again.
He reached out his hand to her. Damaris couldn’t remember shaking hands with a man before and she felt embarrassed. She brushed her soiled hands quickly on her skirts before she extended her hand to meet his.
“God bless ya, miss,” said the man, looking directly into her eyes.
Damaris had never heard such concern and sincerity in a man’s voice. She could not speak, so she just nodded and swallowed hard. Then the captain withdrew his hand, turned, and was gone.
It was several moments before Damaris knelt again in the sand and continued cleaning the pot.
As she worked, still pondering the captain’s parting words, she heard the familiar sounds of wagons moving out from camp. She turned to watch the smaller train wend its way through the morning mist.
Sadness filled her heart, though she couldn’t understand why. She scarcely knew the captain. In fact, she was still afraid of him in some ways—but he had spoken kindly to her. Had even taken the time to find her a job—to write a letter of recommendation. And he had asked nothing in return. That was what puzzled Damaris. And she had never seen him drunk. Not once in the many days on the trail. Oh, true, there were no saloons along the way. But even when he had gone into town, he returned sober. She had not smelled liquor on his breath the few times he had stood close enough that she would have been able to detect it. Was it possible that not all men were like her pa?
———
It was almost noon before Damaris sighted the returning Brown wagon. The girls must have spotted it about the same time, for Damaris heard a clamor from the shelter by the fire.
“It’s Pa!” one screeched, and the others soon joined her.
Damaris shifted the sleeping Edgar in her arms. The yelling would waken him for sure. She rocked him gently and pulled the blanket up more closely around his ears.
Now we are in for it—all of us, thought Damaris. I hate the thought of it.
But the girls were dancing under the tree-strung tarp and continuing to yell. “Pa’s comin’. Pa’s comin’.” There didn’t seem to be any worry or concern in any of their faces.
And sure enough, when the wagon arrived and Mr. Brown “whoa’d” the team and climbed down from the wagon, he seemed as sober as when he had driven off to town.
“Did ya bring us anything?”
“Did ya get sweets?’
“Did ya, Pa?”
The noise got louder and Mr. Brown laughed and rumpled wet hair with a large calloused hand. Finally he pulled a small bag from his pocket and passed it to Bella with instructions to share equally. “An’ don’t fergit Damaris,” he added.
Damaris looked up in surprise. She still had not gotten over the shock of a sober employer—and then to be offered a sweet besides. Damaris could not believe her ears and eyes.
“We’ll need to hurry,” he said almost apologetically. “We saw the train in the distance, movin’ this way.”
Damaris nodded and moved toward the wagon to lay Edgar in the bed. When she lifted the flap, she could scarcely believe her eyes. There were no beds. New supplies were stacked everywhere.
“We’ll have to sort thet all out this evenin’,” Mr. Brown said. “We can put a good share of it in the other wagon when we stop fer the night. Right now we need to eat so we’re ready to travel. I had them put things fer today’s meals in thet there box nearest ya.”
Damaris looked down at the sleeping Edgar. There was no place to lay him. She would have to rouse him and get on with the task of preparing the meal.
“Give ’im to me,” said Mr. Brown. “I’ll take ’im on over to the Missus.”
Damaris handed over the small boy, feeling much relieved. He was always so fussy when awakened early from a nap, and she knew he would have hung on her skirts and insisted on being held while she tried desperately to build the fire and get the meal cooked as quickly as possible.
As Mr. Brown moved off to the other wagon with the sleeping boy, Damaris headed for the wagon to get supplies and start their dinner.
Mr. Brown hadn’t taken many steps before he turned and called back, “By the way, the woman was right sorry thet you weren’t comin’ in to work. Captain must have given her quite a report.”
Chapter Nine
Traveling On
For eleven more days they rattled on in the wagons. Damaris walked as frequently as her tired feet and worn shoes allowed her some degree of comfort. If the track was even, she kicked off the shoes and walked barefooted. The soles of her feet were so calloused that it took sharp rocks or briars to penetrate them.
The girls fussed, Edgar clung, and Mrs. Brown continued to keep to her wagon, appearing only at mealtime. She looked haggard and pale, and the baby still cried and could not be comforted.
Damaris wondered if he was getting enough to eat, but never having had anything to do with babies, she dared not ask.
On the eleventh day they topped a ridge, and there beneath them lay the little town of Dixen. It didn’t look like much. A few scattered, crude buildings huddled together on the edge of a clump of straggly pines. Open prairie stretched out toward the north and east, and broken foothills with patches of timber reached to the west and swung around to the south. Damaris was disappointed. She had liked the look of Poplar Creek much better.
At the same time, she felt relief. It would be so good to arrive. To finally be where they were going. To get in out of the sun and wind. To sleep at night with room to properly turn over. To put down her burdens of water buckets, firewood—and Edgar. But she did hope there was more to this little town than showed at first appearance.
She reached for her apron pocket to feel the safety pin that held the small packet containing watch, brooch, and letter of reference firmly in place. It always gave her a measure of security to note that it was still there.
The wagons finally bumped to a stop, and Captain Trayne called an assembly. As soon as folks had tethered their teams and gathered around, Captain Trayne spoke.
“We have reached our destination. I will leave you here. You can make your own way into the town, each going his separate way from there.
“There is an office on the main street thet deals with land claims and serves as the local bank. Iffen ya have any doubt as to where to find yer land—stop there fer directions.”
Without any further farewell or any words of best wishes, the captain wheeled his horse and was off. Damaris thought he must be as tired of the whole procedure as she herself.
She turned back to the wagon and noticed that Mrs. Brown had emerged, patting and rocking the wailing baby as she moved forward.
“I s’pose you’ll be leavin’ us now,” she offered, and Damaris nodded.
They stood a few feet apart, Edgar clinging to Damaris, the baby crying in his mother’s arms.
“I don’t know what I woulda done without ya,” Mrs. Brown admitted.
Looking at her pale, strained face, Damaris felt a pang of pity.
“Will you be all right, ma’am?” Damaris asked before she could check herself.
“I’ll manage,” said the woman, but she did not smile and she did not seem too confident. “My husband says it’s only a few hours further.”
“Are you—are you goin’ right on?”
“As soon as he takes you into town. The captain made him promise.”
Damaris nodded. She had heard of that promise, but she wished she could wave it aside. She was sure she would fare much better on her own than Mrs. Brown would with the children.
“I—I’ll be fine—” she started, but the woman interrupted.
“A promise is a promise!”
Damaris nodded her head. A promise is a promise echoed in her mind.
Mr. Brown appeared just as Damaris turned to go.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and Damaris looked at the child still in her arms.
“Leave him here with his ma,” Mr. Brown said, his voice sounding impatient.
Damaris leaned over to place the boy on the ground, but Edgar clung to her neck. He had no intention of being deserted. When Damaris unwrapped the twining fingers, he screamed and clutched at her skirts. Damaris tried gently to loosen his grip, but he clung the harder, his wailing becoming louder and more persistent.
Mrs. Brown was helpless. She already had one crying baby in her arms.
“Where’s Trudy?” grumbled Mr. Brown. Then he shouted her name. “Trudy! Trudy, your ma needs some help here.”
While he called and paced, Damaris kept trying to free herself from the screaming Edgar.
At length Trudy appeared, Nina and Bella trailing along behind her.
“Help yer ma,” said Mr. Brown. “Look after yer brother.”
At length Damaris was able to pass Edgar to Trudy, but he went reluctantly, crying and kicking and screaming for “Da’mis.”
Damaris walked away, her back stiff and her head up, but her lip trembling.
Every fiber of her being wanted to turn and run back to the young child. She wanted to cling to him just as tightly as he wished to cling to her. She wanted to hoist him to her hip and carry him on into town. She wanted to whisper to him that he would never have to leave her—but Damaris was not free to do as she wanted.
Even from the wagon where Damaris went to retrieve her belongings, she could hear wails of “Da’mis, Da’mis,” and Damaris knew the boy would continue to ask for her long after she was gone.
Her heart ached as she gathered her little bundle and stumbled along the rutted trail beside the man who intended to keep his promise.
The town did not look any more promising close up than it had from a distance. The building the wagon master had spoken of as the bank and title office was the sturdiest building in town. It even had some paint on its facade. The only other building to make that boast was a building at the far end of the street that proclaimed “Saloon.” Damaris shivered as she looked at it.
Between the two buildings Damaris identified a large store with dingy windows, a tiny shop that doubled as a dwelling, displaying a neat sign saying, “Miss Dover—Seamstress,” and a building with a handwritten notice in the window that said, “Miners Supplies.” Across the street signs advertised a livery, a boardinghouse, a blacksmith, and another store that seemed to be the competition. There were other scattered buildings, but Damaris was not able to identify their use. Setting apart on this side or that were crude houses, most of them not much more than cabins. The simple farm home Damaris had left was better than the majority.
Mr. Brown suddenly realized that she had been carrying a bundle and reached down to take it from her just as they reached the board sidewalk that fronted the saloon. Damaris was tempted to resist his offer, but somewhat reluctantly yielded her possessions. She didn’t have much—but it felt good to be able to cling to something.
Damaris couldn’t see much beyond the saloon and she wondered just where they were going when Mr. Brown made a sharp turn and indicated the saloon door.
She hesitated, stopping and looking at him with questioning eyes.
“Go in,” he urged her, giving his hand a little wave to usher her forward.
“It’s a—a saloon,” she choked, taking a small step backward.
“Thet’s where we are to find Gordon.”
“Who’s Gordon?”
“I was told to find ’im here,” he said as though that was explanation enough.
“B—but I don’t wish to—to make the acquaintance of a—a saloon keeper,” insisted Damaris, and she stubbornly backed up another step.
“The captain said to bring you here,” the man went on, impatience now edging his voice.
“But—I—I don’t wish to work in a saloon,” maintained Damaris, her chin lifting.
The man was really impatient now. “Look,” he said pointedly. “I have a wife and family back there waitin’ fer me to git them on out to our land. I don’t expect thet they are havin’ an easy time waitin’. Now—I made a promise—an’ I plan to keep it. The captain said, ‘See Gordon at the saloon.’ Now let’s git on with it and see Gordon.”
Damaris’s back stiffened. She had no intention of working in a saloon, even if she had to starve to death. She felt disappointed and angry with the captain. Sure
ly he knew better than to send her to a saloon for a job.
Mr. Brown took her arm, urging her forward, and Damaris took a deep breath and stepped through the door. She would never be rid of the man if she didn’t cooperate, she reasoned, but as soon as he was gone, she would vacate the offensive place and look for work on her own.
“Can I help you?” someone asked.
Damaris’s eyes had not adjusted to the dimness of the lighting, so she could not see who spoke.
“We’re lookin’ fer Gordon,” said Mr. Brown.
“He’s across the street at the jailhouse,” said the voice. “First building down to the left.”
“Oh, my,” Damaris moaned under her breath. “First a saloon and now the jail.”
She turned on her heel and left the place even before Mr. Brown had gathered his wits. What a relief to be back in the open air, the smell of whiskey and cigars left behind her.
Mr. Brown surveyed the street and picked out the building mentioned. “Right over there,” he said to her, steering her forward with his voice.
Damaris said nothing. When it came down to it, she preferred the jail to the saloon.
They climbed the wooden steps and stopped at the open door. Two men sat at a small table. They held cards, and Damaris knew she and Mr. Brown were interrupting their game. In front of them sat a bottle of whiskey and two half-empty glasses. At the sound of the footsteps, both men looked up. One was chewing the end of a cigar butt, the other, the one with the trimmed mustache, had a wad of chewing tobacco tucked in his cheek. Damaris knew immediately that she did not wish to work for either of them.
“Help ya?” asked the one with the cigar, shifting it with his tongue as he spoke.
“Lookin’ fer Gordon,” said Mr. Brown.
“Thet’s me,” said the man, his eyes narrowing to a squint.
“Captain Reilly said to look ya up. Miss—Miss Damaris here aims to stay on in town. Needs work an’ a place to live.”
Damaris felt herself being appraised by two pairs of probing eyes. She knew the color was rising in her cheeks.
The tobacco chewer spit on the board floor and his mustache twitched.