by Wendy Lawton
“Would he really?”
“I don’t know. She believed him, though.” Olive continued, “The next morning Beauty woke up at home in her old bed. Pa was overjoyed to see her.”
“What about the sisters?”
“Unfortunately the sisters stomped around, again jealous of Beauty. Especially since she seemed content and had even more bonnets and dresses than they did. When she told them about the palace, it sounded so rich and luxurious that they decided to keep her away from the beast. Each day they talked Beauty into staying just one day longer. Believing that her sisters finally loved her, she couldn’t bear to leave. On the tenth night, however, she dreamed of the beast and saw him dying.”
“He’s really dying?”
“Yes. Beauty closed her eyes tight and wished herself back with the beast. When she opened her eyes, she found herself back in the palace, standing over the beast as he lay dying of a broken heart. Almost too late, she realized that she loved and respected the beast. As his eyes started to close for the last time, Beauty put her hand on his cheek and whispered that she would be honored to marry him. With those words, the beast turned into a prince. Her father and sisters eventually joined her at the palace for the wedding, and they all lived happily ever after.”
“I thought the sisters were turned into statues until they said sorry for their faults and begged Beauty’s forgiveness?”
“Well, who’s telling this story, Beauty?”
Mary Ann laughed and seemed to be in a happier mood than Olive had seen her for a long time.
As the small wagon train resumed their journey after a week’s rest, Olive wished she felt as cheered as Mary Ann. The gnawing hunger was gone, each family had filled all their water barrels, dried meat had been packed down in smaller barrels, and the animals were well rested. Olive couldn’t understand why she felt so uneasy.
As they traveled deeper into Mexico, Olive couldn’t help watching the back trail. Ever since their trail had turned south, sightings of Indians had grown more frequent. Most groups seemed as interested in the emigrants as the emigrants were in the Indians. Sometimes Pa spoke to them in Spanish. Sometimes they spoke back in a halting mixture of Spanish, English, and sign. The travelers were in Apache country, but it seemed that few of the Indian groups they saw came from the same tribe. Olive began to realize there were many different tribes even within those they called the Apache.
Some Indian tribes seemed to be traveling to trade with the Apache. One tribe, who called themselves the Havasupai, had what they called hishi—strands of glass beads that they used for trade. It seemed that they traded hishi for blankets, furs, and even salt.
The more Olive watched the Indians, or talked to those who knew them, the more she saw the differences.
The Indians who worried Olive most were bands of young men who sometimes trailed the wagon train. They seemed to take pride in outdoing each other by doing foolish things. Sometimes they reminded Olive of the wild young men who had lived near them in Illinois but hung around taverns, talking loudly, fighting, and always challenging each other.
One group of Yavapai in particular seemed troublesome. They spoke broken Spanish and often trailed the wagon train, making Olive wonder if they were outcasts of some sort. Didn’t they have families? As she watched for their trail, she noticed they rode shod horses. Indians did not put metal horseshoes on their ponies, so this meant that the horses these Yavapai rode were most likely stolen.
One moonless night, after a daytime visit by a band of young Indian men, the dogs began barking and continued till almost morning. Their behavior was so unusual—barking and running back to the wagons, going out to bark again— that the men stayed up the whole night through. They sat or kneeled near the wagons with guns ready to shoot. Other than the dogs, however, they never heard another movement or sound.
When the sun rose, they saw crisscrossing tracks of men and horses all around their circled wagons. Twenty head of livestock came up missing. Somehow, the Indians had silently driven them away in the dark right under the watch of the men. Some of the animals belonged to the teams, making it impossible to continue as before. Each family made the hard decision to lighten their loads. This meant leaving some of their heavier belongings along the side of the trail.
As the now smaller teams pulled the wagons away from their campsite, Olive couldn’t keep from looking at the stack of treasures left behind. Seeing Ma’s beloved stoneware crock sitting crookedly atop the pile made Olive’s throat hurt until she could no longer swallow her tears.
The Shadow of Death
The trail that stretched out ahead of them seemed endless. When they set out from Independence, a sense of adventure and anticipation had colored each mile. While Olive walked beside the wagon now, California seemed like a cruel hoax.
“Olive?” Her mother rode in the front of the wagon. “Are you feeling well?”
“Yes.”
“This trail beats down even the brightest disposition, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, Ma. I don’t wish to be a worry for you. Just like our numbers have diminished mile by mile, I feel as if I am drying up with each footstep—I am diminishing as well.”
“I understand, Olive Ann. We never anticipated the hardship of this journey and find ourselves-ill prepared.” Her mother did not ordinarily confide in Olive, but the deeper into the journey they went, the more distant Pa became.“Your father blames himself for misjudging the difficulty, and the regret sits hard on his shoulders.”
“I know. I’ve watched his nervousness return.”
“You’ve always been so observant, Olive.” Ma reached out her hand to touch Olive ’s cheek. “The one thing that hasn’t changed is God’s care on our journey. I sense Him closer than ever.”
“Do you really think so, Ma?” Olive paused. “If God is close, why have we suffered so much? Why didn’t He help us resolve our differences with Mr. Brewster so we could stay together? Why did He let Mary Ann weaken? Why couldn’t He safeguard our animals?”
“Oh, Olive, I don’t know the answer to those questions.” “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I feel alone—terribly alone.”
“We are not alone, Olive. I sense that strongly.” Ma reached back into the wagon and drew out the oilcloth sack with the Bible. She opened the flap and took out the book and thumbed through the pages. “Do you remember this psalm you memorized back in Illinois? ‘The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust . . . The sorrows of death compassed me, and the floods of ungodly men made me afraid . . . In my distress I called upon the Lord. . . . He delivered me from my strong enemy, and from them which hated me: for they were too strong for me. . . . He brought me forth also into a large place; he delivered me, because he delighted in me.’”
“I remember. The passage comes from Psalm 18.” Olive loved those parts of the psalm.
“As we travel through this territory and see the anger of the Apaches, I see them as our strong enemy. I sometimes think that ungodly men grieve the Lord as surely as they grieve us.” Ma seemed to be working some of this out as she talked to Olive. “Perhaps as He walks alongside us and sees our trouble and discouragement, He weeps with us.”
“I guess I never thought about Him walking with us, step by step. I wish He’d just make everything better.”
“Yes.” Ma laughed. “Wouldn’t it be easy if the Lord just whisked us out of every tight spot we ever wedged ourselves in?”
The wagon creaked as the wheels inched along the dry, packed ground. Olive continued to walk alongside.
“You know what I think, Olive?” Ma asked after a long time. “I think God understands that we only grow as we walk through the trouble we get ourselves in, one step at a time.”
Olive didn’t answer. It might be true, but she liked the fairytales better—like “Beauty and the Beast,” where all Beauty had to do was wish herself in a different place and it happened.
Ma had it right about
the increasing anger of the Apaches. The travelers stopped in the Mexican village of Tubac, hoping to buy more provisions. The people could offer nothing for sale, and they told how the Apaches destroyed every field they planted. Did the Apaches resent strangers encroaching on their territory?
After leaving Tubac, they traveled along the Santa Cruz River, where the grasses again grew lush and the land bloomed. Those Mexicans living in the settlement of Santa Cruz tried to talk the travelers into staying. They explained that the Apaches respected the American rifles far more than the weapons of the Mexican farmers. The travelers pressed on despite the welcome.
Eighty miles farther, it was the town of Tucson that tempted several in the party. Because food and provisions were plentiful, the travelers stayed nearly a month. Olive could often hear the men discussing the journey.
“Oatman, it’s foolish to press on. Our numbers are too small to offer us any safety,” Mr. Metteer said.
“The Mexicans here in Tucson welcome us to stay and work with them,” Mr. Brinshall added.
“We’ve come so far. Do we truly want to stay here where the Apaches seem to be waging a battle, when we can press on and reach the safety of California?” Pa could not let go of his dream.
“But safety is in numbers—numbers we no longer possess. I think we should stay here until we can connect with other emigrants. ” Mr. Thompson hated arguing. Olive saw that it took resolve for him to stick to his judgment.
The discussions continued. When the wagons finally pulled out of Tucson, only three families made up the train— the Oatmans, the Wilders, and the Kellys. How wrenching it was to say good-bye to friends. No one would be missed as much as Susan.
When Susan first drew Lucy and Olive apart to tell them, the girls couldn’t believe they would really be separated. They had spent the last six months together—eating, sleeping, playing, and dreaming together. How do you say goodbye to someone who’d become as close as a sister?
“We won’t say good-bye,” Lucy said. The three girls were sitting on an old adobe half wall in the village of Tucson.
“Are you going to stay with me?” Susan was confused.
“No. We cannot stay. Our father is determined to make it to California.” Lucy spoke those words with resignation. She knew he would not change his mind. “I meant that we mustn’t say the word ‘good-bye’.”
“I hate farewells.” Olive kicked the wall with her heels. She’d had to say good-bye to friends in LaHarpe and then to friends in Fulton.
“What do we say?” Susan asked.
“How about ‘Race you to California!’” Lucy laughed, and the other two joined in. The journey west seemed to drag on forever. The idea of a race was too funny to even contemplate.
“Let’s just say, ‘Until California,’” Olive suggested.
They agreed and then tried not to think about the separation. As the days drew near, Olive almost wished to hurry the leave-taking. Dragging out the good-byes made them harder than ever.
As they pulled out, the Oatman wagon left last. Olive and Lucy walked backward looking back toward Tucson until Susan was no more than a speck on the horizon.
Olive’s calves hurt from walking backward. She decided that she’d ride in the wagon for a while despite the bumps and jostles. If God was walking alongside, she wondered if He missed the others as much as she did.
Pa wasn’t the only one becoming increasingly nervous. The constant tension wore on everyone’s nerves. With only three wagons they couldn’t even circle the wagons at night for safety. Having only three men to take turns guarding livestock and manning night watch meant that no one slept much.
By the time they reached the Indian Pima villages it was February 18, 1851. Olive found out the date from Mrs. Wilder and scratched it on the side of the wagon. She was determined to mark time in some way.
The Pimoles had little extra to share with the visitors, but again, they begged the small group of travelers to stay and help them defend their village.
“Royce—” Mr. Wilder and Mr. Kelly came together, but Mr. Kelly did the talking. “We’ve decided to stay here in the safety of the village for now.”
Pa did not say a word. He simply stood in front of them as if they had slapped him.
“We know you want to press on, but please consider your family. Please stay with us.”
Pa walked away.
Ma, Olive, and Lucy hoped he was thinking about their words. Lorenzo seemed troubled as well and followed Pa. Olive watched her brother’s face. She hoped he’d talk to Pa.
That evening a visitor came into camp. He introduced himself as Dr. Lecount. He’d been traveling to and from Fort Yuma and reported that he had seen no Indian activity whatsoever.
Pa questioned him closely and was satisfied that it was safe to travel to the Fort. So on March 11th the Oatman family set out alone along the trail to Yuma—Ma and Pa, Lorenzo, Lucy, Olive, Mary Ann, Royce, Charity Ann, and the baby. They were quiet and fearful, despite the promise of safety.
Olive, who had long ago made a habit of watching their back trail, often saw what seemed like shadowy figures on horses. One morning, a few days after starting out alone, Olive saw the footprints of shod horses near their camp. So much for Dr. Lecount’s prediction of a safe, uneventful journey. She decided not to even mention it. Nothing could be done about it anyway.
From that point on, nothing but trouble hit. The teams weakened, and sometimes it was all Pa and Lorenzo could do to get them moving. Food grew scarce, and Olive’s shivery feeling almost never left.
On the sixth day out of the Pima villages, Dr. Lecount and his guide passed them on their way back to Fort Yuma. Seeing the trouble they had, he told Pa he’d hurry to the fort and send help back to rescue them. This cheered Pa considerably.
That night they finally reached the Gila River. Swollen with rainwater, the crossing took much work and constant pushing and pulling of exhausted oxen. The wagon finally mired on a sand bar halfway across the river.
“Lorenzo,” Pa said. “Just unhitch the livestock and let them wander. We’ll stay here tonight and climb the far bank to the plateau in the morning when we are fresh.”
Lorenzo did as Father asked. He kept a close watch on the back trail. He also kept a close watch on his sisters and Royce.
Olive worried when she looked at Father. He seemed to have shrunk in size and his shoulders sagged. Maybe he was just tired. Ma showed strength, and they all seemed cheered by her bustling energy. Pa gathered wood, and Olive watched the little ones. Ma and Lucy made bread and cooked supper.
The winds howled through the ravine that whole night long and nobody slept. To Olive it felt like the valley of the shadow of death. The long hours were spent talking about what they would do if an attack came.
“I’ll hold ‘em off until everyone gets to safety,” said Royce.
“Oh dear. I’ll run as fast I can,” said Mary Ann as she coughed in the night air.
“All I know,” said Olive, “is that I shall not be taken captive. If they captured me, I would find a way to escape.”
“If any of us were taken captive, I’d not rest until I rescued them,” Lorenzo said. Olive looked at her brother and recognized the steel in his words. How he had grown since leaving Illinois. And how she had come to respect him.
Morning finally came. The team, refreshed by a night of eating scant tufts of grass and drinking cool water, seemed ready to proceed. Lorenzo hitched them up, and inch by inch they began to pull the wagon out of the sand.
Progress was so slow that Pa had the children unload much of the wagon and hand carry the things to the far bank and then up the steep cliff to the plateau. Mary Ann carried only the Bible and the lilac cutting. Olive carried all the bedding, and did her best to keep it dry.
It took all morning to reach the far side of the Gila, and, by then, the much-worn animals were spent. Pa decided to rest until late afternoon before trying to entice the oxen to pull the wagon up the 200-foot cliff.
Late that afternoon they resumed the ordeal. Rocks tumbled into the river below as the oxen slipped and slid up the steep incline, pulling the almost empty wagon. The sun began to set by the time they reached the tableland of the plateau.Tired though they were, the family ate a quick supper of bread and bean soup.
“To what do we owe all these long faces?” Ma asked. “It’s time to cheer up. We made it—the work of fording the Gila is behind us, and we shall have a full moon to travel by. The Indians call it the windbreak moon.”
Pa did not say anything.
“We ’ll make some good time this night while it’s cool, and we’ll be at the fort before long.” Ma tried to cover Pa’s dejection with words of encouragement.
As the children and Pa began to repack the wagon, Lorenzo glanced down the trail they’d covered that afternoon. “Look!” Lorenzo pointed to the trail back down to the Gila. A band of young Yavapai men wearing loose wolf skins tied at the shoulder and draped across their chests came into view. They continued to walk toward the Oatman camp, leading their horses.
Olive recognized them. They were the ones who’d followed on and off for much of their journey. One glance at her father’s face terrified Olive. The always cheerful, stubbornly optimistic outlook of the man who left Illinois just seven months ago had given way to stark fear.
Lorenzo saw the look as well and moved to get his gun. Olive knew he believed bluster was the best tactic. She trusted his instinct. These were not ordinary Indians like the gentle Pimoles or even the livestock-raiding Apaches. Olive had observed them long enough to know that these men were renegades and troublemakers.
Father seemed to somehow stiffen himself, making an effort to take control as he welcomed them in Spanish.
Oh, no, Pa,thought Olive. These are not your noble Indians. Show strength. Bluff. Don’t let them see a single shred of weakness.
Too late. Pa’s natural gentility and courtesy led him to offer them a peace offering of some food and a pipe-full of tobacco. The men demanded more as they boldly came into the camp and began poking into boxes and rummaging through the parcels still on the ground.